Alistair crouched behind the bush, thorns digging into his back like nature’s little middle fingers.

  His stamina had taken a drain, and he felt weak. His cloak was torn, boots caked in mud, and the entire left side of his shirt now permanently smelled of beastkin blood.

  But none of that mattered right now.

  His [Treasure Seeker] ability was humming again.

  Not softly this time. No gentle pull or subtle suggestion. This was a siren blaring inside his skull, each pulse of it tugging harder than the last, like a starving leash dragging him toward something powerful.

  He should have been excited.

  Instead, he was frozen. Hidden. Watching.

  Because between him and the treasure were seven people, all armed, all dangerous, and all moments away from tearing each other apart.

  They hadn’t seen him.

  Three small groups converging in a natural clearing, only a few meters ahead.

  The first team stood tense: a male elf in light leathers with a blade as long as his arm, a short human woman with a wand strapped to her back, and a third, possibly a cleric or druid, murmuring under her breath with soft green magic pulsing at her fingertips.

  Opposite them stood a mismatched pair: a broad-shouldered man carrying a poleaxe like it was a toothpick and a slender mage, shrouded in deep blue robes, her eyes glowing faintly from beneath her hood.

  And standing slightly apart, like he didn’t quite belong to either side, was a lone man in dark leathers, hood pulled low over his face.

  He looked... normal. Unarmed.

  Which immediately made Alistair suspicious.

  Nobody normal lasted this long in the Arena.

  Tension hung in the air like thick smoke.

  Words were exchanged. Alistair couldn’t make them out, but it didn’t take a genius to guess what was happening.

  Temporary alliances. Promises of shared loot. Agreements made with the same breath that would later call for betrayal.

  “Any minute now...” Alistair whispered.

  Then it happened.

  The man with the poleaxe charged. No signal, no warning.

  Just violence.

  The poleaxe-wielding brute was a battering ram in human form. He barreled toward the elf, weapon raised, letting out a roar that shook the clearing.

  The elf moved like water. Smooth. Fast. He ducked the initial swing, twisting sideways, blade flashing as he slashed across the man’s ribs. Blood sprayed.

  That was the spark.

  Spells erupted in every direction.

  The woman with the wand shouted something sharp and angry. A wave of blue fire launched toward the robed mage, who countered with a shield spell that shimmered like glass before shattering into motes of light.

  The druid, definitely a druid now, began chanting. Vines burst from the ground, trying to entangle the poleaxe brute. He powered through them with a roar, muscles bulging as he tore a vine the size of Alistair’s leg in half.

  Impressive, Alistair thought, still unmoving in the brush. Stupid, but impressive.

  The elf danced between strikes, slashing and weaving, his blade always moving. The poleaxe had reach, but the elf had speed. That might’ve decided it, if the mage hadn’t intervened.

  A blast of raw arcane force struck the elf in the back. He stumbled, just long enough for the brute’s poleaxe to crunch into his shoulder and send him spinning to the ground.

  The druid screamed something unintelligible and unleashed a storm of green thorns that tore into the brute’s side. He grunted, barely staying upright.

  Then...

  A bolt of black energy lanced across the field and struck the druid in the chest.

  Alistair flinched.

  The druid staggered back, hands twitching. Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

  The hooded man stepped forward at last.

  Still no weapon.

  But there was a glow in his eyes now. A strange stillness to him.

  The other champions didn’t notice. They were too focused on surviving each other.

  But Alistair watched closely.

  The robed mage was breathing hard, staff held in shaking hands.

  She raised it again, only for the wand-wielder to shatter her concentration with a spike of ice that tore through the mage’s thigh.

  The mage collapsed.

  The brute, enraged, charged the wand-wielder, but the elf, bleeding and half-dead, rose to his feet with a snarl and tackled the brute from behind. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and blades.

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  Messy, Alistair noted. But effective.

  The elf didn’t rise again.

  Neither did the brute.

  Only three left standing now.

