Dirga didn’t sleep that night.
He sat cross-legged in the darkened corner of the small, creaking inn room, surrounded by silence and the faint pulse of Zarion in the walls.
The glow of the Crimson Core had faded, but the pressure it left behind lingered in his chest—dense, warm, alive. freew\e bnovel.com
His eyes remained open for hours, not in tension, but in calm.
When morning came, light didn’t spill through windows—it shimmered through the artificial crystal veins embedded in the ceiling.
A soft white-blue hue that mimicked dawn, humming gently.
Dirga rose without stiffness, body light, mind sharper than it had been in days.
The meditation had worked. His Concept felt solid now. Anchored.
His breath came easy.
His thoughts, clearer.
He stepped over to the small mirror mounted on the wall.
For a brief second, he barely recognized himself.
The boy who had entered Hell was long gone.
What remained was something forged—refined by gravity, blood, and purpose.
And the day had just begun.
By the time morning filtered through Sector X, the district felt eerily still.
The buzzing neon signs from the night before had dimmed, and the streets—once packed with roaring laughter, flashing light, and sinful noise—were nearly empty.
This was the city’s hangover.
Dirga walked alone under the soft whir of transit rails, the chill air brushing against his skin as if the city itself had taken a breath.
He bought the cheapest breakfast he could find from a street vendor—something gray, spicy, and probably not legal back on Earth.
He didn’t care. He needed the energy. He also needed to stretch his last coin.
Not enough to contact Sasa.
Not enough for any real options.
The Crimson Core pulsed faintly beneath his shirt—silent, hidden, waiting.
He made his way to the Gemspire Ring.
The entrance to the arena’s administrative wing was quieter than the main ring.
He stepped inside to find a clean, high-ceilinged hall glowing with soft green lights and faint humming from embedded Zarion tech.
Behind the reception counter sat a woman.
She had feline ears twitching above short lavender hair, a fluffy tail curling lazily behind her, and slitted gold eyes that fixed on Dirga the moment he stepped in.
A Fae, with beast-kin traits. The kind that would break the internet if she ever walked through a Tokyo cosplay convention.
But instead of a flirtatious "nya~," she spoke with the cold professionalism of a tax auditor.
"How can I help you?" Her voice was low and precise.
Dirga blinked. Slightly disappointed. No ’nya’ at the end. No overly friendly sparkle. Just business.
"I want to enter the arena," he said, handing her his ID card.
She tapped her interface crystal, slotting the translucent card in with a click. Her tail flicked once behind her, calculating.
"Yeah. Optik," Dirga replied.
Her brows lifted. Just slightly. Then she returned to the console.
"Understood. Here’s how it works." Her tone didn’t change. Still cool. Still efficient.
"The Gemspire Ring follows Blood Law: You can use anything—poison, relics, tech, magic. Killing your opponent is legal. No disqualifications."
"You begin at zero points. Each fighter gets one mandatory challenge—meaning the person you challenge must accept it.
After that, points are gained through victories: your opponent’s point value plus one."
She slid a data-slate across the desk for him to read.
"There are also streak bonuses. Ten wins in a row gives you ten extra points. Twenty wins? Twenty bonus points. It scales upward."
Dirga exhaled. This place was brutal. And efficient.
"Do I get any gold?" he asked.
"Ten percent of all bets placed on your match. You can also bet on yourself—but never on your opponent."
Her golden eyes glinted for the first time, as if watching to see if he’d flinch.
"And your potential challenge range depends on your rank. Right now, you’re unranked. You’ll be entered as Rank 10,438,235."
Dirga blinked. "There’s that many fighters?"
"Active, yes," she replied, unfazed. Then she began listing:
Fighters ranked below 5,000,000 can challenge up to 1,000,000 ranks above them.
Fighters below 1,000,000 can challenge up to 500,000 above.
Below 500,000, they can reach 10,000 above.
Below 10,000, they get access to 1,000 above.
Below 1,000, they get 100 above.
Below 100, only 20 ranks above.Top 10? They can challenge only 10 above, and that’s only on a mutual deal.
Dirga stared at her. "That’s... a lot."
She nodded, completely unamused.
"This is Hell. You’re not in a schoolyard tournament."
Dirga’s voice was steady, low.
"Then I want to use my mandatory challenge."
He met her golden eyes with the full weight of his presence.
"Against someone ranked exactly five million above me."
The feline receptionist blinked.
Her tail twitched as her fingers moved across the console. "When?"
"Tonight." Dirga’s voice didn’t waver.
She paused for a second. Then nodded again.
"Very well. A mandatory challenge has been issued. You’ll be the opening match tonight—18:00 sharp. Gemspire Ring, Arena 6."
She returned his ID card, her expression unreadable.
"Good luck. And... have a nice day."
Her voice didn’t sound like she meant it.
She immediately began tapping her comm-crystal, alerting staff and auto-registers.
The words "newcomer challenge match" echoed faintly behind Dirga as he turned and walked away from the counter.
Outside, the streets of Sector X were beginning to wake.
Dirga wandered through the city—through the hazy streets still carrying the aftertaste of last night’s madness. Neon lights blinked lazily.
Drunks still staggered in alleyways. Smoke drifted from glowing vents, and hell-born insects chirped from crackling lamps overhead.
He passed vendors selling fried flesh on sticks, Zarion-reactive tattoos, glowing fruit, and pills promising temporary immortality.
But he wasn’t there for any of that.
He was clearing his head.
By the time the clock ticked past 17:30, the streets were alive again—less chaos, more anticipation.
Lights flared near the arena. Bookies opened fresh stands. Spectators drifted in with hungry eyes and credits to burn.
Dirga arrived at Gemspire Ring by 17:38.
He found Optik already waiting near the fighter’s gate.
"You ready?" Optik asked, pushing up his cybernetic monocle. The red lens flickered, scanning Dirga’s body. "Your pulse is steady. You don’t look nervous."
Dirga adjusted his collar.
"It’ll be easy." His voice was colder than before—sharp, controlled.
Optik grinned. "That’s what I like to hear."
Without hesitation, the man pulled out a sleek black crystal card.
He tapped it against the arena terminal, placing his bet.
Dirga’s brow twitched. "That’s everything you had?"
"Yup." Optik didn’t even flinch.
"You’re the investment, Dirga. That expensive meal last night? Consider it part of the marketing. If you win tonight, you’ll be a name. If you lose..." He shrugged.
"Well. Let’s not do that."
Dirga smirked. "What happens after I win?"
"Simple. You challenge again. I already pre-arranged your next match." Optik gave a sly nod.
"You just keep climbing. One corpse at a time."
When the time struck 18:00, the gates opened.
Dirga stepped into the arena.
Under the roar of the crowd and the glare of artificial stars.
It was time to fight.