Chapter 32: Fight the System

  The world stood still.

  Vira and Ragn had already launched their attacks.

  Vira’s hands crackled with raw lightning, arcs of energy coiling around her fingers as she prepared to unleash a devastating spell. Her eyes were blazing with fury, her lips curled into a snarl.

  Ragn was a blur of motion, his muscles coiled like steel cables, veins bulging from the sheer force behind his swing. His blade, glinting with an unnatural blue sheen, was seconds away from cleaving through the entity.

  But then—

  A pulse.

  Not light, not sound—but something deeper, something fundamental. A force that unmade motion itself.

  Vira’s storm of energy froze mid-air, jagged arcs of lightning suspended in time, flickering without moving.

  Ragn’s blade stopped inches from impact, caught in the moment like an insect trapped in amber. His face was locked in a furious roar, every muscle tensed as if still pushing forward—but his body refused to obey.

  Their eyes moved. They could see everything. But they could not act.

  The entity, unfazed, simply turned its head—its hollow, unreadable gaze locking onto Marcus.

  It had no face, no true form. Just a void of shifting patterns, a swirling abyss of logic and calculation.

  It moved with purpose. Not malice, not rage—but purpose. It was executing a function, following a design Marcus was not meant to understand.

  Then, in a voice that reverberated through the air, "Scanning intruder", "analyzing memory, for combat strategy"....

  Combat Profile: Complete.

  Marcus felt it before he saw it.

  The system shuddered, reality itself rippling outward from the entity’s core. Glowing digital projections flickered into existence—Thalron, Vealeth, and Boruk.

  They weren’t just images.

  They were data. Memories. Strength.

  Thalron, the half elf, half Dwarve, standing tall, eyes ablaze with elemental mastery. Vealeth, the Drake, his Psycha radiating an eerie glow, untamed and infinite. Boruk, the Orc, solid as a mountain, his tribal markings etched with pride.

  Then—

  They merged.

  Their figures pixelated, breaking apart like shattered glass before coalescing into a blazing core at the entity’s chest.

  The world reacted.

  The ruined city dissolved—not like stone breaking apart, not like buildings crumbling.

  It glitched.

  Reality fractured, chunks of existence disassembling as if they had been nothing more than placeholders in a vast cosmic code. The streets blurred, turning into endless ribbons of data, warping and twisting until they were no longer streets at all.

  Then—

  The arena emerged.

  Massive coliseum walls erupted from the ground, unfurling like the pages of a book being rewritten in real-time. Stone did not form—it was simply made to exist, snapping into place as if it had always been there.

  The ground beneath Marcus shifted, the texture hardening into pure white stone, smooth and polished yet utterly unyielding.

  A roar erupted from the stands—thousands, tens of thousands of phantom spectators materialized, their bodies faceless, their forms shifting masses of shadow and code.

  They screamed.

  Not real voices. Simulated cheers. Artificial jeers.

  It was a mockery of a crowd. A parody of battle.

  Above them, a massive scoreboard materialized, displaying Marcus' name, his stats, his win-loss ratio—as if his entire existence had been nothing more than a record in the system’s archives.

  Marcus gritted his teeth.

  This wasn’t just a fight.

  It was the system’s entertainment.

  And then, the system mocked him, its voice warping into that of an exaggerated announcer.

  "And in this corner... we have a man from a world long gone! Standing at 6'4", weighing in at 245 lbs..."

  The phantom crowd erupted into boos, their hollow voices cascading in waves of artificial scorn.

  "THE PERMA POSSESSOR... MARCUS ELDER!"

  Marcus’ fists clenched.

  This was a game to it.

  Then, the system’s voice lowered, shifting into something deeper, something more ominous.

  "And in this corner, we have one of the few abominations that sentient life cannot help itself from creating..."

  The colossus stepped forward.

  Standing at seven feet tall, its body was a fusion of stolen strength—Boruk’s tribal markings etched into its skin, Vealeth’s lean but deadly musculature, Thalron’s piercing gaze burning with elemental fury.

  But it was not them.

  It was a grotesque mockery of their power, fused into a thing that was neither living nor real.

  The system’s voice boomed with sadistic delight:

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  "THE BRINGER OF THE END… THE SERAPHIM PROTOCOL!"

  Marcus' blood boiled.

  His breath was heavy, his rage barely contained.

  How dare it.

  How dare this thing steal their faces, their power, their identity.

