For a heartbeat, the idea of testing himself against the elf burned like a challenge he couldn’t refuse. But time was bleeding away.

  As much as I’d love to fight you… I’ll have to pass. For now.

  He shifted his weight, every muscle snapping into motion. In a blur, he vaulted clean over Poliandrew’s towering frame, the air between them crackling with tension. The elf didn’t move to stop him—only tilted his head, eyes tracking Valerius’s trajectory with quiet calculation.

  Valerius didn’t look back. His gaze was fixed ahead, on another Mirror Blade.

  This time, he promised himself, there would be no obstacles.

  Valerius blurred forward, closing on a woman clutching all three relics. She never even saw him coming. With a flicker of green light, the Mirror Blade was torn from her grasp, and Valerius vaulted into the sky, arcing upward before twisting back down.

  When only eleven seconds remained, he landed beside his siblings.

  “Hurry—take the relics.”

  He pulled the treasures from his bag, pressing them into their hands. The countdown reached zero just as Valerius collapsed onto his back, staring at the vast night sky.

  His chest heaved. His lips curled into a faint grin. I nearly killed that lady back there… I should be more careful.

  Ziraiah stepped over him, “You did good, Val.”

  Then Balling’s voice erupted across the island—loud, shrill, echoing through every corner of the battlefield.

  >“OOOOHHHH my little gladiators! Look at you, still alive and not squished into meat paste. Bravo, bravo!”

  A pause. The sound of whispering in the background.

  “Wait, wait, wait… hold on, is this the second phase or the third? Hmmm? Someone tell me, yes, no?—ahhh, thank you, thank you! Yes yes yes, the third phase! Correcting myself, because I am nothing if not professional.”

  His tone suddenly dipped into mockery.

  “Congratulations to the winners… and boo-hoo-hoo to the losers.”

  The ground beneath the defeated challengers shifted like quicksand. They began sinking.

  “What’s happening—what is this?!” one shouted, thrashing in panic.

  Kaelan and Elsa were dragged under together. Kaelan groaned, his voice fading.

  “This place… it’s too much for us.”

  Nearby, Isabela and Juvian struggled as the earth swallowed their legs.

  Isabela’s voice shook with rage. “I can’t break free! Do something—you know terramancy!”

  “I’m trying!” Juvian’s teeth clenched, hands glowing with mana. “It’s not working!”

  Both were consumed by the ground, vanishing without a trace.

  Balling’s voice came again, cheerful as ever, bouncing with cruel glee:

  “My darlings, my little stars, listen closely! Phase Four will begin… drumroll please—TOMORROW! So sleep well, dream well, snore loudly if you must… because you might never wake up again! Just kidding.”

  The survivors steadied themselves as the terrain shifted. The ground beneath them shimmered, hardening into sleek silver metal. It stretched into a vast straight path, pulling them inexorably toward the island’s heart.

  Eliana and Maloi landed softly, the silver rising beneath their feet to carry them. Eryndor and Ziraiah stood firm while Valerius lay flat, arms spread, letting the moving floor drag him along.

  Ziraiah gazed at the silver landscape, awed.

  “It’s like this island’s alive…” She glanced around uneasily. “I wonder if Juvian and Isabela made it.”

  Eryndor’s voice remained calm and unwavering.

  “If they had endeavored to claim another relic, the outcome would have been identical to what we have already observed. The probability of their survival was exceedingly meager.”

  Her brow furrowed. “That commentator guy—he said something about a… redemption round for those who lose.”

  She tilted her head back to the sky.

  “Why are we still in this competition anyway? We only entered to find that ‘Eye’ thing, to track Val. But we already found him.”

  Eryndor’s reply was instantaneous, his tone firm yet composed.

  “We cannot simply take flight. We possess no certainty as to which direction would guide us home. And, if you recall, there lies a most dire fate for those who dare attempt escape.”

  Ziraiah’s eyes slid to Valerius, still sprawled on the silver.

  “Hey, Val.”

  “What.” His voice was flat, staring upward.

  “Why are you trying so hard to win?”

  Valerius exhaled through his nose, then sat up slowly.

  “I need those prizes.”

  “Why?”

  His green eyes burned faintly.

  “Have you forgotten my story already? I need three of them specifically. It’s my mission.”

  He flexed his left arm, then winced as his limp right shifted.

  “There are strong people here who’ll get in the way. I need both my arms… and I need a weapon.”

  Ziraiah frowned. “What’s wrong with the one you already have?”

  “You can’t handle it,” Valerius said, a smile tugging at his lips. “I need one for you to use.”

  “Why?”

  His grin widened.

  “You’ll see.”

  The silver road carried them in silence for over an hour.

