'Why? Why am I still alive?' Socrates asked himself while he lay on the ground, his body pressed against the cold, unyielding golden surface of the stage.
'I could feel it already—death gnawing on me. I was about to embrace it… I had no other option than to embrace it, but then I managed to survive.' His breathing was uneven, shallow, as he listened to the faint hum of the arena… then he heard Mr. Jaggers' voice.
'What's this old man saying? I nearly died by your blade…' Socrates' heart churned violently as the memory of Mr. Jaggers almost killing him remained fresh in his mind, vivid and terrifying.
'But I didn't die… Was it that my ability made me escape death at that last moment or….'
'It wasn't my ability at all… It was Mr. Jaggers… He's the reason why I'm still alive…'
'What does he want? Why hasn't he killed me already and gotten over it?' Socrates lay there, unmoving, waiting for his death… which never came.
'Should I get up? Should I face him?'
Before, it was emotional weight that prevented Socrates from fighting Mr. Jaggers… now, it was pure fear. With the level of strength Mr. Jaggers had revealed… if Socrates hadn't been wearing the mechanical suit that absorbed most of the impact, the red-haired teenager might have lost an arm by now.
Just that thought—just that realization—sent a chilling wave through his entire body, turning his blood cold as he refused to get up.
"If you don't get up, Boy… I'm going to drop my weapon." Socrates heard Mr. Jaggers announce, his voice calm yet carrying across the stage, and his eyes widened in shock.
'Why? Why does he want me to fight him? Why can't he just kill me?'
'Why is he going to drop his weapon? Surrendering means death—not just for him, but for both of us… The Blue Projectile… the system… it's going to kill us both if he drops his weapons.'
'If the Blue Projectile is going to destroy us both without us achieving anything, then what about our perilous journey last night… our bloody night of survival in Bermutha Island… all of that—our losses and gains… will they all just be for nothing? No… it can't be…'
Slowly, Socrates rose to his feet, his muscles protesting, as a new conviction enveloped his mind like a rising flame.
'I'll fight… I'll give my best…' Socrates clenched his fists tightly as he straightened his back, his breathing stabilizing.
"Since Senior wants a fight… this Junior will surely comply." Socrates announced with a slight bow, a defiant look flashing across his face, igniting a faint smile on Mr. Jaggers' lips.
The middle-aged man gripped both axes tightly and pointed the right one at Socrates. "That took you long enough, boy…"
"Sorry for the delay."
Socrates replied as he dashed forward at a blinding speed that seemed to slice through the air itself. He no longer restrained himself—there was no hesitation left in his movements as he rushed at Mr. Jaggers without any weapon in hand.
The middle-aged man didn't buy that for a second. He raised both hands, axes ready, preparing to counterattack. He was fully aware of what Socrates' mechanical suit could achieve, and so he braced himself for impact, muscles tightening.
Socrates stretched his hands forward, opening them wide apart, when the mechanical gloves on his hands reacted—pulling the Antler Daggers from the ground with a magnetic force back into his grip.
The moment Socrates regained hold of the daggers, he leapt high into the air, his body twisting fluidly as he spun, launching a vertical aerial slash downward.
Mr. Jaggers had to take several steps back in rapid succession, his boots scraping sharply against the golden surface as he dodged the descending strike. The force of Socrates' aerial slash tore through the air, leaving a faint distortion in its wake.
Socrates landed right in front of him, knees bending slightly to absorb the impact, before striking out instantly with both daggers, his movements sharp and relentless.
Mr. Jaggers blocked the two daggers with one of his axes, the clash ringing out like steel thunder, and counterattacked with the other—a horizontal slash aimed directly at Socrates' stomach. The blade cut through the air with deadly precision… but it met nothing.
Socrates was no longer there.
He had already moved, his figure blurring as he vanished from the front and reappeared behind Mr. Jaggers, his speed kicking up faint gusts that rippled across the stage.
ANTLER PINCER!
Socrates launched a straight pincer attack with both daggers toward Mr. Jaggers' back, the twin blades converging with lethal intent.
At that exact moment, the middle-aged man released all his energy. Green, swirling waves erupted around him, coiling like a living storm as they wrapped tightly across his body, hardening his defense.
The daggers struck.
They pierced into his back—but only shallowly. The reinforced energy coating his body resisted the full penetration, the blades grinding against an invisible barrier of force.
Mr. Jaggers turned instantly, his movement explosive, forcing Socrates to retreat backward without hesitation, his feet sliding across the surface.
"Relying on your speed… that's a good trait…" Mr. Jaggers chuckled, but his eyes were sharp, calculating, as he surged forward.
Socrates didn't retreat further—he charged back in. His body screamed violently in protest, every muscle strained from previous impacts, but his mind remained unnaturally clear, focused only on the fight ahead.
The duo collided at the center of the stage.
Axe met daggers.
The impact released a violent shockwave, sending ripples tearing through the air, distorting the space around them as metallic clashes echoed repeatedly—fast, sharp, unforgiving.
Unlike before, where Socrates couldn't face Mr. Jaggers' pressure head-on… this time, even though his body threatened to give in, he held firm. His arms trembled, veins bulging under strain, but his stance did not break.
With immense effort, he deflected the axes to the side, redirecting the force, and immediately pushed forward with his daggers in a piercing motion aimed at Mr. Jaggers' chest.
Mr. Jaggers bent his upper body backward with precise control, narrowly dodging the strike as the daggers sliced past him by mere inches.
They both reset their footing almost instantly.
Mr. Jaggers slashed forward again, faster this time—but Socrates twisted his body and dodged, countering immediately with his own strike.
CLANG!
Mr. Jaggers deflected it cleanly and, with overwhelming strength, swung his axe again—this time striking one of Socrates' daggers directly.
The force was brutal.
One of the daggers was knocked clean out of Socrates' hand, spinning violently through the air before clattering onto the stage.
Socrates' expression didn't falter. He had expected this. The sheer weight and power behind the axes were too much for the lighter daggers to withstand repeatedly.
He had no time to think.
Another strike was already descending.
He raised his remaining dagger to block—
CLANG!
Green energy sparks burst outward upon impact, scattering like embers. The force compressed violently between them as Mr. Jaggers pressed forward, his aura flaring with intensity, bearing down like a crushing wave.
The pressure escalated—
Then it broke.
The axe tore straight through the blade of the dagger, shattering it instantly. The metal split apart, fragments scattering across the stage, clinking as they hit the surface.
The axe did not stop.
It continued its momentum, slamming directly into Socrates' chest.
BOOM!
The impact sent him flying backward once more, his body lifted violently into the air before crashing hard against the transparent barrier. The glass-like surface trembled on impact before rebounding him forward.
He hit the ground heavily.
Cough! Cough!
Blood spilled from his mouth as he lay there—but unlike before, he did not remain down.
He forced himself up immediately, staggering for only a fraction of a second before stabilizing, both fists clenched tightly, his knuckles whitening, his entire body trembling—not from fear this time, but from sheer will.
"Yes… that's it, Boy… show me you've what it takes to be a True Gladiator… A true gladiator never hesitates."
Without hesitation, Socrates dashed forward toward Mr. Jaggers. He had no weapon, no defense left—but his resolve burned brighter than ever, sharper than any blade.