  His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

  This wasn’t just a fight.

  This was personal.

  The rules flickered into existence, glowing letters hanging in the air.

  "Best of Three Rounds!"

  Marcus barely had time to process the words before the Seraphim Protocol moved.

  It didn’t charge forward—it exploded into motion.

  A sharp crack rang through the air as the entity launched itself across the arena, its massive battle axe swinging in a wide arc. The sheer force behind it distorted the space around the blade, sending shockwaves rippling outward.

  Marcus reacted on instinct, throwing himself to the side.

  The axe narrowly missed, carving deep trenches into the white stone floor.

  But the shockwave hit.

  A crushing force slammed into Marcus, knocking him off balance and sending him staggering.

  Then, the real battle began.

  Marcus nearly had time to recover before

  The Seraphim Protocol lifted its hand—Thalron’s elemental magic ignited, the air shimmering with searing heat.

  A wave of flame erupted from its palm, spiraling forward in a twisting inferno.

  Marcus barely had time to brace before he felt the temperature surge, the heat scorching his skin even as he dodged.

  But the moment his feet touched the ground, the stone beneath him shattered.

  Boruk’s raw power.

  A sudden seismic shockwave radiated outward, cracking the foundation and sending jagged shards of stone flying.

  Marcus was already moving, twisting to avoid the worst of the impact—

  And then the world blurred.

  A wave of Psycha energy rippled through the air, and suddenly, Marcus’ surroundings shifted unnaturally—as if the space around him had bent, stretched, and rewoven itself.

  Vealeth’s Psycha manipulation.

  Marcus felt his own movements slow, his body reacting just a second too late.

  The Seraphim Protocol was there before he could counter.

  A strike collided with his torso, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Overwhelmed

  Marcus barely had time to recover before another attack followed.

  A powerful palm strike to his side sent him reeling, his ribs crushed from the force.

  He threw a counterpunch, aiming for the entity’s core—

  But the Seraphim Protocol dodged effortlessly, twisting with inhuman precision.

  It had read his movements.

  It already knew his patterns.

  Marcus' footwork faltered as he tried to reset his stance—

  Too late.

  A powerful kick connected with his leg, disrupting his balance.

  He tried to recover, but the next attack was already coming.

  The Seraphim Protocol’s elbow struck his shoulder, followed by a rapid follow-up strike to his midsection.

  The combination sent him sprawling backward, the wind knocked from his chest.

  The crowd—those phantom figures—roared with excitement, their cheers a hollow echo of real spectators.

  Marcus gritted his teeth and forced himself up, his muscles already aching.

  But before he could fully regain his stance, the Seraphim Protocol was there again.

  Its hand closed around his kneck, holding him in the air, as if taughting him, it's way of letting Marcus know that it was his better.

  Marcus barely registered the shift before he was hurled across the arena.

  The ground rushed toward him, and he hit the stone floor with a force that sent cracks spiderwebbing outward.

  Marcus pushed himself onto his elbows, his breath uneven.

  He looked up just in time to see the Seraphim Protocol towering over him, its gaze cold, analytical.

  It had measured him. Tested him.

  And now it knew exactly how to beat him.

  The system’s voice echoed through the coliseum.

  Round One Complete!

  The phantom crowd erupted into cheers, their voices hollow and artificial.

  Marcus barely had time to process the words before his vision warped.

  Reality shifted, and in an instant, he was back in his corner, his body aching, his thoughts in turmoil.

  The system’s voice carried a mocking edge.

  "Round Two will begin in one minute."

  Marcus Sat There, Reeling.

  He had been outmatched.

  Not challenged. Not tested.

  Overpowered.

  His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers tightening into fists.

  The Seraphim Protocol had barely exerted it self.

  And the worst part?

  It wasn’t even trying yet.

  The simulated bell rang, echoing across the coliseum.

  Marcus' eyes snapped open.

  His breath was still ragged, his body sore from the relentless beating of Round One—but none of that mattered.

  This time, there would be no hesitation.

  "Activate: Floating Butterfly, Stinging Bee."

  A pulse of energy erupted from Marcus' core. His muscles coiled like steel, his vision sharpened to a razor's edge.

  Then—

  He moved.

  A blur. A ghost. A force of absolute destruction.

  The Seraphim Protocol had no time to react.

  Marcus crashed into it, his fists a storm of rapid-fire strikes.

  A left jab to disrupt balance. A right hook to rattle its defenses. A step in—a brutal body shot that sent a shockwave rippling through its massive frame.

