Chapter 58: The Rain of Blades

  The iron gate groaned open for the third time, sending a shiver through the air as the next challengers stepped into the arena. The moment Marcus laid eyes on them, he knew this round would be different.

  Three fighters.

  Two positioned themselves at the edges of the battlefield, each carrying a long, curved throwing glaive strapped across their backs. The third, standing at the center, held a recurve war bow, its limbs carved from dark ironwood, enchanted sigils glowing faintly along its surface.

  A ranged team.

  Marcus exhaled slowly, his instincts already warning him—this was going to be a problem.

  Unlike the previous rounds, where his opponents engaged him in direct combat, these fighters wouldn’t meet him head-on. They were hunters, meant to harass and control the battlefield, to whittle him down from a distance before striking the finishing blow.

  He clenched his fists. This is going to hurt.

  From the royal balcony, King Rathgor leaned forward, intrigued. Even Thane Vulgaris, who had been brooding in silence, seemed to perk up.

  "This is where the human struggles," Vulgaris mused.

  Rathgor didn’t respond. He simply watched.

  Below, the elder overseeing the trials lifted his hand.

  "Third wave—begin!"

  The Hunt Begins

  The moment the horn blasted, the two glaive-throwers vanished, sprinting to opposite sides of the arena, keeping their distance. The archer remained firmly in place, already nocking an arrow.

  Marcus barely had time to move before the first projectile screamed through the air.

  THWIP.

  Marcus dodged left, but another arrow was already coming. He twisted—too slow.

  THWACK.

  The arrow pierced his shoulder, slicing through his shirt, a thin line of blood marking the impact.

  He barely registered the pain before something even worse followed.

  Whirling metal.

  The two glaive-wielders struck in sync, hurling their weapons like spinning saw blades.

  Marcus ducked the first, but the second clipped his ribs, sending a jolt of pain through his torso.

  He winced. Damn.

  They were fast. They weren’t throwing blindly—they were reading his movements, coordinating their strikes to leave him nowhere to run.

  A second volley was already incoming.

  Marcus activated Spacial Footwork, shifting just in time to evade another arrow aimed at his knee. But the moment he landed, a glaive was already coming for his head.

  He twisted—not fast enough.

  CRACK.

  The weapon smashed against his forearm as he barely managed to block. The impact sent a shockwave of pain up his arm.

  This is bad.

  Marcus had fought plenty of ranged fighters before, but not like this.

  They were controlling the fight.

  If he charged the archer, the glaive-throwers would punish him. If he went after the glaive-throwers, the archer would pick him apart.

  He needed a way in.

  Another arrow sliced past his ear, followed by a glaive nearly taking his knee out.

  Marcus clenched his teeth.

  Think.

  And then—Stem’s voice cut in.

  "Marcus, you are fighting on their terms. That must change."

  "Yeah, thanks for that," Marcus grunted internally, dodging another glaive by inches.

  "Your best option is to force close combat on your terms," Stem continued. "Eliminate the archer first. The glaive-users are reliant on spacing—without their formation, they lose effectiveness."

  Marcus exhaled sharply. Archer first. Got it.

  "Bait them," Stem added. "Make them believe you’re too injured to press the attack."

  Marcus smirked despite himself. I can sell that.

  Marcus staggered slightly, rolling his shoulder as if the previous hit had slowed him down. He let his stance widen, his movements just a fraction of a second slower.

  It worked.

  The archer saw weakness—and took the bait.

  The next arrow came at his chest—a kill shot.

  Marcus moved at the last second.

  Instead of dodging, he snatched the arrow out of the air.

  The crowd exploded.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The archer froze—just a half-second hesitation. That was all Marcus needed.

  ... activate "floating butterfly, stinging bee" ...

  He vanished.

  he surged forward, closing the distance before the archer could react.

  The glaive-users saw it, but they were too far away.

  Marcus was already in the archer’s guard.

  One punch—to the gut.

  The archer gasped, doubling over.

  Marcus followed up with a brutal uppercut.

  The Beastfolk’s bow clattered to the ground.

  The archer was out.

  The moment their formation broke, Marcus turned toward the two remaining fighters.

  Their advantage was gone.