  The wand-wielder.

  The druid, still staggering, blinking in shock.

  And the hooded man.

  Who had yet to take a single hit.

  The clearing was still for a moment.

  Three champions breathing. Three minds calculating.

  The wand-wielder was the first to move, sharp, efficient, stepping sideways and raising her wand. She didn’t waste words. A bolt of concentrated frost shot toward the druid.

  But the druid had seen it coming.

  She dropped to one knee, arms raised. A burst of shimmering bark-like armor enveloped her skin as the frost crashed over her, slowing but not stopping her movement.

  The druid growled and retaliated, flinging a ball of raw nature magic that slammed the wand-wielder square in the chest. She staggered, eyes wide, mouth forming a curse.

  Then the hooded man acted.

  Still no weapon. Still silent.

  He walked forward like this was a morning stroll, not a battlefield.

  The druid noticed him at the last second.

  “Who?”

  Her voice cut off.

  The man raised a hand.

  And the dead began to move.

  Alistair blinked.

  The elf, the brute, even the mage, bodies twitching, limbs jerking unnaturally as something invisible took hold.

  The clearing, moments ago filled with violence and chaos, now bloomed with something worse.

  Unnatural resurrection.

  Unholy stillness.

  Necromancy.

  Shit, Alistair thought, cursing inwardly. He’s a necromancer.

  Oh good. Death magic. Because that’s just what this hellhole was missing.

  The others didn’t see it. Not right away.

  The druid backed away slowly, lips moving, trying to call her magic again.

  The wand-wielder lifted her focus with both hands. Her aim was shaky.

  The necromancer tilted his head, like watching insects try to understand the boot.

  Then he dropped his hand.

  The corpses surged forward.

  It was fast.

  The elf’s body, his eyes still glassy, sword still slick, lunged at the wand-wielder. She screamed, tried to cast, but the blade took her in the gut.

  The brute’s corpse grabbed the druid and pinned her down with dead strength as the mage’s lifeless hand crackled with lingering energy and slammed into her chest.

  Both went still.

  The silence afterward was absolute.

  Only one man still stood.

  The necromancer.

  And now Alistair understood why he hadn’t fought.

  He didn’t just win. He made the corpses win for him. And here I am, hiding behind a bush, hoping no one breathes in my direction.

  He hadn’t drawn a weapon.

  He hadn’t needed one.

  He had an army.

  Alistair didn’t breathe.

  He couldn’t.

  He crouched in the thorns, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger, hands clenched so tight his knuckles ached. Every instinct screamed: Don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t even think too loud.

  The necromancer turned.

  Slowly. Calmly. Like he had all the time in the world.

  He knelt beside one of the fallen, Alistair couldn’t tell which. Maybe the elf. Maybe the mage. It didn’t matter.

  Because what he pulled from the body was a small, gleaming object.

  Gold.

  Etched with strange sigils.

  A medallion.

  Of course, the scariest guy in the forest has the golden ticket.

  Alistair didn’t get a notification, but he knew. He knew what that was.

  The same thing all champions were hunting for. The only way to advance. The only way to survive another day in this divine deathmatch.

  The necromancer turned the medallion in his hand, as if inspecting it.

  Then he looked up.

  And locked eyes with Alistair.

  It was impossible. Alistair hadn’t moved. Hadn’t made a sound.

  He was buried in thorns, shadows wrapped around him, and yet...

  That pale stare pinned him in place.

  Not hostile.

  Not surprised.

  Just… acknowledgment.

  Like the necromancer had known he was there the whole time. Like this was all part of the show.

  He turned and walked away, cloak trailing behind him like smoke.

  The corpses followed.

  Their feet shuffled across blood-soaked grass, heads lolling, weapons still clutched in cold fingers.

  A mockery of a warband.

  A dead king’s procession.

  Alistair let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, shaky, cold, sharp in his throat.

  “Right,” he muttered. “So that happened.”