  The entity tried to retaliate, but Marcus was already gone, slipping past its counterstrike with fluid ease.

  For the first time, the Seraphim Protocol faltered.

  Marcus pressed the advantage.

  A flurry of punches cracked into its core, each blow landing with surgical precision.

  The arena trembled under the sheer force of impact.

  Marcus barely noticed.

  His mind was locked in, his body moving on instinct, each motion a devastating display of his skill and fury.

  This wasn’t a fight.

  This was destruction.

  The final blow came—a thunderous uppercut, charged with everything he had.

  The Seraphim Protocol lifted off its feet, its body twisting in midair before crashing down like a collapsing tower.

  The ground cracked beneath it, a crater forming where it fell.

  For a moment, silence.

  Then—

  Pain.

  Marcus staggered, his body reeling from the aftereffects of his skill ending. His limbs felt like lead, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  His mind screamed at him to move, to finish it—

  But it was too late.

  The Seraphim Protocol twitched.

  Then, in one fluid motion, it rose from the ground.

  It had studied him.

  It had learned.

  A holographic projection of Marcus flickered into the air, pixelated and unstable, before it coalesced inside the entity’s core.

  Its hollow voice rumbled through the arena.

  [Combat Style Integrated.]

  The beast discarded its battle axe, letting it clatter onto the broken stone.

  Then, in its hands—

  A pair of spiked gauntlets materialized.

  Marcus’ gauntlets.

  The moment they formed, the Seraphim Protocol assumed Marcus’ stance.

  His exact stance.

  Marcus barely had time to process the horror of it before it moved.

  No wild swings.

  No reckless lunges.

  Just perfect technique.

  The Seraphim Protocol met Marcus strike for strike, counter for counter.

  Every attack Marcus threw was mirrored flawlessly.

  A jab? Parried.

  A hook? Slipped past.

  A feint? Anticipated.

  The two fighters became a blur of movement, their footwork weaving across the battlefield in a brutal display of pure, unrelenting defense.

  The crowd roared, their hollow voices feeding into the tension.

  Then—

  A slip. A flicker of an opening.

  Marcus took it.

  His fist collided with the Seraphim Protocol’s core, the force of the impact sending the entity reeling backward.

  It hit the ground.

  Hard.

  The system’s voice echoed.

  Round Two: Complete!

  Marcus staggered back, his breath ragged. His body ached, his mind a storm of exhaustion and turmoil.

  But before he could even process the victory, the world around him faded once more.

  Back in his corner, Marcus collapsed onto the seat, his mind adrift in chaos.

  The fight was far from over.

  But in this moment, all he could think about was Boruk.

  He should be here.

  He should have been here.

  A lump caught in Marcus’ throat as he clenched his fists.

  Then—

  The Seraphim Protocol smirked.

  Its face twisted, shifting, warping—until it became Boruk’s.

  It raised one hand.

  Then, slowly, it lifted its middle finger.

  Something inside Marcus snapped.

  His Psycha detonated.

  A shockwave of pure emotion erupted outward, sending cracks racing across the coliseum walls.

  The air rippled, distorting as an unseen force converged upon his corner.

  Then—

  From the swirling storm of Psycha energy, a figure emerged.

  Towering. Solid. Familiar.

  Boruk.

  Or rather—

  An Ethereal Boruk, formed from pure Psycha energy, his form shimmering with an otherworldly glow.

  Marcus stared in shock.

  He had unknowingly tapped into an obscure use of Psycha.

  Necromancy.

  Boruk’s spectral form stepped forward, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips.

  "You got a fight to win, kid."

  Marcus felt his chest tighten, his vision blurred by something dangerously close to tears.

  He tried to speak—

  Boruk held up a hand.

  "You already know what to do."

  A hand landed on Marcus' shoulder.

  Solid. Real.

  For the first time since Boruk's sacrifice, Marcus felt at peace.

  He let out a slow breath.

  The weight in his chest eased—just a little.

  The system’s voice boomed.

  Final Round: Begins in 10 seconds!

  Marcus and Ethereal Boruk locked eyes.

  Boruk held out his fist.

  Marcus hesitated.

  Then, he clenched his own fist, tapping it against Boruk’s.

  Together, they recited their warband’s mantra.

  "Life is a fight." "Death is a fight." "But I fight with my party."

  The arena trembled.

  The final round was about to begin.