The first thing that came when the arena gates opened was sound. The iron doors groaned as they parted, the vibration traveling upward through the soles of Hope’s worn boots. Behind him, the darkness of the cells felt as if it were trying to pull him back. Ahead, the blinding white light of the arena promised violence.

  “Don’t forget,” Deniz’s voice shouted from within the shadows, low and hurried. “Spectre isn’t like the others. That assassin doesn’t fight for the audience. He fights to kill.”

  Hope didn’t turn around. He was busy tying his shoelaces with obsessive precision. “Double knot,” he murmured. “Reduces tripping risk by eighty-four percent.”

  He stood up, brushed the dust from his knees, and stepped into the light. The scrape of metal chains, screams echoing off stone stands, heavy air mixed with the scent of gold and blood. Hope stood still for a few seconds. His feet didn’t fully press into the sand-covered ground. His body decided before his mind did. One more step, and he stopped.

  The ground… was smooth. Too smooth. The sand wasn’t scattered naturally, as if held in place by invisible lines. A faint tingling crawled up the back of Hope’s neck. The Architect instinct stirred from its long sleep.

  “There’s something here.”

  The crowd roared, but it wasn’t admiration. It was a wave of boos, mockery, and curses. Rotten fruit, stones, and beer mugs were hurled into the arena. Some admired Hope. Others hated him. Yesterday, he had disrupted their sacred entertainment.

  “Is he scared?”

  “The new kid can’t even take a step!”

  “Pathetic! He’ll go down in one move!”

  “This is the Architect? IS THIS WHAT WE CAME FOR?!”

  Hope raised his head. The man across from him stood among the shadows. A tall, thin silhouette. His body was wrapped in black cloth, not armor but more like a veil. Half his face was visible. His eyes… were far too calm. The man inclined his head slightly.

  “Those who stop before taking their first step into the arena are either cowards,” he said, his voice cutting through the roar, “or prey struggling not to die.”

  Hope didn’t answer. He gathered mana into his hands and summoned his scythe. He looked up at the sky. Not to shield his eyes from the sun, but to greet it, raising a hand to his brow.

  “Hello again,” he whispered to the massive ball of fire. “You look great today.”

  This time, his eyes weren’t on his opponent but on the ground. He watched the shadows. The shapes formed by chains, the dark zones cast by pillars. This… this was a field. The arena wasn’t a battlefield. It was filled with traps everywhere.

  “THE ROMANTIC REBEL AND THE SECOND ARCHITECT IN HISTORY, HOPE, IS HERE, FOLKS! AND HIS OPPONENT… THE INVISIBLE ASSASSIN! THE KILLER WHOSE FACE NO ONE LIVES TO SEE! SPECTRE!”

  Everyone held their breath. Hope and Spectre prepared. Hope tilted his head. Blinked. And the world changed.

  [ARCHITECT’S SIGHT: ACTIVE]

  The crowd’s roar dulled into a muffled hum. Colors drained from the world, replaced by a monochrome grid. Blue lines covering the arena floor. Red vectors showing wind direction. Green zones marking stable ground.

  “BEGIN!”

  Spectre vanished in an instant, merging with the shadows.

  A gust passed to Hope’s left. The scythe rose on reflex. It didn’t strike metal; darkness scattered along its edge. Spectre was behind Hope. A hand reached for his neck. Hope bent his knees and slipped past the grasp with a sudden motion.

  The stands screamed.

  Spectre's presence was a flaw in the arena's design.

  Hope saw the mana flowing through the assassin’s body. It wasn’t just smoke. It was a complex network binding Spectre to the shadows of the arena walls.

  “Structural analysis initiated,” Hope thought, his inner voice stabilizing. “Opponent Level: EASY. Uses Shadow Bind. Interesting. He siphons mana from ambient darkness within the stadium architecture to fuel his speed. Clever. But the connection points… sloppy.”

  To the naked eye, Spectre had simply disappeared. The crowd held its breath. But to Hope, he was a bright green line moving across the blue grid.

  WHOOSH.

  A shadow blade formed in the air, aiming for Hope’s carotid artery. Hope didn’t panic. He didn’t even raise his hands. He simply stepped half a pace to the left and tilted his neck fifteen degrees. The blade sliced through empty air where his vein had been a millisecond earlier.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Spectre appeared behind him, eyes wide in shock. He spun and launched a storm of kicks and punches, each reinforced with shadow spikes.

  Left. Duck. Turn. Slide.

  Hope moved like water. Or rather, like a mathematician solving a real-time equation.

  “Trajectory error,” Hope analyzed as he slipped under a spinning kick. “Overcompensating for sand friction. If he continues pivoting on his left heel, a brief opening will form.”

  Hope wasn’t fighting. He was dancing between the gaps in Spectre’s attacks. The crowd gradually began to fall silent. They had come for blood. They hadn’t expected the Architect to mock Spectre. One of them was supposed to be torn apart quickly. But they weren’t getting what they wanted.

  “WHY WON’T YOU DIE?!” Spectre screamed, his composure cracking. He slammed his hands into the ground. “SHADOW NETWORK!”

  The shadows of the arena walls tore free. Hundreds of thin black tendrils slithered toward Hope like snakes. They wove a lethal, razor-sharp web of darkness. Hope’s eyes widened. Not with fear, but with excitement.

  “Ooo!” Hope shouted as he leapt over a sweeping shadow whip. “SUCH A BEAUTIFUL ABILITY! Are you using the stadium’s own shadow geometry? This… this is brilliant engineering!”

  He landed on safe ground. “But you’re putting too much load on the southern side!” he called like a site manager. “I won’t get into technical details. Show me what else you can do. Show me all your abilities.”