  They hesitated for the first time.

  Marcus grinned. "Now it’s my turn."

  Without their ranged support, the glaive-wielders were forced to fight up close—exactly where Marcus excelled.

  The first threw a desperate glaive strike—Marcus weaved through it, stepping inside his guard.

  A vicious liver shot dropped the wolf to his knees.

  The second fighter lunged in, glaive swinging like a scythe.

  Marcus ducked, then blasted forward with a Ki and lightning mana infused hook.

  The impact sent the Beastfolk spiraling across the arena.

  Silence.

  Then—the elder lifted his hand.

  "Third wave—completed."

  The crowd roared in approval.

  Above the Arena

  King Rathgor chuckled, finally speaking. "He adapts."

  Vulgaris, however, was seething. "That wasn’t skill. That was luck."

  Rathgor smirked, not looking at him. "If you say so."

  Thane Vulgaris gritted his teeth, he gathered himself.

  After gaining his composure, he gave a nearby guard a slight nod.

  Marcus Stands Victorious

  Marcus exhaled, he broke the arrow in his shoulder, and flexed his fingers. His arms ached, his ribs throbbed, but the adrenaline felt good.

  Three waves down.

  Two left to go.

  The iron gate rumbled again.

  Marcus rolled his neck.

  "Stem, you got any more fight tips?"

  "Survive the next round first," Stem replied.

  Marcus smirked.

  Challenge accepted.

  The iron gate groaned open once more.

  Marcus exhaled, flexing his fingers, feeling the dull ache settling into his muscles. His ribs were bruised, his forearm still stung from the earlier glaive impact, and his shoulder throbbed where the arrow had punctured him. But none of that mattered. He was still standing.

  The crowd buzzed with excitement. Three rounds down, two to go.

  But something was different.

  The energy in the arena had shifted. The cheers were still there, but now they were laced with murmurs—uncertainty. Even King Rathgor, who had watched with mild amusement up until now, narrowed his eyes slightly.

  Something was off.

  Then Marcus saw them.

  Four figures stepped out from the iron gate, their forms obscured by loose, dark-furred cloaks. Unlike the previous challengers, these warriors moved with eerie synchronization. No dramatic entrances. No boasts or battle cries. Just quiet, methodical steps as they took their positions around Marcus.

  Their faces remained hidden beneath shadowed hoods, but Marcus could feel their focus. Their intent.

  Cold. Calculated.

  A trap.

  From the royal balcony, Thane Vulgaris sat forward ever so slightly, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

  Marcus rolled his shoulders. “Alright, Stem. Give me a read.”

  Stem’s voice hummed in his mind. "Caution. Opponents do not match standard Beastfolk combat profiles. Movement patterns suggest assassin-class fighters. Potential for hidden weaponry."

  Marcus’s smirk faded. Assassins. Great.

  The elder overseeing the trial raised his hand. His gaze flickered toward the hooded figures, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. Then he spoke:

  “Fourth wave—begin.”

  The moment the horn blasted, the assassins vanished.

  Marcus barely had time to react before a blur of motion struck from his right. Instinct screamed at him—he twisted just in time, narrowly avoiding a blade that aimed for his ribs.

  Another came from behind.

  Marcus ducked low as a dagger whistled past his neck, feeling the sharp wind of its edge slicing through the air. He rolled forward, creating space—but they were already on him again.

  These bastards are fast!

  No wasted movement. No unnecessary aggression. They didn’t try to overpower him. They aimed for weak points—arteries, joints, organs. They weren’t fighting to subdue him.

  They were fighting to kill.

  Marcus dodged a third strike, but a fourth clipped his leg, a shallow cut opening just above his thigh. He hissed, pivoting away.

  The crowd’s cheers faltered. Beastfolk fought with pride, with ferocity. Assassins? Cowards' weapons. Even the spectators could sense that something wasn’t right.

  Marcus wiped the small trickle of blood from his leg, his eyes scanning the arena. “Stem. Talk to me.”

  "Their movements suggest training in formation-based combat. They attack in rotation—two press the offensive, while the other two reposition. Designed to disorient and control the battlefield. Strategy required."

  Marcus clenched his fists. He couldn’t keep dodging forever.