  Finally, Valerius groaned, raising his voice.

  “How long is this going to take?”

  Eryndor’s gaze traversed the boundless horizon of the island.

  “This landmass is of staggering immensity. Were it upon Earth, it would rival the dimensions of a minor continent.”

  ---

  After another endless hour, the silver path delivered them to the very heart of the island.

  The ground here was different—smooth, paved in an intricate pattern that shimmered faintly under the moons. As the challengers gathered, Balling’s voice burst across the sky, bouncing like a drunken king addressing his court:

  “You knoooow… at the beginning, there were so many of you. What was the number again? Seven… eight… nine? Nine-thousand-and-something-something, yes yes! A whole sea of little ants scurrying about. And now…” his tone dipped into mock solemnity, “now you are only one hundred.”

  He paused. Then laughed, clapping his hands.

  “ONE HUNDRED! Congratulations, you survived the culling, hooray-hooray! For reaching the top one hundred, I have prepared a little surprise. Tonight, you will not be sleeping beneath the naked sky, oh no no no! You will be sleeping iiiiiin…”

  Silence.

  Then, louder, petulant:

  “I said—you will be sleeping iiiiiiin—”

  The earth trembled.

  Stone groaned and rumbled as the ground convulsed. From the silver pavement, jagged slabs of rock tore upward, breaking apart and twisting. Minerals glittered as they rose, weaving into frames. Pillars fused together, walls grinding into place, ceilings arching overhead. The very bones of the island bent to Balling’s command, sculpting houses with a brutal artistry—no wood, no warmth, only stone, ore, and glittering crystal.

  In moments, a hundred homes stood complete, solid and cold, like monuments carved for gods of war.

  Balling’s voice returned, smug and sing-song.

  “Nice, right? Hmmm? Yes yes, very stylish, very chic. Well then—have a good night, my little jewels. Today was such an entertaining day. Who knew we had so many power-houses hidden among you? Delightful! Absolutely delightful!”

  He giggled. Then, almost conspiratorial:

  “There are one hundred houses—one for each of you. Buuut… if you wish to share, do some… business, hmm-hmm? Go ahead! Just—keep the noise down, yes? Be considerate of your neighbors. Inside you will find food, water, all the little luxuries. Eat, drink, sleep—you’ve earned it. Toodles!”

  Silence followed, broken only by the challengers’ weary breaths.

  Valerius, Ziraiah, and Eryndor stood together, staring at the row of cold stone homes.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Not bad,” Valerius muttered.

  Without a word, Ziraiah turned toward one of the houses.

  “See you guys tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” Valerius called after her. “I need your help.”

  She glanced back, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

  “That weapon I told you about.”

  Ziraiah sighed. She lowered her hand, palm open. The earth obeyed, stone flowing upward like molten clay, hardening into a sword in her grip. She tossed it at him with little ceremony.

  “Happy now?”

  Valerius caught it, ran his hand across the blade, then fortified it with a surge of Bravo. His next words froze the air.

  “Now I need you to cut off my arm.”

  Ziraiah blinked. “What?”

  “I need my arm for the next phase. It won’t heal fast enough on its own—I have to trigger body reconstruction.”

  Her face hardened. She turned away.

  “No. I’m not doing that.”

  But Valerius was suddenly in front of her, moving like a ghost.

  “Come on, I need this.”

  “No.” She brushed past him.

  Again, he was there, blocking her path. His voice dropped low, urgent.

  “Look at it. I can’t continue with my arm like this. This is the only way to heal fast enough.”

  Ziraiah stared into his eyes, then looked down at the sword, at his wounded limb. Finally, she exhaled sharply.

  “If you’re so determined… let Eryndor do it.”

  Valerius turned. Eryndor was already advancing, his composure unshaken.

  “Very well. If your resolve is genuine…” he murmured, accepting the sword with effortless grace. “Then take this as recompense—for the moment you sundered my leg.”

  Soon, Valerius was seated inside his stone-walled house, resting on a block Eryndor had raised from the floor. His right arm stretched outward, blood dripping from half-healed wounds.

  “This blade is more than capable of cutting it off,” he said flatly.

  Eryndor examined the weapon, his expression grave.

  “Even so… the force exerted shall rend the earth asunder.”

  “Give it to me.” Valerius snatched the sword, pouring his Bravo into it until the blade hummed with contained violence. He handed it back.

  “I fortified it—sharpened it to the absolute limit. You don’t need to swing hard.”

  From the bed, Ziraiah leaned on her hands, chin propped, unimpressed.

  “It still looks the same.”

  “That’s because you can’t sense it,” Valerius replied. He closed his eyes. “I’m ready.”

  Eryndor placed the tip of the sword at Valerius’s shoulder. He raised it high—then brought it down.

