A sudden golden glow illuminated the sky—not one, but two dazzling beams of light piercing through the cloudy atmosphere. The brilliance was intense, almost divine, and it radiated from two small, cricket ball-sized orbs descending slowly from above.
The Orbs of Stamina.
Every contestant recognized them instantly. These were the legendary items that could turn the tide of a losing battle. And for Lucian and Lucas—bruised, battered, and drained—they were nothing short of salvation.
Just as the light touched Lucas' skin, something clicked in his mind. A memory… no, more like a déjà vu. His eyes widened.
He had seen this before.
A moment from his past life, a book or perhaps an online forum—something obscure, yet vivid. The Orbs didn't fall in the center of the battlefield as most expected. No. They drifted toward the northern and southern edges of the park. But in panic and desperation, everyone always searched the center. No one ever found them in time. The timer would run out, and the chance would slip away unnoticed.
The orbs continued their descent, exuding a warm, golden glow. It grew so intense that all the contestants were forced to shield their eyes. And just like that—they vanished.
Gasps and murmurs followed.
"Where'd they go?!"
"They must've landed in the center!"
Chaos erupted as participants abandoned their fights, pushing toward the dense center thickets of the park. Each with different intentions—some hoping to consume the orb immediately, others aiming to conserve it for emergencies. A few even saw its value as market currency, dreaming of riches in the outer world.
After all, artifacts like the Orb of Stamina fetched outrageous prices in underground black markets.
But not everyone ran.
Cyrus remained where he was, unmoved. He didn't care for artifacts, boosts, or strategy. He was there for pain—to break Lucian and Lucas slowly, cruelly, thoroughly.
Lucian, panting and bruised, locked eyes on the center bushes like the others. But just as he was about to sprint forward, his instincts flared. He twisted his body—a punch flew past his face, grazing the air. It was Cyrus.
Lucian barely dodged and bolted toward the center, trying to shake him.
But then, Lucas called out.
"Lucian, stop!"
Lucian skid to a halt, Cyrus halting just behind him with a curious smirk. Both turned to Lucas.
Lucas's eyes were sharp, calculating. His face tense, as if the weight of a plan hung from his lips. Lucian's gaze locked with his—and he understood. Without speaking, Lucas had a plan.
Lucian suddenly pivoted and lunged toward Cyrus, throwing a punch. Cyrus flinched, barely managing to dodge.
"A surprise attack, huh!?" he barked.
He countered, throwing his fist at Lucian's jaw. But Lucian ducked under it and, without hesitation, raised his right palm directly to Cyrus's chest.
"Surge Pulse."
A blinding arc of high-voltage lightning shot from Lucian's palm, exploding into Cyrus's torso. The surge hit him like a battering ram—he gasped, convulsed, then dropped to the ground on one knee, muscles twitching, lips curled in pain.
Lucian didn't waste a second. He ran to Lucas.
"What's the plan? ".
Lucas replied quickly, "The Orbs didn't fall in the center. They went north and south—opposite edges of the park. You take north. I'll head south."
Lucian looked doubtful. "How can you be so sure?"
Lucas's eyes burned with conviction. "I don't know… I just am. Trust me."
Lucian stared for a second, then nodded. "Alright. Let's go."
Without another word, the two bolted in opposite directions—racing against time, against fate, and for survival.
The park stretched far beyond what the eye could measure. Trees rustled in the cold breeze, shadows danced beneath the tall canopies, and the ground—littered with fallen leaves and broken twigs—echoed every hurried footstep like whispers of urgency.
Lucas and Lucian—drained but determined—activated their Wrath, their bodies crackling with raw power. In a flash, their movements surged into a blur, doubling in speed. But even with that boost, they both knew the bitter truth:
Their stamina wouldn't last.
Four to five minutes—that was all they had. Four to five minutes of enhanced speed and power, at the cost of nearly everything left in their bodies.