  He had to break the pattern.

  Marcus exhaled sharply, forcing himself to slow down. Not physically—mentally. He let Psycha sharpen his perception, his senses stretching outward.

  Time seemed to slow.

  The next assassin lunged. This time, Marcus didn’t dodge.

  He caught the wrist mid-strike.

  The assassin’s hooded head jerked up in shock.

  Marcus ripped him forward, slamming his fist into the warrior’s stomach with bone-crunching force.

  The assassin choked on the impact, his body convulsing.

  But Marcus wasn’t done.

  Still gripping the assassin’s arm, he twisted, using him as a human shield just as another dagger came for his throat.

  SHINK.

  The second assassin froze. His blade was buried in his ally’s side.

  Marcus grinned. “Oops.”

  He sent a devastating back fist into the second assassin’s face, shattering his nose.

  Two down.

  The other two hesitated.

  That was all Marcus needed.

  He activated Spacial Footwork, vanishing in a blink—only to reappear behind the third assassin.

  A brutal right hook cracked the hooded warrior’s skull, sending him sprawling.

  Three down.

  The last one—the leader, Marcus assumed—finally reacted. He flipped backward, gaining distance, reaching into his cloak.

  Marcus’s instincts flared.

  “STEM—”

  "EVASIVE ACTION REQUIRED!"

  Marcus threw himself sideways—just as three hidden blades shot from the assassin’s sleeve.

  One grazed his shoulder. The other two missed by inches.

  Marcus landed in a crouch, shaking off the sting. “You guys really suck at fair fights.”

  The assassin snarled, finally speaking for the first time.

  “We don’t fight fair.”

  The last assassin blurred forward, his speed surpassing the others. His dagger gleamed with poison—Marcus could smell it.

  One cut was all it would take.

  Marcus’s mind worked in overdrive. He had two options:

  Play it safe. Try to bait him into an opening. Risk taking a hit.

  Go all in. Bet everything on one decisive strike.

  Marcus grinned. “Option two it is.”

  As the assassin closed in, Marcus did something insane.

  He rushed forward.

  The assassin’s dagger flicked upward—aiming for Marcus’s throat.

  Marcus shifted at the last possible moment, twisting his body inside the assassin’s guard.

  The blade skimmed his cheek, drawing a thin line of red—

  Before Marcus’s fist buried itself into the assassin’s sternum.

  A burst of Ki detonated from his knuckles.

  The assassin’s body lifted off the ground.

  Marcus pivoted—a perfect rotation—before launching a devastating spinning backfist.

  His gauntlet met the assassin’s temple with a sound like thunder.

  The assassin collapsed.

  Silence.

  The elder raised his hand. “Fourth wave—completed.”

  The crowd erupted—but not just in cheers. Murmurs. Confusion. Suspicion.

  This wasn’t an official match-up. Everyone knew it.

  Up on the balcony, Rathgor’s golden eyes were locked onto Vulgaris.

  The Thane remained still, his expression carefully neutral.

  King Rathgor’s voice was low, dangerous. “I do not recall approving assassins for this trial.”

  Vulgaris’s smirk barely twitched. “My King, the Trials are meant to test all aspects of combat. Surely an aspiring champion should be able to handle—”

  Rathgor didn’t look at him. He simply raised one hand.

  Immediately, two of his royal guards stepped forward.

  Vulgaris’s smirk faded.

  The King’s voice was cold. “Do not test me, Vulgaris.”

  The Thane lowered his head slightly. “Of course, my King.”

  Below, Marcus exhaled, wiping blood from his lip. His eyes flicked toward the balcony.

  He didn’t need to hear what was being said to know.

  Someone wanted him dead.

  And they weren’t playing by the rules anymore.

  The iron gate rumbled.

  Then—

  ...system notification...poison detected

  Not good Marcus said to himself his vision blurring rapidly, I shouldn't have let that blade nick me.

  Stem chimed in...

  "Marcus I've isolated the poison, but I will need two minutes to neutralize it, fight defensively for as long as you can, and stay calm. Any spike in adrenaline will cause the neutralization time to increase."

  Marcus inhaled, and then let the breath go.

  One wave left.

  “Alright. Who’s next?”