With 300 Devil Gold secured between them, the night air outside the Gemspire Ring felt electric—charged with possibility and the scent of molten metal and ozone drifting from the city’s veins.
Optik leaned in, his grin sly but polished. "How about we split fifty-fifty for now? Fifty gold for each of us?"
Dirga didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze sharpened—piercing through the neon haze and Optik’s salesman gloss like a blade pressing against soft skin.
Optik chuckled nervously. "Well, well, Mr. Dirga... tomorrow’s a big night, right? A big fight.
With the rank 100. Taking a little advance—just a hundred out of three hundred—won’t make a dent."
Dirga’s fists tightened slightly at his sides. The money wasn’t just numbers. It was a lifeline. A bridge to Sasa. A door to Naya.
He exhaled slowly, gravity humming faintly around his chest. His voice was flat.
He took his share—50 Devil Gold, slipping the shimmering coin-card into his jacket. Optik mirrored the gesture, visibly relieved.
The remaining 200 Devil Gold? Already locked into the betting system for tomorrow’s showdown.
A fight designed to entertain the blood-hungry, test the limits of newcomers...
...and possibly break them.
Dirga returned to the inn in silence.
Even with his pockets heavier—50 Devil Gold jingling faintly in his jacket —he didn’t feel like celebrating. Not yet.
He could’ve moved to a fancier place. Booked a suite with a mana-bath or a bed that massaged your soul. But no.
A small room. Quiet walls. No questions.
Just a space to breathe.
The streets were already quiet by the time he arrived.
Ortheva’s chaos dimmed before dawn, the neon signs flickering out one by one as the city took its first breath of sleep.
Dirga slipped inside, dropped onto the bed like stone into water, and let himself drift.
He slept until the afternoon.
When he finally stirred, the red glow of Hell’s sky was already tilting toward dusk.
It wasn’t sunlight—not really.
More like the watchful glare of a bloodshot eye, casting a burnt-orange hue across his room.
He rose with a stretch, bones cracking like dry branches. His body was loose. Rested. Coiled with energy.
Downstairs, he scarfed down a quick meal—bread dusted with glowing powder, a bowl of sizzling broth thick with oil and spice. He barely tasted any of it.
This wasn’t about enjoying the moment.
Tonight, he had a match that could change everything.
And as he stepped out into the streets of Sector X, it hit him.
The city was watching.
Banners rippled across the skywalks.
Zarion-lit advertisements glowed from floating displays, storefronts, and projectors.
The One-Punch Devil vs The Slithering Mist
Come watch. Come bet. Come bleed.
Dirga stared at it for a long second.
So this was what Optik meant.
They were turning him into a brand, a product, a spectacle.
Dirga clenched his fists slowly, letting the pressure coil through his fingers.
That meant bigger crowds. Bigger bets.
And if he could walk away from this next fight...
The 500 Devil Gold he needed to send that message to Sasa?
When night came, Dirga emerged from his inn once more.
He had spent the entire day meditating—not just to rest, but to deepen his bond with the Black Star.
He could feel it—his Concept slowly condensing, sharpening like a blade drawn from the forge.
Now, as he stepped into the open streets of Sector X, it was like entering a different world.
The district was alive.
Neon runes and crimson lanterns lit the roads, smoke curling from vendors selling roasted beasts, infused drinks, and pills that promised forbidden pleasures.
The air buzzed with shouting, laughter, screaming—a chaos orchestra of indulgence.
Sex. Blood. Glory. Addiction.
Everything was for sale here.
Dirga ignored it all.
He moved like gravity pulled only him, like the world bent to his pace.
The Gemspire Ring’s front gates loomed ahead—grander now under the red sky, glowing with enchantments and polished to perfection.
And waiting behind the counter—
The same cat-woman receptionist from his first day here.
Not the bubbly one—the cold one, with the sharp voice and icy demeanor.
She looked up from her console. Her feline eyes narrowed.
"Oh, our star fighter has arrived," she said dryly. "Your match will begin in fifteen minutes. Please wait in the room we’ve prepared."
No warmth. Just business.