  His [Treasure Seeker] ability pulsed again.

  BING.

  Closer now.

  It was still there. Whatever it was. Whatever prize had brought him this far.

  He needed it.

  He couldn’t leave empty-handed.

  Not after that.

  Not when he’d just watched a man build a squad out of corpses and pocket a medallion like it was a trophy.

  Alistair stood.

  His legs ached. His stamina still flagging.

  But his feet moved anyway.

  He needed a medallion. A way forward. A path to the next day. Anything less, and he was just another corpse-in-waiting.

  The forest swallowed him again.

  Alistair moved quickly, but not recklessly, each step deliberate, each glance cast behind him just in case the necromancer’s little parade decided to double back.

  [Treasure Seeker] hummed louder now, like a heartbeat behind his eyes.

  Whatever was ahead was powerful. Maybe valuable. Hopefully not cursed.

  But let’s be honest, he thought grimly, it’s probably cursed.

  Whatever it was leading him toward, it was close. And after what he’d just witnessed, he needed this.

  He dashed through bramble and root, anticipation building, cloak shredded. Minutes blurred into more. Time lost all meaning, but the pull never faded.

  Then...

  He stopped.

  His boots skidded in the dirt as he reached the edge of a clearing, and there, glistening in the light of the late afternoon sun, stood a small stone fountain. Elegant. Ancient. Almost... delicate.

  It looked like a birdbath, if the bird in question was a divine messenger with taste.

  At its center: water. Glistening. Moving.

  Not just still and stagnant, dancing.

  It gurgled and rippled as if stirred by invisible hands, glowing faintly with a shifting iridescence that shimmered between amethyst, silver, and palest blue.

  His body leaned forward of its own accord. Something primal stirred in him, a hunger different from the one that craved blood.

  He stepped closer. The light shimmered. His pulse slowed. It wasn’t just magic; it was possibility made liquid.

  Something crunched beneath his foot. Metal? A fallen helm? Didn’t matter. The sound didn’t register. The world had gone quiet except for the sound of flowing magic.

  And then the system greeted him:

  [Item Discovered – Dew of Possibilities]

  ? Classification: Mythic (Consumable)

  ? Form: Iridescent liquid drawn from dawn-mists where realms overlap

  ? Primary Effect: Raises all magical and skill affinities to 100% (cap)

  ? Duration: 7 days

  ? Secondary Effect: Unlocks latent potential; new skills and affinities may be acquired that were previously inaccessible

  Lore: “The Dew is said to condense only where creation’s breath still lingers, collected by forgotten godlines and traded as fragments of destiny. To drink is to be rewritten, not granted power, but permitted to reach for it. Legends claim entire bloodlines rose or perished over a single vial.”

  Alistair froze.

  The words burned themselves into his mind, each syllable carving a crack through years of frustration.

  He didn’t blink.

  Didn’t breathe.

  Then, slowly, a breath shuddered out of him, half-laugh, half-choke.

  “This… this can’t be real.”

  He gripped the edge of the stone basin, knuckles white.

  All this time.

  He hadn’t leveled. His skills had stalled. His trait, the one that made him “special”, had never activated. And all around him, others had gotten stronger. Better. More.

  He’d told himself he didn’t care.

  But gods, he had.

  Every minute of every day.

  He swallowed hard, throat dry.

  And now this?

  This changes everything.

  His chest ached with something tight and ugly and dangerous.

  Hope.

  With this… he could grow. Again. For real.

  He laughed.

  Low and sharp at first. Then louder. Shakier.

  It wasn’t joy exactly; it was relief cracking through the numbness.

  He grinned down at the shimmering water, chest trembling.

  The system’s words floated gently in his vision, but they might as well have screamed:

  You are no longer broken.

  Alistair grinned.

  Wide. Feral.

  And whispered, “Looks like the gods finally threw me a bone.”

  Then, quieter:

  “And I’m gonna snap it in half.”

  He reached for the water with trembling fingers.

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