  The strike landed with a sound like a cannon. Wind roared violently, slamming against the fortified walls but unable to escape. Valerius’s scream broke through clenched teeth—“Mmmmhhhhh!”—as blood poured freely.

  Eryndor moved instinctively, hand rising to freeze the wound with ice, but Valerius barked through the pain:

  “No! Leave it!”

  Eryndor’s tone was unyielding.

  “You will hemorrhage to death,” he countered.

  “No… I won’t.”

  His body toppled, hitting the cold stone floor. Blood pooled beneath him as his back arched, his breath ragged.

  Valerius lay in his own crimson tide, forcing his body to cross the line between destruction and rebirth.

  ---

  Ziraiah leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her brother bleed out. Her voice came quiet, almost a whisper.

  “You better not die, Val.”

  Hours passed.

  Valerius lay motionless, his back pressed against the cold stone, his eyes wide open. His veins bulged across his body like black rivers. Both irises blood-red, unblinking, locked on the ceiling as though he were staring into eternity itself.

  “Uh… Val?” Ziraiah edged closer, uneasy. “You… okay?”

  But he did not answer. He could not.

  The process had begun.

  Body Reconstruction.

  Every vein in his body pulsed violently, carrying molten pain through his frame. His bones snapped, cracked, and reformed. Muscle fiber shredded, then wove itself anew—denser, harder. His skin split in fine lines, then sealed again, tougher than before.

  He did not move. He did not scream. He endured.

  Ziraiah crouched beside him, eyes widening as she saw the impossible—his severed arm regrowing. Bone sprouted like pale stone, lengthening outward in jagged growths. Muscle spiraled over it in ribbons of crimson, knitting together with terrifying speed. Skin stretched across the fresh flesh, steaming as if fire burned beneath it.

  “Oh...my...God…” she whispered, entranced.

  Eryndor moved beside her, his face calm but his eyes narrowed with fascination.

  “This ability or ours...profoundly fascinating.”

  Valerius had undergone countless reconstructions before. Most men would have gone mad, but he had long since mastered the pain. His will was iron, his silence unbroken. He simply stared upward, veins pulsing, chest heaving like a storm-driven tide.

  Then came the next change.

  His hair.

  It fell away in clumps, scattering across the stone floor, leaving him bald. Ziraiah grimaced.

  “What the hell…”

  But before she could finish, new strands erupted from his scalp—thick, alive, blazing with color. Black at the roots, but ending in radiant green, as if the tips were tongues of emerald flame. The glow caught the shadows of the room, dancing like firelight.

  His heart thundered inside his chest, each beat shaking the bedrock. Faster. Louder. As though he was hammering himself into existence again.

  Valerius was being reborn.

  ---

  Far away, elsewhere in Yilheim.

  The sea churned. A fleet of warships cut across the waves—faster than any vessel had the right to move. Their hulls gleamed white, streaked with blue and black. At the head of the armada loomed a colossal flagship, its shadow stretching across the ocean.

  Elsewhere, A man with fiery red hair and a thick crimson beard sat in a bright office, eyes fixed on a glowing seer. The device shimmered, projecting a live feed from a camera mounted on one of the warships cutting through the sea.

  ---

  The fleet was vast—hulls painted white, blue, and black, tearing across the waves at impossible speed. And at their heart loomed the largest of them all, a fortress-ship whose shadow stretched like a continent across the waters.

  Upon its deck stood the man who had once cast Valerius into the pit. His long blue coat draped behind him, the words stitched boldly below each other on its back catching the light of the sea spray:

  NONE

  IS

  ABOVE

  THE

  LAW.

  He wore a black suit, white shirt and a blue tie. His piercing blue eyes gazed forward at the ocean, unblinking, as though the horizon itself dared not move without his permission.

  A foot soldier approached, crisp in his blue long-sleeved uniform, boots clicking against the steel floor. He stopped, saluted sharply, and spoke.

  “Sir, we’ll be reaching Plunder Island in eight hours.”

  The man did not look at him. Instead, he exhaled slowly, as though irritated by the very news.

  Tch. I wanted to send a War Bringer to deal with this Elvhein mess, he thought, his jaw tightening. But no—they had to send me. Such a pain.

  He stepped forward. His coat flared with the motion, the words on its back gleaming like judgment carved into the world itself.

  “Eight hours, huh?” His voice was calm, almost bored, yet heavy as a death sentence. “Well… that’s how long Plunder Island has left to exist.”

  The soldier swallowed hard but said nothing.

  For the man before him was no ordinary officer.

  He was an Enforcer of the Binding Hand.

  And his name was Bumble.

  ---

  To Be Continued...