So it flashed—illusory streaks of light, shimmering like refracted prisms in the sky. Different colors embodied silhouettes as they appeared on the stage of the arena, their forms gradually solidifying. There were thirty stages in total, made up of alloy metallic materials that gleamed under the artificial light. Eighteen of them bore a bronze design and were positioned at the lowest level. The stages were round and suspended 100 meters above the ground, each supported by a single, thick metallic rod that hummed faintly with energy.
Above, at 200 meters, were stages designed in silver color. They were eleven in number and meant for those who had gained the silver token. While those who gained the bronze token took the bronze stage, standing in quieter tension.
In every stage, there were two aspirants who had survived the brutal world of Bermutha, their expressions hardened by experience.
These two aspirants were partners who had fought together to gain a token, their fates once intertwined.
While they were amazed by the settings and anticipating what would come next, their gazes were also fixed on the one stage that loomed far above the rest.
A stage designed in golden color—round and supported by just a single metallic rod that spanned three hundred meters in height, towering like a pillar of judgment.
And standing on that stage were two silhouettes… a red-haired teenager donned in a mechanical suit that reflected faint golden light, and a middle-aged man who had his hands calmly placed behind his back. They stood together, gazing at the clear blue sky as if untouched by the tension below.
"We did it. We came out alive," Socrates shouted at the top of his voice, bumping his fist into the air, his laughter echoing faintly across the arena.
His voice was transmitted to all those beneath him as they watched the enthusiastic boy, some with narrowed eyes, others with quiet disbelief.
They were silent at first, wondering how such a young boy managed to survive—talk more of getting a golden token. But when they saw Mr. Jaggers standing beside him, composed and imposing, they all came to the same conclusion.
It was only due to the man's efforts that he was able to pass…
Not only were the rest of the aspirants thinking this way, but also the spectators observing from afar.
Yes… they were spectators, for this grand show was not for nothing.
Across the arena, surrounding it, were seats—layers of metallic seating with towering metallic walls enclosing them. The seats were arranged in rows and columns, structured with precision, and were meant for the spectators.
Some were there live and direct, their physical forms seated rigidly, while some were only projections—flickering holographic presences that shimmered faintly.
Projections and screens were also placed strategically so that they could get a clear, uninterrupted view of what was going on in every stage.
… None knew what was going to happen next—not even the spectators.
As every time, the rules of the second test changed.
And again, no one knew what happened in Bermutha Island—not even the organizers. Only the system was aware of every update, every death, every struggle.
The spectators were clueless and, at the same time, serious, their gazes sharp and expectant.
The aspirants were also curious but, at the same time, worried. They wondered what their fate would be, their grips tightening unconsciously.
Only Socrates seemed not to care as he jumped around in enthusiasm, his boots clanking lightly against the golden surface.
"Woow… Look at that, Senior… We got the biggest stage… It's designed in golden color," Socrates exclaimed as he looked around him, his eyes reflecting the brilliance of the platform.
"That's because we got the golden token," Mr. Jaggers replied calmly.
"We are the only ones that got the golden token… Doesn't that mean big rewards await us?" Socrates' blue eyes shone with stars of greed as he anticipated what benefits they would gain, his gaze almost sparkling under the golden glow of the stage.
This caused Mr. Jaggers to laugh out loud, a deep, amused sound, as he was entertained by the carefree nature of the junior.
"If it was just me, I don't think I'd even retrieve a golden token… You really did well, boy, and you've improved a lot…"
"You flatter me, Senior… I still pale compared to you…" Socrates gave a little bow, his tone respectful yet light.
"Ah, ah… There's no need to show so much courtesy…" Mr. Jaggers chuckled as he stroked his beard, his expression relaxed.
Socrates also smiled, but his eyes suddenly traced to his arm, where he realized that the wristband was gone. The absence felt strange—almost unsettling.
"System inventory…" he called out, but there was nothing. Not even a reply nor a screen. The silence that followed felt unusually heavy.
Mr. Jaggers just shook his head. "You're funny, boy… We are no longer in the game world; of course, the system won't work."
"Oh… then how about our weapons and items?" Socrates asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice.
"Those are in-game items… One can't bring in-game items to the real world unless the system permits one to do so."
"Really… That means my Desert Eagles… my Antler daggers and all those weapons I looted are just for waste…" Socrates lamented, his shoulders dropping slightly in disappointment.
Then suddenly, a premonition struck him. His expression shifted, and he quickly turned to Mr. Jaggers.
"If all those items are in-game items, then why am I still retaining my mechanical suit… Isn't it supposed to be an in-game item too?"
"This…" Mr. Jaggers stroked his beard, searching for a perfect answer, his brows knitting slightly in thought, when suddenly the clouds tore apart above them, parting with a low rumble, and a silhouette appeared.
