Chapter 57: The Challenger’s Gauntlet

  The air inside the arena was electric, charged with the anticipation of bloodshed and glory. The Challenger’s Gauntlet—the first of the Trials of Kings—was about to begin.

  Marcus stood inside the preparation chamber, separated from the roaring crowd by a massive iron gate. Through the gaps in the bars, he could see the arena floor—an expanse of hardened stone, battle-scarred and stained with the remnants of past fights. Above, rows upon rows of Beastfolk spectators filled the towering stands, their voices merging into an overwhelming, rhythmic chant.

  "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

  The energy was infectious. It fueled the competitors around him, warriors of all sizes and species, each prepared to prove their worth in this trial. Some adjusted their armor, others tightened the grips on their weapons, but all of them shared the same look—the cold, unshakable focus of fighters ready to carve their names into history.

  Marcus rolled his shoulders, feeling the smooth resistance of his upgraded gauntlets. They felt like an extension of himself now, his Spell Fist ability fully integrating their presence into his combat flow.

  Boruk leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed. "Remember, this isn’t a simple brawl, Marcus. They’re not gonna send weaklings at you."

  Marcus smirked. "Good. Wouldn’t be fun otherwise."

  Vira exhaled sharply. "For once, I agree with Arixa—you have a really bad habit of enjoying this too much."

  Ragn chuckled. "You sure you don’t got some berserker blood in you, lad?"

  Marcus flexed his fingers, feeling the energy pulse through his Ki-infused limbs. "Nah," he said. "I just like winning."

  A horn blasted from the center of the arena.

  The iron gates groaned as they lifted.

  A shadow loomed over Marcus. One of the Beastfolk attendants stepped forward, draped in ceremonial warrior’s garb.

  "Marcus Elder," the attendant called, his deep voice cutting through the crowd’s deafening noise. "Step forth."

  Marcus took a breath, cracked his knuckles, and walked into the arena.

  The moment his foot touched the battlefield, the crowd erupted. A mix of cheers, jeers, and growls rippled through the stands. Some called his name. Others called for his blood.

  High above, from the royal balcony, King Rathgor watched with quiet intensity. Beside him, Thane Vulgaris leaned forward, a smug smirk curling his lips.

  A Beastfolk elder, standing at the edge of the arena, raised his hand for silence.

  The roar of the crowd slowly died down.

  "The Challenger’s Gauntlet is a test of endurance and adaptability," the elder announced. "Those who stand in this arena must prove they are worthy of the Trials. Warriors will enter in waves, increasing in difficulty. There are no breaks. There are no pauses. The only way forward is through."

  The elder’s sharp gaze locked onto Marcus. "Survive. Win. And you will move to the next stage."

  A massive iron gate on the far end of the arena rumbled open.

  A bestial roar echoed from within.

  The first opponent stepped forward.

  First Wave: The Hammer Brothers

  Two Beastfolk warriors emerged, each towering over Marcus by nearly a foot. They were broad, powerfully built, and carried warhammers the size of tree trunks. Their matching armor—reinforced iron with fur-lined pauldrons—suggested they were a bonded pair, trained to fight as one.

  "Hope you can take a beating, little human," the first one sneered.

  His brother cracked his neck. "We’ll see how many hits it takes to put you down."

  Marcus exhaled through his nose. Two heavy hitters. Slow, but powerful. They’d rely on overwhelming force.

  He grinned. "Let’s find out."

  The horn blasted.

  The fight began.

  The first Hammer Brother lunged, swinging downward in a devastating arc.

  Marcus sidestepped, masterfully dodging the impact as the hammer slammed into the stone, sending a shockwave through the ground. A fraction slower, and he would’ve been flattened.

  The second brother capitalized on the movement, sweeping his hammer in a horizontal arc.

  Swiftly Marcus ducked—just barely—feeling the hammer’s force graze his hair as it whistled past.

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  They’re coordinated. They attack together. They cover each other’s openings.

  Good.

  Marcus activated Spacial Footwork.

  The moment his feet touched the ground again, he disappeared from their line of attack, reappearing behind the first brother. His fists blurred as he struck the back of his opponent’s knee with a Ki-infused blow.

  The Beastfolk warrior buckled.

  Marcus used the momentum to launch himself upward, driving an Uppercut into the warrior’s jaw, sending him sprawling.

  The second brother roared, pivoting, his hammer already mid-swing.

  Marcus leaned back—too late.

  The hammer clipped his ribs, sending him tumbling across the stone floor.

  The pain barely registered, Marcus smirked.

  He twisted mid-roll, flipping back onto his feet just as the second brother charged.

  This time, Marcus didn’t dodge.

  He charged forward.

  The crowd gasped as Marcus closed the distance in an instant, ducking under the hammer swing.

  He drove his knuckles into the beastfolk’s ribs, releasing a burst of Ki.

  CRACK.

  The warrior choked on his breath as he dropped to a knee.

  Marcus threw a left hook at the beastfolk's weapon,

  Knocking the warhammer from the his grasp.

  Marcus finished it with a brutal follow up right hook to the temple.

  The Beastfolk warrior collapsed.

  The first brother, barely recovering, pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head groggily.

  Marcus didn’t give him a chance.

  He surged forward, fists glowing with Ki energy.

  One strike. Two. Three.

  Each punch landed clean, carving into the beastfolk’s defenses.

  Then, with a final uppercut, Marcus sent him flying.

  The Beastfolk warrior hit the ground.

  Unmoving.

  Silence.

  Then—the crowd exploded.

  Marcus exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He felt no pain from the early strike, "Breaking that threshold really boosted my durability" barely managing to contain a smile.

