Chapter 12: The Quarterfinals

That night, Leon gets home exhausted to the bones and assisted to the door by Elise, who had already expended her healing on him, he enters and checks on his mother who sleeps fitfully. By tomorrow it will be settled mother, you will stand hale. He finds his bed and sleep takes over immediately.

The next day is work free as he pours all his effort in practicing his form and his use of the manna gun cause he has been restless since he woke up this morning. Quickknife's aura keeps crawling into his mind and he just can't get it off.

Night reaches and Leon makes excuses to his mother about his absence tonight and takes his leave for the shadow district. Elise is already at the fighting arena waiting for him, Hark nods at him as he passes to enter the arena.

The underground arena buzzes with electric tension. Leon descends the stone steps, each footfall echoing in the packed arena. His ribs still aches slightly from the previous night's battles.

The crowd presses against the stone barriers, their voices a constant hum of anticipation. Silver coins flashes between hands as betting odds shifts. The skinny F-Rank necromancer has become an unlikely favorite among desperate gamblers.

The match-master spots him and immediately moves to the center of the ring to announce his fight.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The master's voice boomed across the pit. "Tonight's quarterfinal match features our surprising survivor against a legend of the underground!"

Leon steps onto the blood-soaked sand. His manna gun feels heavy in his grip, ammunition running low after three brutal fights. His zombie waits in the shadows beyond the pit's edge, their connection pulsing with little shared exhaustion.

"Introducing Merik 'Quickknife' Fenn!… Forty-seven sanctioned kills across three kingdoms!"

The crowd erupts as a figure emerges from the opposite gate. Quickknife moves like flowing water, each step perfectly balanced. Twin knives hangs from his belt, their edges gleaming with fresh oil. Geometric scars covers his forearms—tally marks of fallen opponents.

Leon has heard little whispers about Quickknife, a former military assassin discharged for excessive violence. His speed borders on the supernatural, and his precision is legendary among underground fighters.

Quickknife studies Leon with cold calculation. No emotion flickers in those pale eyes—just a professional assessment of a target to be eliminated.

"F-Rank," Merik says, his voice devoid of warmth. "Thought you will reconsider and accept defeat and not come this night, well your loss"

The referee steps between them. Both fighters moves to the opposite sides of the pit..

"Fighters ready?"

Leon raises his gun. Quickknife 's hands drifts toward his knife hilts.

The bell clangs.

Merik vanishes.

Leon spins, searching frantically. A blade whistles past his ear, carving a shallow line across his cheek. Blood trickles down his jaw.

He turns toward the sound, but Quickknife has already moved. Steel flashes near his ribs. Leon jerks backward, the knife's tip parting his shirt.

The crowd holds its breath. This isn't a fight; it is a predator toying with a wounded prey.

Leon fires at empty air. His manna round scorches the sand where Quickknife had been just a heartbeat before. 

The ex-soldier reappears behind him, his blade slicing across Leon's forearm. Warm blood soaks into his sleeve.

Quickknife 's footwork was silent. His attacks came from impossible angles, each precise enough to wound without killing. He is prolonging the performance for the crowd's entertainment.

Another cut opens across Leon's thigh, then his opposite shoulder. Each wound is shallow but deliberate, designed to weaken rather than finish him off.

Leon's gun tracks desperately, always a step behind. Quickknife fights like smoke given form, never occupying the same space twice.

He appears at Leon's left flank. Steel lunges toward his ribs, aimed between the bones. Leon twists frantically, the blade skims his skin instead of penetrating his lung.

Blood runs freely now. Leon's shirt clings to his chest, soaked crimson. His vision blurs at the edges.

He needs a new strategy. Matching Quickknife 's speed is impossible. Reading his patterns proves futile—the man fights without rhythm or predictable sequence.

But Leon has survived this long by thinking differently.

He stops trying to track Quickknife's movements. Instead, he focuses on the crowd. Their eyes follows the ex-soldier like spectators at a tennis match, their gasps precedes each attack by mere seconds.

Leon uses their reactions as an early warning. When heads turns left, he shifts right. When the crowd draws breath, he prepares to dodge.

A blade sweeps toward his throat. Leon ducks, guided by a child's startled cry from the stands. Steel whispers over his head.

Quickknife's pale eyes flickers with the first hint of interest. His prey is adapting.

The ex-soldier presses harder. Attacks come faster and from more angles. Leon's improvised defense begins to break down. A cut opens across his collarbone, deep enough to scrape bone. Blood pours down his chest.

Leon stumbles, his knees threatening to buckle. Exhaustion and blood loss clouds his thoughts.

Quickknife senses weakness. He closes in for the killing stroke, both knives raised. The crowd roars in anticipation.

Leon waits until the last possible moment. As Quickknife lunged, he feigns collapse, dropping to one knee. The assassin's blades sweeps over his head.

Leon drives upward with his good elbow, connecting with Quickknife's jaw. Bone cracks. The assassin staggers backward, stunned.

Leon fires point-blank. The manna round grazes Quickknife shoulder, spinning him around. First blood is drawn against the legendary killer.

Quickknife 's expression shifts. Professional interest replaces his cold calculation. His prey has teeth.

They circle each other, both wounded. Blood flows freely from Quickknife 's shoulder, limiting the range of his left arm. Leon's multiple cuts has significantly weakened him.