A new figure appeared beside her—a harpy, this one draped in silks and feathers. Her wings folded elegantly as she bowed slightly.
"Please follow me, Sir."
Dirga nodded and followed.
They moved down a curved hallway lit by flickering blue crystals. The air was cooler here, thick with anticipation. The arena’s heartbeat thudded faintly beneath his boots.
The harpy stopped at a large steel door and gestured.
"Your waiting room, champion."
Dirga opened the door—and immediately spotted Optik, lounging comfortably on a lavish couch with a tray of exotic snacks in front of him.
"Ah, Mr. Dirga!" Optik said, mouth full. "You have to try this—it’s like fried spider silk, but sweeter!"
Dirga didn’t reply. He sat down across from him and picked at a bite without emotion.
"Want intel on your opponent?" Optik offered, licking his fingers.
"No," Dirga said flatly. "After this match... we hit five hundred, right?"
Optik grinned. "More, actually. By my math—586 Devil Gold."
Dirga exhaled once. That was enough.
"Good. Then don’t bother watching the fight," he said. "Stay in the lobby. When I win, take the payout... and send the message."
Optik stared at him for a moment—then gave a small, respectful nod.
Dirga leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and listened.
The crowd was already chanting his name.
As Dirga stepped into the arena, the Gemspire Ring erupted.
Screams. Roars. Chants so loud they made the stone shake.
A glowing rune-circle lit beneath his boots as he entered, casting pale blue light across the dust-streaked arena floor.
High above, a commentator hovered mid-air, wings fluttering, voice amplified by Zarion-infused projection.
"LADIES AND DEVILS, WELCOME TO TONIGHT’S HEADLINER—THE HOTTEST NEWCOMER IN GEMSPIRE HISTORY—THE ONE-PUNCH DEVIL HIMSELF... DIRGANTARAAAAA!!"
The crowd exploded. Thunderous. Frenzied. The walls shook.
"AND HIS OPPONENT—RANK 100! A MASTER OF DISSOLUTION, THE PHANTOM OF SECTOR GLOOM—THE SLITHERING MIST!!"
From the opposite tunnel, a figure emerged.
Tall. Lean. Skin pale like ash, hair draped down like wet strands of silver moss. His eyes were lifeless. Not vacant like the butchered. Just cold. Measured. Focused.
There was no manic grin. No madness.
Just quiet confidence.
Dirga’s gaze sharpened.
So that’s why they call him Slithering Mist...
The elf’s body seemed to blur slightly, even before the fight began. A faint vapor curled off his shoulders. His presence didn’t scream danger—but whispered it.
The commentator’s voice sliced through the tension.
"BOTH FIGHTERS READY?"
Dirga cracked his knuckles.
The Mist raised one hand, fingers twitching like they were painting invisible sigils in the air.
He moved like a projectile.
A surge of force blasted from his legs—gravity-enhanced propulsion. His black coat flared behind him like wings of shadow.
In an instant, he was in front of the Mist, fist cocked back, velocity sharpened by intent—
It should’ve ended the fight.
His fist went through nothing.
The elf dissolved into vapor.
Dirga’s fist ripped through mist and air.
"Hahaha..." The elf’s voice echoed in the mist, surrounding him. "You can’t punch fog."
The crowd laughed—some nervously, others mockingly.
Dirga’s face didn’t flinch.
"I don’t need to punch fog," he muttered.
He spread his fingers.
A ripple of invisible force exploded outward from his chest—forming a gravitational core that pulled everything toward a singularity at his feet.
His body reformed, sucked into one point, bones creaking, joints snapping under pressure. His limbs twisted unnaturally—dragged into collapse. His core couldn’t stabilize under the constant shift of pressure.
The Slithering Mist slammed into the ground like wet paper.
The crowd stared. Hundreds of thousands, holding their breath.
The projection above changed:
And the place erupted.
Roars, chants, disbelief. Not just excitement—fear. Awe.
Dirga stepped back from the corpse, his fists still clenched.
His eyes swept the stands, then drifted toward the corridor leading out.
He turned without a word... and walked off the battlefield.