Sigfried_Visitor98

Thrown into an unfamiliar medieval world with nothing but his wits and a cryptic Survival System, a man awakens in the filth-ridden alleys of a ruthless kingdom. Unlike the heroes of countless legends, he possesses no overpowered skills, no divine blessings—just the brutal reality of survival.

With hunger gnawing at his stomach and danger lurking at every corner, he must navigate a world where the strong rule and the weak are discarded. His Adaptive Growth skill grants no shortcuts—only hard-earned progress through pain, struggle, and sheer determination.

As war brews between noble houses, mercenaries thrive, and criminals prey on the desperate, he must learn to fight, adapt, and outthink those who seek to crush him. With no past to cling to and no destiny to guide him, he carves his own path—one battle, one lesson, and one choice at a time.

Survive. Adapt. Rise.

In a world that refuses to give second chances, he must make his own.

Ashes of the Fallen: A Survivor’s Tale

The Hollow Den was not what he expected.

From the outside, it looked like any other run-down tavern in Black Hollow—rotting wood, faded banners, and a stench of spilled ale and desperation hanging in the air. But beneath it? That was where the real business happened.

Callen led him through the front entrance, nodding at a burly doorman who barely glanced their way. The inside was a haze of smoke and sweat, packed with lowlifes and mercenaries nursing their drinks. A group of men huddled around a dice game, shouting over losses and winnings.

"Follow me," Callen said, leading him toward a staircase in the back. Mira and Finn trailed behind, their expressions unreadable.

The descent into the underground fighting pit was slow, each step making the air heavier with the scent of blood and dirt. At the bottom, a massive stone chamber opened up before them—dimly lit torches casting eerie shadows across the arena. A circular pit, surrounded by wooden barriers, sat at the center. Around it, men and women placed bets, whispered wagers, and exchanged coin.

At the far end of the room, a man in a dark cloak oversaw the fights, his presence commanding. Scars ran along his arms, and his sharp eyes flickered toward them as they entered.

"That's Garrik," Callen murmured. "Runs the fights. You'll need his approval to enter."

As if sensing their conversation, Garrik waved them over. Callen gestured for him to follow.

"New blood?" Garrik asked, his voice deep, amused.

Garrik's eyes scanned him, taking in the bruises from last night's training, the stiffness in his movements. "And you think he'll last?"

"Maybe," Mira said with a smirk. "If he doesn't break first."

Garrik chuckled. "We'll see." He turned his gaze toward him. "You. No name, no reputation. Why should I let you fight in my pit?"

He clenched his fists. He had no title, no history in this world, but he wasn't about to back down. "Because I need to survive."

Silence. Then Garrik laughed, shaking his head. "Survival, huh? You're not the first to say that. Won't be the last." He nodded toward the pit. "You want in? Earn it. First fight is a test. Win, and we talk."

[Quest Updated: First Fight in the Arena – Win or Die]

Blood and Sand