Lucian bolted north, each stride pounding the earth as if he were tearing through resistance itself. His breath grew heavier, but he clenched his fists tighter. Every second counted. Every heartbeat was borrowed time.
Meanwhile, Lucas dashed south, weaving through undergrowth, his mind running as fast as his legs. Twenty minutes to the south edge, even at this speed… He gritted his teeth. I'll make it. I have to.
Behind them, Cyrus rose to his feet.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, staining his chin, but he wiped it away with the back of his hand—smiling. His eyes glinted with something sinister. Not pain, not anger, but pleasure. He was enjoying it. The pain. The chase. The rising desperation.
He whispered to himself, "Now this... this is the kind of game I like."
His smile widened, cracked slightly, a little unhinged.
Back near the center, chaos had bloomed.
While a few scattered battles still raged, the majority of contestants had swarmed the central zone, eyes frantically scanning every bush, every tree base, every dark patch of grass. They elbowed and shouted at each other, desperate for even a glimpse of the golden orbs.
And clashes were inevitable.
Swords clanged, fists flew, elemental abilities lit up the sky. What started as a hunt quickly devolved into an all-out frenzy of survival and sabotage.
Amid this, two duels stood out like twin blazing suns:
Ethan vs. Huang Qi.
Josè vs. the Japanese sword girl.
The first was a brawl of force versus finesse—Ethan, using his street-hardened instincts and enhanced stats, clashed with the young Shaolin prodigy, Huang Qi, whose movement was like water, precise and untouchable. Neither backed off. Their fight was personal now.
The second was equally intense—Josè, relying on sharp, controlled aggression, battled the crimson kimono-clad Kashima Shintō Ryū swordswoman. Their clash had shifted from the open clearing to deeper forest ground, footwork scraping over roots and stone, blades flashing and fists striking. Blow by blow, both pairs had drifted farther and farther apart—north, south, east, and west—separated by their own desperation.
Three minutes had passed.
And now, Lucas and Lucian were faltering.
Their legs began to burn. Their lungs ached. Muscles strained. The enhanced speed was not sustainable for long, and the edge of their stamina reserve was cracking.
Lucian stumbled slightly, catching himself against a tree before pushing forward again. His breath ragged, chest heaving.
Lucas too was drenched in sweat, his hands clenched into trembling fists as he pushed through thorns and undergrowth. "Come on… just a little more…"
Lucas would take at least 20 minutes, and Lucian would need at least 40 to 50 minutes to reach their respective edges—even while running at double speed.
They had no choice. The orbs were their only shot—not just at survival, but at winning.
Far behind them, Cyrus began walking—not running. His pace was calm. Deliberate. As if he already knew that no matter how far they fled, they'd never escape him.
The wind was cold, but the air between Ethan and Huang Qi burned with tension. Dust and dead leaves swirled around their feet as they faced each other, both still and focused, like statues before a storm. The crimson screens high in the sky reflected their silhouettes—two warriors in a deadly dance, watched silently by millions.
Then they moved.
Huang Qi dashed forward first, his small frame blurring with frightening agility. His palm struck out, aimed directly for Ethan's solar plexus, but Ethan twisted to the side, grabbing Huang Qi's wrist mid-motion and attempting to throw him with a judo-style hip toss. But the child prodigy had anticipated it.
Mid-air, Huang Qi rotated his body and kicked off Ethan's back, landing a few meters away, sliding back with precision. The momentum had shifted—but not the control.
Ethan cracked his knuckles. "You're fast, kid."
"And you're tough," Huang Qi replied, unblinking. "But toughness fades."
Without warning, Huang Qi sprang forward again—this time launching into a series of rapid strikes. Palm, elbow, knee, heel—each motion fluid, each attack designed to exploit a weakness. Ethan blocked most of them, absorbing a few with gritted teeth. He countered with a brutal right hook aimed at Huang's ribs, forcing the boy to backflip out of range.
