When Nigel opened his eyes, he was somewhere else entirely.

  The shift was instant, disorienting. His stomach lurched, the world tilting violently beneath him, his insides twisting like they were being wrung dry. Before he could stop himself, he doubled over, retching onto the pavement.

  The sharp taste of bile burned his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still breathing heavily, and forced himself to take in his surroundings.

  Towering skyscrapers stretched toward the sky, their mirrored surfaces catching the sunlight in a way that made his eyes sting. The streets were immaculate, untouched by time or decay, every road lined with sleek, modern structures that felt out of place after the chaos of the Eleventh Ring.

  A city. Pristine. Perfect.

  And yet, something about it felt wrong.

  A flicker of movement overhead caught his attention.

  Nigel squinted, gaze snapping upward just in time to see two military aircraft slicing through the sky at terrifying speed. Their sleek black frames wove between the buildings with practiced precision, engines screaming as machine guns roared to life.

  A burst of gunfire shredded through the air.

  One of the aircraft—smaller, weaker—took a direct hit.

  The explosion detonated midair, a shockwave of fire and metal ripping across the skyline.

  Shrapnel scattered in every direction, flames consuming the side of a nearby building. Tons of concrete and steel gave way, collapsing in a deafening cascade that sent tremors rolling through the streets.

  Nigel gritted his teeth, bracing himself against the impact.

  This isn’t just a city.

  It’s a battlefield.

  His gut twisted—not from fear, but from something deeper. Unease.

  Something felt wrong.

  Not about the city.

  About the Reaper.

  His fingers had been gripping the spear since he arrived, but for the first time, he felt something from it.

  A pulse.

  Not a heartbeat—something deeper, something aware.

  Slowly, he unstrapped the weapon from his back, turning it over in his hands. The vantablack metal drank in the light, its curved blade catching nothing, reflecting nothing, as if the material refused to acknowledge its own existence.

  His fingers traced the razor-sharp edge.

  It was a spear. Wasn’t it?

  Then why did it feel like it wasn’t supposed to be?

  A frown tugged at his lips as his grip tightened.

  Instinct took over. Without thinking, he shifted his stance.

  And the Reaper moved.

  Not in the way a weapon should.

  It flowed.

  The shaft elongated, the blade expanding outward, curving into a massive, deadly arc. The metal rippled like liquid before solidifying again, its new form sleek, impossibly sharp.

  A Scythe, meant to execute.

  Nigel’s breath hitched.

  It changed.

  A weapon that could morph.

  A slow chill crept up his spine as realization settled.

  “What the hell are you?”

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  Nigel flexed his fingers.

  The moment he did, the Reaper shifted—its form flowing seamlessly back into a spear, the metal folding into itself like it had never changed at all.

  He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. That’s good to know."

  Holding the spear, he started walking.

  The city stretched before him, eerily silent, its towering skyscrapers casting long shadows across the immaculate streets. The distant echoes of screams and explosions were the only real signs of life, sharp bursts of chaos cutting through the unnatural stillness.

  Then—a presence.

  It crawled up his spine, a prickle of unease that set his instincts on edge. Someone was watching him.

  His grip tightened around the Reaper.

  He moved.

  Spinning mid-step, he swung the spear without hesitation.

  Steel clashed against steel.

  His attacker had reacted just in time, leaping back as the Reaper’s blade carved through empty space.

  Nigel’s gaze locked onto him.

  A boy—short, wiry, younger than him, built for speed. His bright green hair stood out starkly against his sharp, narrow features, his lean frame carrying an energy that was both tense and coiled. In each hand, he gripped a dagger, the blades coated in a thick, purple liquid.

  Poison.

  Nigel took a step back, keeping the Reaper’s blade between them. "I see we have our first participant," he said, his tone even.

  The boy didn’t answer.

  He just lunged.

  No hesitation. No warning. Just pure intent to kill.

  Nigel barely dodged in time, the tip of the dagger slicing through his sleeve, missing skin by a fraction. But he could feel it: the poison touched his skin, causing a burning sensation, and then, immediate sluggishness on his left arm.

  Fast. Too fast.

  He swung low, aiming for the boy’s legs, but his opponent flipped backward, avoiding the attack with terrifying ease.