  Spectre ignored him. He was furious. The web tightened.

  “SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH! YOU’RE RUINING MY REPUTATION!”

  The arena had become a labyrinth of black lasers. One touch meant losing a limb. On the Royal Balcony, King Kharonos leaned forward. His golden armor struck the stone railing.

  “He’s not attacking,” the King murmured. “That Architect isn’t attacking. He’s only analyzing his opponent.”

  Back in the arena, Hope was cornered. Spectre stood at the center of his network, breathing heavily. He held the ends of every shadow thread in his fists. He looked like a spider. His prey was caught in the web, and he was slowly moving in to consume it.

  “I’ve got you,” Spectre growled. “There’s nowhere left to run. One pull and I’ll dice you into cubes. I’ll become the ‘Architect Killer.’ A title no one else could ever obtain.”

  Hope looked around. Red warnings blinked across the blue grid of his vision.

  [WARNING: SHADOW STRUCTURE INTEGRITY CRITICAL.]

  [WEAK POINT IDENTIFIED.]

  Hope smiled. “You know,” he said, brushing dust off his shoulder, “you should’ve taken what I said earlier seriously. Maybe then you could’ve actually killed me.”

  “What nonsense are you spouting?” Spectre drew his hands back.

  Hope looked down at his feet. He realized the entire network’s primary anchor point was a loose patch of ground. The damage Kubo had caused hadn’t been fully repaired.

  “Calculation complete,” Hope thought. “Honestly, why didn’t you take me seriously?”

  [Structural Collapse]

  CRACK.

  The ground beneath Hope’s foot shattered. The arena’s bonds began to snap. Dust filled the air. Spectre realized his mistake too late. Hope threw his scythe. The blade severed every shadow thread in its path. The network collapsed inward, wrapping Spectre like a cocoon of razor wire and slamming him into the center of the forming crater. Spectre lay in the middle. He wasn’t dead, but he looked like a mummified fly bound by his own shadows.

  Spectre hadn’t been able to touch Hope. Not a single punch had landed.

  Hope touched his chin. “See?” he said to the unconscious assassin. “I told you the south was overloaded. And Deniz said you didn’t care about the audience. But you fought recklessly for your reputation. Humans are really strange.”

  Hope dragged his scythe along the ground as he walked. There was a smile on Spectre’s face.

  “Don’t worry, Architect. This isn’t over. I’ll come back. Every shadow you see… even the darkness when you close your eyes will be me. You can’t escape your shadow.”

  Hope drove his scythe into Spectre’s chest. Green spirit light flared and was absorbed into the blade.

  “I’ll be waiting. A shadow clone technique would’ve been nice. I saw it in a book with a blond kid. It was pretty cool.”

  The crowd didn’t know how to react. Then slow applause began. It wasn’t the King. It wasn’t the barons. It was Deniz who started clapping.

  Hope didn’t care about the applause.

  [Architect’s Sight: OFF]

  Color returned. He scanned the stands.

  And there.

  Among the spectators, he saw Lypin. She wore a white dress. Her face was pale. Her hands covered her mouth. She looked worried. For some reason, her purple aura was denser today. When their eyes met, the arena and the crowd disappeared for Hope. He waved. Not like a gladiator. Like a clumsy boy who had spotted the girl he liked in a schoolyard.

  Lypin waved back.

  “Lypin, I won! I’ll be able to come to you soon!”

  “THE WINNER!” the announcer shouted. “ARCHITECT HOPE!”

  Hope turned his back and walked toward the tunnel. Deniz waited in the shadows.

  “You beat him with a single move.”

  “It was fun. I think he was an assassin who wasted his potential. Just like Kubo, he lost to his emotions,” Hope said. “By the way, what’s for lunch?”

  Deniz grabbed his shoulder. “Hope, you’re valuable now. The barons will try to buy you. The King will try to use you.”

  “So am I a hero now?”

  Deniz stared at him for a long moment. “Actually, you’re insane. But I like that. Just be careful, Architect. You’re strong, but there are truly powerful fighters in this arena. Spectre was an assassin. But there are monsters of different races here. Warriors who can create earthquakes.”

  Hope’s eyes sparkled. “Earthquakes? THAT’S SO COOL!”

  —Royal Box—

  King Kharonos looked at the crushed golden goblet.

  “Did you see?”

  The old man beside him nodded.

  “The boy can somehow dominate the field.”

  “An Architect…” A cruel smile appeared on the King’s lips. “Truly a beautiful power. And that power must be mine. We must investigate him.”

  The King let out a deep breath and stood.

  “If I can control him… I can start a great war. I will not remain a king overshadowed by my father.”

  —In the deepest cell of the dungeon—

  Field examined the fresh tattoos on his arm. They were a map.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. “Was it right or left at the junction? Damn it, I should’ve made my tattoos more detailed.”

  A shadow fell on the wall.

  It was NO9.

  “The Architect won,” he said in a voice like dry leaves.

  Field jumped. “Idiot! You almost gave me a heart attack! Why do you sneak up silently like that?”

  “Don’t you understand? That Architect is a key,” NO9 said. “He has the ability to dominate a field. Maybe he can find the exit to this dungeon too.”

  Field sighed. “Brilliant idea, genius kid. We already have a walking disaster of a child and a moving skeleton on the team. Now we’ll add a Dungeon Kid with no clear origin. Oh, and there’s you. We don’t even know what you are. We might be the worst prison escape team in history.”

  NO9 grinned in the darkness, fox-like teeth glinting.

  “Don’t worry. It will be legendary. Very soon, we’re getting out of this cursed place.”