"That's because it's a reward obtained by achieving the golden token." The Blue Projectile replied, its mechanical voice echoing smoothly in the ears of everyone present, layered with an unnatural resonance.
"Wow… that's cool… Does that mean Senior gets to keep his own reward too?" Socrates asked, his curiosity instantly reignited.
"Yes… The skill he learned due to the reward of the golden token will remain with him…" the Blue Projectile replied, its tone steady and devoid of emotion.
Socrates giggled, clearly pleased, as he was happy for Mr. Jaggers. He was well aware of the effects of the skill—the Earth Cleaving Strike—and how devastating it was.
Mr. Jaggers nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving the Blue Projectile. While Socrates had not recognized it yet, Mr. Jaggers had already identified the Blue Projectile as the system overseeing the Gladiating Traditions.
The Blue Projectile, made up of illusory glass-like fragments, raised its gaze, its presence expanding as if observing every aspirant present on the platforms below.
"I welcome you all to the Arena… In this Arena, each and every one of you will finally take the mantle of a gladiator." The system announced, its voice booming across the vast structure.
The enthusiastic ones jumped up in celebration, their voices echoing in excitement.
Of course, Socrates took the lead.
"You've successfully passed the first test… The 2 teams of 30 each got 30 tokens…
You all are 60 candidates, and there are 30 tokens…
Now… This is the Second Test…
The test that will turn you into a Gladiator…"
Everyone stared with anticipation at what the system had to say, their attention locked onto the Blue Projectile, tension building in the air like a coiled spring.
"KILL YOUR PARTNER AND RETREIVE THE TOKEN FOR YOURSELF."
The projectile announced, and there was a deathly silence that fell over the entire arena, heavy and suffocating, as if even the air refused to move.
"What?" Socrates asked, his voice low and strained, as if he hadn't heard properly… or perhaps refused to understand. Mr. Jaggers, who always looked calm, now wore a slightly flattered—shaken—expression, his brows tightening ever so faintly.
"There are only 30 tokens available, meaning only 30 amongst you can become a Gladiator… Kill your partner and seize the token for yourself…
That's the Second Test… And the rule is that your partner must be dead… There's no surrender nor retreat… Failure to do so, both you and your partner will be killed."
The moment the Blue Projectile said those words, illusory glass rose instantly around all thirty stages, forming seamless barriers that shimmered faintly like transparent walls of judgment, isolating each team.
The teams could see other teams, their faces pale, conflicted, trembling… but they couldn't get off their stage. There was no escape.
"One most used item will be given to you…" The projectile snapped its fingers, the sharp sound echoing like a trigger being pulled, as weapons materialized in their hands.
Mr. Jaggers' battle axes appeared in both hands, their weight familiar, their edges gleaming faintly. Meanwhile, Socrates' Antler Daggers appeared in his shaky hands, the cold metal pressing reality into his skin.
"No… I can't do this… I can't kill my brother…" an aspirant from the silver stage directly beneath Socrates cried out, his voice breaking as he threw his SMG to the floor with a metallic clatter. His brother, equally shaken, threw down his kunai knife as well, both of them stepping back, refusing.
They both stared at the Blue Projectile, their eyes filled with desperate defiance… hope… denial.
The projectile snapped its finger.
In an instant, the two brothers burst into pieces.
Their bodies ruptured violently—blood, flesh, and organs splattering against the illusory glass barrier, sliding down slowly in grotesque streaks, right before the eyes of the other aspirants. The metallic scent of blood seemed to fill even the air above.
A collective chill ran through everyone.
It then dawned on all of them… the Second Test was real. Brutally real.
They had to kill their partner.
Failure to do so would lead to both of them dying… without exception.
And then… it began.
Every aspirant started engaging their partner. Movements were hesitant at first—shaking hands, trembling grips—but survival instinct quickly devoured hesitation.
Those who had already formed tight bonds… they didn't hesitate for long. Pain flashed in their eyes, but they still moved, engaging in either melee or gunfights, their emotions buried beneath the instinct to live.
Meanwhile, at the top stage… the Golden Stage…
Two silhouettes stood facing each other in silence, the golden platform beneath them glowing faintly, as the grim reality of the situation pressed heavily upon them like an invisible weight.
"Boy… You've grown a lot in just one night… Come at me, let me see what you got…" Mr. Jaggers beckoned, his voice calm—too calm—his stance relaxed yet ready, like a seasoned warrior accepting fate.
But even though Mr. Jaggers phrased it gently… Socrates was no fool. He could be green, but not a fool.
He had to fight Mr. Jaggers…
His senior… the man who was the reason he had managed to survive to this extent…
The one who stood beside him when death loomed…
And now… the one he had to kill or get killed by.