  The elder raised his hand. "First wave—completed."

  Above, from the royal balcony, King Rathgor watched in silent appraisal.

  Vulgaris scowled.

  Marcus turned toward the iron gate.

  It was already opening again.

  The next challenger stepped forward.

  Marcus smirked.

  Four more rounds to go.

  The iron gate groaned open once more, revealing the next set of challengers.

  Marcus cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet, as the crowd’s roaring cheers and jeers filled the air. His fists were still tingling from the previous bout, the rush of combat thrumming in his veins.

  Then, they stepped forward.

  Two beastfolk warriors, both wolves, clad in segmented iron armor with crimson pauldrons. They were leaner than the Hammer Brothers but carried themselves with the deadly grace of trained killers. Their weapons? Twin crescent blades, curved and wickedly sharp.

  The Iron Fangs.

  Marcus had seen fighters like them before—dual-wielders, speed-based, the kind that could tear a man apart with relentless, coordinated slashes.

  A touch of Psycha should strengthen my perception enough to keep up with their speed, Marcus assessed.

  One was light gray-furred with a long scar running down his muzzle. His eyes gleamed with something between excitement and hunger.

  The other, darker-furred, moved with eerie silence, his expression calm, calculating.

  "Fighters, take your stances!" The elder’s voice boomed over the arena.

  Marcus rolled his shoulders. "Hope you two are fast," he muttered.

  Scar-Muzzle bared his teeth in a grin. "You’re quick with your fists, human. Let’s see if they’re quicker than our blades."

  The darker one said nothing. He merely sank into a low stance, one blade held in reverse grip, the other extended forward.

  Marcus exhaled, eyes locked onto them both. The fight hadn’t started yet, but they were already reading his stance. Unlike the Hammer Brothers, who relied on raw strength, these two were tactical.

  The arena bell rang.

  The second wave had begun.

  Scar-Muzzle moved first, darting toward Marcus with a burst of speed, his twin blades flashing in an arc meant to cut deep.

  Marcus reacted instinctively, weaving under the first slash and twisting his body to let the second pass just inches from his ribs. With raised gauntlets blocked a coordinated strike from the pair. He countered with a sharp jab aimed at Scar-Muzzle’s exposed side, but—

  CLANG.

  The dark-furred wolf intercepted, his blade catching Marcus’ fist mid-strike with a precise parry.

  "Fast," Marcus admitted, shifting back.

  Before he could fully reset, Scar-Muzzle lunged again, this time faster. His blades moved in a blur—strike, step, pivot, strike again—a deadly dance of steel and precision.

  Marcus dodged left, narrowly avoiding a swipe aimed at his throat. He brought up his arm to block the follow-up—only for the darker wolf to appear behind him, his blade cutting through the air.

  Damn! They're synced!

  Marcus twisted, narrowly avoiding a deep gash across his back. He barely had time to land before the next assault came.

  A two-man attack pattern. One pressed forward while the other cut off escapes. It was seamless.

  If he tried to attack one, the other would punish him.

  A grin spread across Marcus’ face. That just makes it more fun.

  Instead of retreating, Marcus did the opposite—he closed the distance.

  Scar-Muzzle, mid-slash, had no time to react when Marcus suddenly surged into his guard.

  Too close for blades.

  Marcus slammed his forehead into Scar-Muzzle’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of impact. "No ref to doc my points for cheap shot in this world", Marcus mused to himself.

  The wolf staggered back, momentarily stunned.

  That’s one.

  The darker-furred one adjusted immediately, stepping in for a punishing riposte.

  Marcus pivoted, letting the blade pass just under his arm before he caught the wolf’s wrist with a back fist mid-swing.

  A flicker of surprise flashed in his opponent’s eyes.

  Marcus didn’t hesitate.

  With a burst of Ki-infused strength, he punched the wolf in the throat, causing him to choke.

  Marcus followed up with a sharp right straight punch to the wolf chest.

  The wolf let out a short breath before collapsing.

  That’s two.

  Scar-Muzzle, shaking off the headbutt, snarled. He rushed forward, aiming to capitalize on Marcus’ distraction.

  Marcus saw it coming.

  He feinted left—then vanished using Spacial Footwork.

  Scar-Muzzle’s eyes widened in realization too late.

  Marcus reappeared behind him, already mid-motion.

  A devastating liver shot.

  A crack echoed through the arena as Marcus’ fist buried itself into Scar-Muzzle’s side.

  The wolf choked, his body seizing up.

  Marcus followed through with a hook to the jaw, spinning Scar-Muzzle mid-air before he crashed onto the stone floor.

  The crowd erupted.

  The darker wolf, began to recover, he stood, still gasping struggling to regain his breath.

  Marcus cocked his head. "You sure you wanna do that?"

  The wolf hesitated.

  The elder raised his hand. "Second wave—completed."

  The dark-furred wolf dropped his weapon and stepped back, bowing his head in defeat.

  Marcus exhaled, shaking out his hands.

  His knuckles burned. His breath was steady.

  He felt alive.

  King Rathgor watched from the royal balcony, his expression unreadable.

  Beside him, Thane Vulgaris was less composed.

  His smug demeanor from earlier had faded, his eyes narrowing at Marcus.

  "This is unexpected," Vulgaris muttered. "He should have struggled more."

  Rathgor didn’t respond. He simply continued watching.

  The human was proving to be something beyond expectation.

  Marcus stood in the center of the battlefield, rolling his shoulders.

  Two waves down.

  Three to go.

  The iron gate rumbled open once more.

  The next opponent stepped forward.

  This time, it wasn’t just one challenger.

  Marcus’ grin widened.

  Now things were getting serious.