Pangil sprinted forward.
Low to the ground, daggers tucked tight along his arms, his movement snapped forward like something unchained—clean, sharp, eager. There was no hesitation in it.
He never hesitates.
In a blink—
He was already there.
Too close. Too fast.
Zealth, still seated, didn't panic.
The dagger came first—straight, precise, aimed for the gap beneath his collar.
Zealth didn't stand.
He just raised his arm.
Clack.
Steel met the small buckler strapped to his forearm. The impact rang short and tight, just enough to redirect the strike off-center. Pangil's wrist twisted to recover—
—but Zealth moved before him.
The sheathed sword whipped upward.
A horizontal swing—fast, blunt, unforgiving.
Pangil grinned mid-motion.
"Nice."
He kicked off the ground and leaned back, body arching just enough for the scabbard to pass inches from his chest. His boots barely touched the grass before he pushed off again, retreating in a smooth backward leap.
Zealth stood.
Not rushed.
Not overly dramatic.
Just… up.
And already moving.
He planted his foot against the rock he'd been sitting on and drove forward, using it as leverage. The ground blurred beneath him as he thrust the scabbard straight toward Pangil's landing point.
Not where Pangil was—
But where he would be.
Pangil's eyes flickered.
Clang.
A shield cut in.
The legion stepped in with perfect timing, bracing just as the tip of Zealth's scabbard struck. The impact rang heavy, vibrating up Zealth's arm.
Zealth's gaze shifted briefly.
…Not bad for a Legion.
But not enough.
No wasted motion.
No delay.
From above—
A spear dropped.
Fast. Direct. No warning.
Zealth tilted his head just enough to track it, his buckler snapping upward—
Tak!
The spear glanced off, redirected by a sharp angle rather than force. Zealth's wrist rolled with it, guiding the shaft aside as he stepped in instead of away.
His sword dipped.
Then drove down.
The scabbard struck the ground—not to attack—but to anchor.
His free hand shot out, catching the spear's shaft mid-slide.
"Got you—"
He pulled.
Hard.
The legion stumbled forward, balance broken.
Zealth's leg lifted, knee bending—
A clean kick, aimed straight for the man's head—
Crack.
A shot rang out.
Not loud. Not explosive.
Sharp. Precise.
Zealth's foot jerked mid-motion.
"—damn it."
The kick missed.
His grip loosened just enough for the spearman to wrench the weapon free and retreat.
Zealth dropped back a step.
No blood.
Just a small black mark blooming on his boot, faint smoke curling upward like a glitch trying to breathe.
No pain.
Just… dullness.
Annoying.
His eyes flicked sideways.
The cloaked man stood at a distance, arm with revolver still extended from the shot. Crimson fabric draped over him, barely moving despite the breeze. His face remained hidden, but his posture said enough.
Patiently watching.
Waiting for the exact moment to interfere.
"Timing's clean," Zealth muttered under his breath.
The ground shifted beneath him.
Subtle.
Then not.
Vines burst upward, curling around his ankles, tightening with unnatural speed.
"Tch."
He swung.
The sheathed blade carved through the bindings—not slicing clean, but breaking their structure just enough to slip free. He stepped back, boots scraping against loosened soil as the vines recoiled.
The druid exhaled in mild irritation.
"Almost," he murmured, adjusting his grip on the staff. His tone wasn't frustrated—just analytical. "Next cast will hold."
Pangil clicked his tongue.
"Still restraining yourself, huh?"
He walked—not rushed, not tense—just circling to the side like this was a conversation, not a fight. His dagger tapped lightly against his shoulder, rhythm careless, eyes sharp.
"Are you looking down on us?"
Zealth didn't answer.
His gaze flickered upward.
The panel.
51
Then—
50
49
His brows pulled together.
Viewers dropped faster than he expected.
This is worse than last week.
His grip tightened.
I need to fix this.
"Hey!"
Pangil's voice cut through, sharper now.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you."
Zealth exhaled through his nose, then glanced over—not fully, just enough.
"Why?" he asked, tone flat but not hostile. "Why me?"
He shifted his stance slightly, adjusting his footing while keeping the scabbard angled forward.
"If you want fights that bad, go to the Tower of Power."
Pangil froze.
For half a second.
Then—
He laughed.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
But full.
Genuine.
"Tower of Power?" he repeated, dragging the words like they tasted bad. "That place?"
He spun a dagger in his hand lazily.
"That place was too boring. No consequences. Little reward."
He stepped forward again, slower, deliberate.
"Those players...are just a bunch of losers pretending their wins mean something."
His grin widened.
"Boasting their ranks as if it was the whole world."
A small tilt of his head.
"Out here?"
He gestured around them—the open field, the distance, the unseen dangers layered beneath calm scenery.
"Everything matters."
His tone shifted—not louder, but heavier.
"The fear of losing…
The rush when winning…
The fight where you actually have something on the line."
He pointed a dagger toward Zealth.
"This is where the game breathes."
A pause.
Then quieter—
"And you…"
His voice dipped.
"I hate you."
Zealth blinked once.
"I didn't do anything to you," he replied. Flat. Direct.
Pangil broke into laughter—louder now, sharper.
"Exactly," he said, stepping closer. "You clueless fool,"
Closer.
Not attacking.
Not yet.
"That's why I hate you."
His daggers lowered slightly—not relaxed, but ready.
"I want a real fight," Pangil continued, voice tightening with something raw beneath the arrogance. "And you—"
He pointed at Zealth.
"—you never take us seriously."
A step closer.
"Fight like a man when you face one."
Zealth said nothing.
Didn't argue. Didn't agree.
But his stance changed. Subtle.
The scabbard angled forward. Sword hasn't been drawn yet.
His footing settled.
His gaze sharpened as he started to be annoyed.
Behind Pangil, the others adjusted without a word.
Legion raised his shield, aligned with his spear.
Druid's staff lifted, greenish glow at the tip as he muttered something.
Gunslinger's revolver lowered. Waiting. Patiently.
They move as one without anyone talking.
Pangil's grin stretched wider.
"Those stares, I like that…"
His shoulders dipped.
"…I'll make you draw your sword next."
And this time—
When he lunged—
They all moved with him.