  The moment his feet touched the ground, he lashed out—a sharp, precise kick aimed straight at Nigel’s ribs.

  Nigel blocked with his forearm, absorbing most of the impact—but the dagger followed immediately, slashing toward his throat.

  Shit—

  He jerked his head back at the last second, the blade missing his neck by inches.

  The kid wasn’t just fast—he was skilled.

  Adjusting his grip, Nigel countered, slashing toward his opponent’s hands.

  The blade connected—a deep slice across the boy’s wrist.

  His grip faltered. One of the daggers slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the pavement.

  A chance—

  But before Nigel could capitalize on it, his opponent ducked low, twisting his body—and drove a fist straight into Nigel’s nose.

  Pain exploded through his skull. His vision blurred, his eyes immediately stinging with involuntary tears.

  Nigel staggered, his vision swimming as he tried to blink the tears away. But the boy was already closing in.

  A blur of motion—

  He was rushing forward, dagger aimed straight for Nigel’s heart.

  Too fast.

  Nigel wasn’t going to block in time.

  “Useless.”

  The boy smirked, certain of his victory.

  But he had made a mistake.

  He thought Nigel was still holding a spear.

  The Reaper wasn’t only a spear.

  Nigel’s grip shifted instinctively.

  The weapon morphed in his hands, its shape twisting like something alive. The staff elongated, the blade unfurling into a massive, curved edge that gleamed wickedly under the city lights.

  For a split second, the boy’s eyes widened in shock.

  Too late.

  The Reaper carved through him, the curved blade slicing cleanly from side to side.

  A short, strangled scream.

  Then—silence.

  The boy collapsed, body convulsing before dissolving into shimmering blue light.

  Nigel stood still; breath heavy.

  His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, a relentless, deafening drumbeat in his ears. His fingers curled around the Reaper’s shaft, damp with sweat, his body still primed for battle.

  He watched, surprised, as the last remnants of the boy faded into nothing, leaving behind only a single, glowing gemstone.

  A Diamantine.

  Slowly, Nigel bent down, picking it up between his fingers.

  It was smooth, impossibly light, pulsing with a soft, cold blue glow.

  A reminder.

  This is what happens if you lose.

  His jaw clenched.

  He had won.

  But barely.

  That kid—he had been faster, better trained. Nigel had only survived because of one lucky move.

  His grip tightened around the gemstone.

  “How weak am I really?”

  He exhaled sharply, shaking off the lingering tension. Forty-nine more to go.

  The words left his lips quietly as he stared at the empty space where, just moments ago, a body had been.

  He didn’t like killing, but he had no choice.

  Alongside the Diamantine, the boy had dropped a small collection of supplies. Nigel sorted through them quickly—a few rations, some basic survival gear—before his eyes landed on something far more useful.

  The poisoned daggers.

  A flashing image of his mother using dagger techniques came to his mind, but there was no time to dwell on it.

  He crouched down, picking them up carefully.

  They were light, well-balanced, crafted for speed and precision. The purple liquid coating the edges carried a distinct, acrid scent—not lethal, but paralytic.

  That could come in handy.

  As he ventured deeper into the city, the streets grew narrower, the towering buildings pressing in from both sides, their sheer size creating a sense of confinement that settled heavily in his chest. The further he walked, the stronger the feeling became—a creeping awareness, an itch beneath his skin.

  He was being watched.

  Not from one direction. From everywhere.

  His jaw clenched.

  Above him, the same disembodied voice from before echoed across the city, amplified as if carried by unseen speakers.

  “Three participants have collected fifty Diamantines and advanced to the Second Stage!”

  Nigel stopped mid-step.

  Already?

  It had been barely an hour since the tournament began. That meant, somewhere in this city, people had already wiped out dozens of participants—effortlessly, systematically.

  He exhaled sharply and pressed forward.

  Eventually, the narrow streets opened into a wide plaza, a space where several major roads intersected. The open expanse should have felt like a relief after the city’s oppressive corridors, but something about it was wrong.

  Scattered throughout the square were twisted metallic structures—distorted sculptures shaped like animals, their steel-and-wood bodies warped beyond recognition. Their elongated limbs stretched outward at weird angles, their hollow eyes seeming to follow him as he stepped forward.

  They were just statues.

  Weren’t they?