Socrates, the son of Trueblood, was the son of the former Patriarch of the House of Trueblood, a man who lost his life in war while defending his country's interests, his name still echoing faintly in the halls of power.
Ever since his father had died, he and his sister had faced enormous hardship in the House of Trueblood, their lives turning cold almost overnight.
Be it cultivation resources or respect in the house… they were stripped of it, piece by piece, until nothing remained but silent neglect. It was only when Socrates started showing signs of being a talented individual that they began paying attention to him again, their attitudes shifting with quiet calculation.
Even as they treated him well, it wasn't the same for his sister, whose talent was average… and many in the House did not enjoy the fact that Amelia was betrothed to a son of Ashur.
But this betrothal was done by the two former Patriarchs, and there was nothing they could do about it, no matter how much resentment brewed beneath the surface.
Socrates strove to grow stronger so that he could protect his sister. Ever since the death of his father, only his uncle had stepped up for him—but even that support existed only as long as it did not clash with the interests of the House.
No genuine love… no genuine care… he didn't even give a fuck about anyone apart from his sister.
Until he met this person last night… just one night, and the memory was still fresh in his mind, vivid and unshaken.
A night that, if it wasn't for this one person, he would have long been dead.
The Bermutha Island… a place where he wouldn't even survive a couple of hours, where death lurked in every shadow and every breath could be the last.
He was saved… not once… not twice…
By this same Senior he didn't even know from Adam.
They had gone through life-and-death experiences together, their bond forged in blood, fear, and survival.
They banded together and killed their foes… they even obtained the highest token—the golden token, a symbol of dominance and survival.
And now, the duo… the middle-aged man and the red-haired teenager… had to fight each other on the highest stage—the golden round stage, suspended like a judgment platform above all others.
There was no loophole in the rule…
In the Bermutha Island, they fought to acquire tokens… any means could be used to gain those tokens, no matter how brutal or dishonorable.
But once they had stepped out of the Bermutha Island and into the arena…
To become a gladiator, they had to kill their opponent and claim the token for themselves…
No refusal…
No surrender…
The only way forward was to kill your opponent… any other way would amount to both of you being killed.
An example had already been set, as the Blue Projectile—or rather, the system in charge—had destroyed two aspirants who surrendered without hesitation, their deaths still fresh in everyone's mind.
They were brothers, carrying the same blood… one should know that acquiring a silver token is no easy feat, and these two brothers had managed to survive the brutal lands of Bermutha.
And they died… just like that… their silver token retrieved by the projectile, whose gaze moved away from their destroyed bodies to the next victim without a trace of emotion.
The fight had begun… all across the stages… no one wanted to become the next victim of the system, fear tightening their throats and sharpening their instincts.
Irrespective of the bonds they had forged or their relation, they engaged each other in a gruesome battle, hesitation crushed beneath the desperate need to survive.
A battle that would determine their survival… their existence hanging by a fragile thread.
The tension in the atmosphere, the unfolding curiosity, the turnout of events… all of these created an excitement for the crowd as they shouted in enthusiasm, their voices rising like a storm.
Just this escalation had turned into something joyous for them… they lived for this… spectacular feelings like this, where life and death danced on a blade's edge.
Although there was a barrier surrounding the stage, the barrier was so thin and transparent that it did not obscure the views of the spectators, nor did it block all noises. The echoes of clashes, gunfire, and screams bled through faintly, creating a chaotic symphony.
Socrates and Mr. Jaggers, who were at the highest stage, could clearly hear everything that was happening beneath them—the cries, the impacts, the desperation.
After the announcement, Mr. Jaggers had proposed for Socrates to come attack him…
But Socrates didn't move. He hadn't moved an inch from where he stood, nor had he taken a step forward, his body rooted in place as if bound by invisible chains.
His Antler Daggers lay loosely in his grip as he stood there, lost in thought, his breathing uneven.
'Even if I want to fight… the question is, can I defeat Mr. Jaggers?'
That was another question lingering in his mind, heavy and suffocating. He was not a novice to Mr. Jaggers' prowess—the middle-aged man wasn't just powerful but deeply intellectual, every move calculated.
Socrates had depended mostly on guns throughout the game, and if it wasn't for the energy core he swallowed that had increased his physical quality, he wouldn't even last ten moves against Mr. Jaggers…
Apart from not wanting to fight Mr. Jaggers… he was afraid to fight the middle-aged man…
He was afraid to lose…
And he was also afraid to win…
Losing meant dying… something he couldn't afford, not after everything he had endured.
Winning meant killing his opponent… someone who had saved him from death countless times…
He couldn't live with that thought…
His body shook vigorously as different thoughts flooded his mind, clashing violently, the irregular-shaped daggers trembling in his grip, threatening to slip away at any moment.
"You leave me with no choice but to come at you…" Mr. Jaggers said to him, his tone steady. Instead of waiting for Socrates to charge, he began moving toward him.
His steps were slow and deliberate, each one echoing faintly against the golden surface. His grip on the battle axe tightened, muscles coiling beneath his sleeves, while his gaze never left Socrates' body.
"This is the first strike," Mr. Jaggers called out, raising his right hand before bringing it down straight toward Socrates' head, the tip of the blade descending with deadly precision.
Socrates felt a crushing pressure overwhelm him as the air around him tore apart without resistance, the blade slicing through space without hesitation.
His body reacted instinctively to the pressure. His loosened grip on the Antler Daggers tightened instantly. He raised them above his head, crossing them as he braced for impact, teeth clenched.
CLANG…
The blade of the axe made contact with the crossed daggers, and a violent force burst outward, causing the air to ripple like disturbed water.
Socrates felt his hands go numb as he was forced two steps backward. The axe of Mr. Jaggers pressed down relentlessly, seeking a path through his defense, but he held on, refusing to give in to the overwhelming pressure.
"Not bad, kid," Mr. Jaggers nodded, almost approvingly, as he released his energy. The aura of a Peak Apprentice Realm Cultivator bore down on Socrates like a mountain.
His knees gave in under the crushing force as his entire body was forced downward, trembling uncontrollably as he was driven toward the ground.
Mr. Jaggers exerted more strength into his grip. Socrates' Antler Daggers could no longer hold and slipped from his grasp, giving the axe a smooth, unstoppable motion as it descended toward Socrates' head.
Socrates, who couldn't even move an inch, could only watch as the blade came down toward him, death reflected faintly in his eyes.
But at that last moment, it was as if Mr. Jaggers made a slight miscalculation…
The trajectory of the axe bent ever so slightly, the crushing pressure vanishing instantly, leaving Socrates with a fleeting microsecond to act.
And he moved.
Without hesitation, he twisted his body as the axe scraped past his ear, the sharp edge grazing his skin, before slamming into the right side of his shoulder.
The impact sent him flying backward, his body lifting off the ground before crashing violently into the transparent barrier.
A dull crack echoed as he rebounded off it, before dropping face-flat onto the ground, the golden stage cold beneath him.
The Blue Projectiles eyes flashed at Mr. Jaggers as it seriously analyzed what had just happened..
"What?" Mr. Jaggers asked and the system looked away. Although it suspected something, there was no clear violation of rules..
"Come on boy... Get up and don't disappoint this old man. The battle between us is inevitable.. Show me how much you've grown in just one night.." Mr. Jaggers beckoned as he urged Socrates to rise up but the boy doesn't look like someone who will get up anytime soon.