The assassin attacks with renewed fury. Both knives moves in perfect coordination, seeking vital organs. Leon retreats, using his gun as a club when the blades comes too close.

Steel scrapes against his gun barrel, sending sparks flying. Quickknife thrust his second knife toward Leon's stomach. Leon twists, the blade sliding along his ribs instead of penetrating.

They grapple briefly. Leon seizes Quickknife's knife hand, preventing a stab to his kidney. Quickknife drives his knee into Leon's wounded thigh.

Leon bites back a scream. His leg nearly gives out, but he maintains his grip on Quickknife's wrist.

They separate, both breathing heavily. Sweat mixes with blood on their faces.

Quickknife wipes crimson from his mouth. "Not bad for dead weight."

Leon remains silent. He has one manna round left. There are no room for error.

The ex-soldier lunges again, moving with desperate speed. His reputation is on the line. Forty-seven kills can not end with a defeat at the hands of an F-Rank nobody.

Leon senses the crowd's reaction, shifts left to avoid a throat cut, then right to escape a stomach thrust. But his vision fades and the blood loss makes his movements sluggish.

Quickknife's blade finds its mark. Steel pierces Leon's side, sliding between his ribs. Pain explodes through his torso.

But Leon seizes the knife hand as it withdraws. His grip locks like iron despite the agony. Quickknife's eyes widens—he can't pull free.

Leon twists Quickknife 's wrist, applying pressure to the joint. Bones grinds together, and the ex-soldier's grip loosens.

The knife clatters to the sand.

Leon drives his knee into Quickknife's ribs, feeling something crack. The ex-soldier doubles over, gasping.

Leon presses his gun barrel against Quickknife's thigh and fires his final round.

The manna bolt shatters bone, tearing through muscle and sinew. Quickknife's leg folds at an unnatural angle, and he collapses, screaming.

Leon stands over his fallen opponent, his vision swimming. Blood drips steadily from his wounds onto the sand.

Quickknife reaches for his remaining knife with a trembling hand. Leon places his boot on the assassin's throat, applying just enough pressure to make his point clear.

"Yield."

Quickknife's hand goes still. After a long moment, he nods.

The match-master's whistle cuts through the crowd's roar. "Winner by submission—Graves!"

The arena erupts. Spectators throw coins and torn clothing into the pit. Leon has done the impossible—he has defeated a legend.

Leon stumbles toward the gate, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his body. His zombie materializes beside him, offering silent support through their mental link.

Before he can reach the medical station, a well-dressed man intercepts him. The tournament organizer, despite the underground setting, is wearing expensive silk, and gold rings adorns his fingers.

"Impressive performance," the man says, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Very impressive indeed."

Leon tries to push past, but two bodyguards blocks his path.

"I have a proposition," the organizer continues. "More money than you've ever seen. Enough to cover your mother's treatment twice over."

He produces a leather pouch heavy with silver coins that clinks softly as he hefted it.

"All you have to do is walk away. Don't show up for the semifinals. It's a simple business transaction."

Leon stares at the money. It is more wealth than his family has earned in five years, and his mother's medicine bills can be paid in full.

"What's the catch?"

The organizer's smile widens. "Your next opponent has certain financial backers. Important people who have invested heavily in his success and prefer guaranteed returns on their investments."

"And if I refuse?"

"Accidents happen to stubborn fighters, especially those without proper protection."

The threat hangs in the air like smoke. Leon understands perfectly. He can take the money or face consequences far worse than the fighting pit.

He pushes the pouch away. "I'll take my chances."

The organizer's expression hardens. "Disappointing. I had hoped for pragmatism."

His bodyguards steps aside, but their eyes promises future attention. Leon walks past them toward the exit.

The medical station is little more than a folding table stocked with basic supplies. Seems Elise had left before he could finish the match, probably important. Leon pays for alcohol and bandages, allowing a scarred woman to clean his worst wounds. There is no healing magic—just survival.

"You're either very brave or foolish," she remarked while stitching his side.

"Probably both," he replies.

Earlier this morning, the doctor sent a messenger for him, and when he got there, the doctor gave him sadder news about his mother's health. After the doctor's checkup the day before, his mother was not doing well and had just few days left to live unless he could get the required amount for the potion. 

He definitely should have collected that money but maybe the pride of being recognised as a threat clouded his judgement. The opportunity was gone, he definitely has to focus on winning the remaining fights or all is for naughts. 

As the midnight bells chimes across the city, Leon leaves the arena. His footsteps echo through the empty streets that leads back to the his house.

His apartment building leans against its neighbors like exhausted workers. Leon climbs the creaking stairs to the third floor, exhaustion weighs on every step.

He unlocks his door and stepped into the living area, The living area smelled of mildew and desperation—home. His mother left some food for him to eat, he picks it up and eats it while headig for his tiny room.

Leon collapses onto his narrow cot without changing out of his bloodstained clothes, drops the plate on the floor. His wounds throbs in rhythm with his heartbeat. Tomorrow brings the semifinals, and victory feels more distant than ever.

Sleep comes fitfully, interrupted by dreams of his mother's face and the sound of betting crowds calling for blood.

He wakes to cold steel pressing against his throat.

A figure looms over his bed, its features hidden in shadow. The blade remains steady—professional and practiced.

"Leon Graves," a woman's voice whispers. "You should have taken the money."