Ethan stepped forward, then dropped into a low stance. His street-fighting instincts kicked in. A feint to the left. A spinning backfist to the right. A low sweep to force imbalance. Huang leapt over the sweep with ease, landing a light jab on Ethan's shoulder in return.
Neither gave an inch.
One relied on years of Shaolin mastery—precision, flow, and disciplined movements refined by endless repetition.
The other fought like the streets had raised him—brutal, creative, unpredictable. He wasn't refined like Huang, but he was smart. Smarter than he looked.
They clashed again, and again, the sound of fists hitting flesh echoing across the battlefield.
Spectators at home leaned in, eyes wide, hearts pounding. They couldn't comment, couldn't interact—but they were hooked. This wasn't just a fight. It was poetry in motion. The perfect storm between raw talent and honed technique.
Ethan surged forward, grabbing Huang by the collar and slamming him into the ground—but Huang twisted his body and locked Ethan's arm with his legs in a triangle choke attempt. Ethan grunted, then stood, lifting the boy off the ground and slamming him back down—but Huang released just in time and rolled free.
They stood again, breathing heavy.
"You're not bad," Ethan said, sweat trickling down his brow.
"You either," Huang answered, blood at the edge of his lips but eyes burning with challenge. "You fight like someone who's survived a lot."
"And you fight like someone who was born for this," Ethan responded.
A beat of silence passed between them.
Then both charged.
Fist met fist in a thunderous impact. Neither retreated. Neither submitted.
In that moment—it was clear.
There would be no victor here.
Only the next exchange.
Meanwhile,
The wind tugged at the crimson ribbon in the girl's hair, her katana gleaming under the pale light of the overcast sky. Josè stood a few meters away, chest rising and falling rapidly, a small cut on his cheek dripping blood. Neither of them spoke now. There was no room for words—only movement.
Josè dashed forward with raw aggression. He knew he couldn't let her dictate the rhythm. His fist came swinging from the left, aiming for her ribs. But with elegance and precision, the girl sidestepped, letting his punch glide past her waist. In one smooth motion, she brought her katana down in a diagonal arc.
Josè barely managed to duck, feeling the blade slice the air above him. The next second, his knee came up toward her abdomen. She leaned back, blocking with the flat side of her blade, sliding a few steps away to regain distance.
"Kashima Shintō Ryū, huh?" Josè muttered, eyes narrowing. "You dance too much."
She didn't answer. Her focus was absolute. Her sword wasn't just a weapon—it was an extension of her body. With a swift movement, she advanced again, blade flashing with refined aggression. Josè had to use every ounce of reflex just to survive.
She slashed horizontally—he ducked. She spun, slashing low—he leaped back. He tried to grab her arm, but she flowed like water, redirecting with a twist of her wrist and slashing upward, forcing him to block with his forearm. Pain lanced through him, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward.
Then came his counter.
A sudden left hook to her side. It connected—but barely. She stepped with the blow to lessen the impact, rolled, and came up behind him. The katana swung toward his neck.
Josè dropped flat to the ground, rolled, and kicked her legs out. She stumbled, but didn't fall.
The crowd watching from their homes leaned forward. Crimson screens lit up living rooms, bedrooms, shop counters—anywhere people could watch. They couldn't comment, couldn't cheer, but their eyes were glued to the battle.
Josè stood again, panting. His clothes were ripped at the shoulder. He was outmatched in finesse, but not in resolve.
She raised her blade again. No words. Just focus.
Josè scowled and said through gritted teeth, "Why the hell are you so good too? What, you planning to save the world or something too?"
The girl blinked, but said nothing. Just a flicker of curiosity in her black eyes.
Then she moved again.
And Josè had no choice but to keep fighting.
Like that, half an hour passed and finally, Lucas saw it, a glimpse of the Orb Of Stamina inside the bushes infront of him.
[Time Left: 56 Minutes]