Chapter 14.2: Semifinal Part 2

The arena is engulfed in an unnatural darkness. Torches flickers and extinguishes along the stone walls. The crowd's roar fades into frightened whispers as shadows deepens beyond the typical night.

Valdris stands at the heart of the pit, chanting while his arms is raised toward the vaulted ceiling. Dark energy pours from his fingertips like liquid smoke, which thickens the air with the stench of opened graves.

The sand beneath his feet cracks as a rift tears open in reality, jagged edges bleeding raw death energy into the arena. The temperature plummets by twenty degrees in an instant. Spectators are pressed back against the stone seats, terror replacing their bloodlust.

From the abyss comes something that had never been human.

The Harbinger crawls forth on limbs that bends unnaturally. Bone and sinew twisted into a grotesque mockery of life. Its skull is elongated, the jaw unhinged to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. Arms stretches too long, ending in claws that carves grooves into solid stone.

Leon's breath mists in the sudden cold. His wounded body trembles as the creature's presence presses against his mind like ice picks behind his eyes.

The monster stands eight feet tall, its movements are fluid yet alien—predatory grace mingles with insectoid precision. When it turns toward Leon, its eye sockets blazes with the same void that had birthed it.

Leon's undead falters. His assassin stumbles, her precise movements becoming jerky. The Mage Zombie's blue fire dims to barely visible sparks.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Valdis laughs. "Fifteen years I've waited to summon this beauty. It devours magic itself."

The Harbinger moves—not running, but flowing across the sand like spilled oil.

Leon fires twice. His manna rounds strike the creature's torso and vanish without effect. The shots don't even slow it down.

Claws sweep toward Leon's throat. He throws himself backward, the steel-sharp talons missing his jugular by mere inches. The creature's follow-up strike carves four parallel grooves into the arena wall.

Leon's assassin attacks from behind. Her knives find gaps between ribs, plunging deep into rotted flesh. The Harbinger doesn't flinch. It backhands her across the pit, and she strikes the stone barrier with bone-breaking force, collapsing in a heap.

The Mage Zombie launches spectral bolts. They strike the monster and fizzle into smoke—no damage, no effect. The creature's presence consumes magic like a ravenous void.

Leon rolls between the Harbinger's legs as massive claws slam down, sand exploding where he just lay. He springs up, firing his remaining shots into the creature's spine.

Nothing. The rounds might as well be flower petals.

The monster spins with impossible speed, its elbow smashing into Leon's ribs and lifting him from the ground. He flies six feet before crashing hard, fresh blood filling his mouth.

Leon struggles to his knees. His gun is empty, and his undead allies lie useless. The creature stalks toward him with a leisurely confidence.

Despite his failing body, Leon's mind races. He watches Valdis directing the monster with subtle gestures. When the necromancer points left, the Harbinger moves left. When Valdis raises his arm, the creature strikes high.

The monster isn't autonomous; it's a puppet dancing to Valdis's will.

The Harbinger looms over Leon, its claws descending toward his face. Leon rolls aside, stone chips flying as the talons strike.

He needs one clear shot at Valdis, but the necromancer stands twenty feet away, protected by his summoned nightmare.

The creature seizes Leon's leg, its grip crushing muscle against bone. He screams as it lifts him into the air, dangling him like a broken doll.

Valdis steps closer, savoring his victory. "Any last words, pretender?"

The Harbinger draws back its free claw for the killing blow. Leon hangs upside down, blood rushing to his head as the arena spins around him.

Valdis's attention stays fixed on the spectacle, his control over the monster relaxing slightly as he basks in triumph.

Leon has been palming his combat knife throughout the fight. Now, he drives the blade into the Harbinger's wrist—not to wound it, but to make it flinch.

For one heartbeat, the creature's grip loosens. Leon twists free and drops hard onto the sand, his ankle screaming in protest as he lands awkwardly.

The Harbinger reaches for him again. Leon rolls between its legs, coming up behind Valdis. The necromancer spins, eyes wide with sudden alarm.

Leon presses his empty manna gun against Valdis's chest and triggers the emergency overload function. The weapon's manna core detonates in a burst of blue fire.

The explosion hurls Valdis backward, blood erupting from his chest as magical energy tears through his heart. His scream cuts off mid-breath as he slams into the arena wall.

The Harbinger's scream shatters the silence. Its form wavers like smoke in the wind. Without Valdis's will to bind it, the creature begins to unravel.

Spectral flesh peels away in burning strips. Bones crack and dissolve. The monster claws at empty air as it's dragged back toward the rift.

The void collapses with a sound reminiscent of reality tearing apart. Darkness flees from the arena as torches reignite, restoring normal light and leaving only scattered ash to mark the Harbinger's passage.

Leon falls to his knees, his overloaded gun a twisted ruin of metal and crystal. Smoke curls from the wreckage.

Valdis lies motionless against the wall, blood pooling beneath his still form. His chest doesn't rise or fall.

The crowd sits in stunned silence, having witnessed something beyond ordinary combat—a glimpse into powers that should not exist in civilized society.

Medics rush into the pit, loading Leon onto a stretcher despite his weak protests. Pain courses through him, and his vision flickers in and out of focus.

As they carry him toward the exit, the tournament master's voice echoes through the arena: "Winner by elimination—Leon Graves advances to the final!"

Cheers erupt from some sections of the crowd, while others remain silent, still processing the spectacle they just witnessed.

Leon fights to stay conscious, but exhaustion pulls him down. His undead dissolved when the Harbinger's presence faded, and the assassin's broken form was swept away with the other debris.

Through blurred vision, Leon catches sight of a figure in the upper gallery—someone wearing a plain mask, observing from the VIP section reserved for tomorrow's final opponent. The figure is tall and athletically built, and there's something familiar about his stance. Leon struggles to focus, but darkness claims him before recognition can dawn.

The medics carry him through stone corridors toward the treatment area. Behind them, cleanup crews begin erasing all traces of necromantic battle from the blood-soaked sand.

Tomorrow will bring the tournament's climax—the final match that determines everything.

Leon's last conscious thought is of his mother, pale in bed,having just few days left to live. One more fight. One more victory. Then, the healing elixir will be his.

In the gallery above, the masked figure turns away from the pit. Familiar green eyes study Leon's unconscious form, revealing complex emotions—recognition, regret, and perhaps even respect.

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Damian Falken pulls his mask closer and vanishes into the crowd.