Damien von Crestia's hand, raised in favor of a chance, wasn't an act of mercy.

It was a business decision. Pure and simple.

And in this amphitheater, surrounded by the most powerful predators in the world, a business decision was the only kind of mercy they could have hoped for.

A deep sigh of relief went through Dante's team. Shoulders relaxed slightly. Tension eased just a fraction.

The execution had been stayed. For now.

The game was still on.

The Elf Queen, Elyndra, was the first to speak. Her voice was calm. Musical. Like water flowing over stones. Officially sealing the vote's outcome.

"Then that's settled."

She glided to the edge of her platform. Moved with impossible grace. Her forest-green eyes, full of ancient, amused wisdom that had seen empires rise and fall, fixed on Dante.

"Now we can move to the good part."

She moved toward him. Not by walking. Not by taking steps. She just... was closer. One moment she was on her platform. The next she was before him. A small shift in reality that was a quiet, scary display of her power. A reminder of what she really was.

She stopped right before him. Close enough that he could smell the scent that seemed to cling to her like a cloak. Ancient forests. Starlight. Magic older than kingdoms.

"Let's hear what you want, dear Dante."

He met her gaze. Steady. Unflinching. Refusing to be intimidated even by this ancient being.

The tyrant within him recognized the ancient, powerful force in her. This wasn't a person to mess with lightly. This was something far older and more dangerous than any king or general. But she'd given him an opening. And he would use it. He always used every advantage.

"The bet you proposed," he began. His voice was calm. Steady. Controlled. Holding no trace of the fear his team felt behind him. "I accept the first part. If we lose, we'll accept whatever punishment you all see fit."

He paused. Let them absorb that. Let them think he was being reasonable.

He let his gaze sweep over the gallery of angry, resentful leaders. Meeting their eyes one by one.

"But if we win," he continued, his voice dropping lower, gaining a hard, dangerous edge that made several leaders stiffen, "we decide whatever we want."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"We will be a free, independent power. With no ties to any of you. No obligations. No loyalty. No service."

He looked back at Elyndra.

"That is my term."

"That's insane!"

Lord Rowan of Thalric was on his feet again. His face was a mask of furious disbelief.

"Queen Elyndra, are you really going on with this?" He gestured wildly at Dante. "You would grant this... this child such a prize?"

The Elf Queen didn't even turn to look at him.

"Shut up, Rowan," she said.

Her voice was still soft. But now it was laced with cold, hard authority that made the powerful northern king actually flinch.

"I am talking."

He hissed. A low, angry sound. But he sat back down.

Elyndra turned her calm gaze back to Dante.

"Your terms are... ambitious," she said. A slight smile played at the corner of her lips.

Then she looked back at the gallery. At all the assembled leaders.

"Are you all really so scared?" she asked. Her voice was soft. Mocking. "Are you truly so terrified that we will lose to them?"

Rowan let out a short, barking laugh.

"Scared? Of them? Don't be ridiculous."

He waved a dismissive, armored hand.

"Fine. Whatever they ask, just accept it."

He leaned back. Confident. Smug.

"To be honest, it's never going to happen anyway."

He leaned forward again. A cruel, predatory smile on his face.

"I just forgot. I will be the one to make the rules of this little wager."

"Well, you can," Elyndra replied with a graceful shrug. "So long as the opponents accept your terms."

Rowan's smile widened. Triumphant.

"Then what's the point of the battle if we're the ones who have to accept all their terms?"

"Fine," Dante said. Cutting through their debate. "You can go on. I accept your rules, whatever they may be."

Rowan's eyes lit up. Vicious. Triumphant.

"Boy," he said. His voice was a low, satisfied growl. "You just dug your own grave."

He stepped forward. Taking center stage. Claiming the spotlight. His presence filled the amphitheater. Dominated it.

"The rules will be simple," he began. His voice boomed across the space. Echoing off stone walls. "You are six heroes. We are six kingdoms. It's a perfect match."

"From each of our great nations, we will choose a single champion. A warrior to represent our strength and our honor. The best we have to offer."

"And then, one month from today, in the grand arena of the Silverleaf Academy, we will have our face-off. Our reckoning."

He paused. Letting the weight of his words sink in. Letting them imagine what was coming.

"The Academy grounds are neutral territory. A holy place. Bound by ancient, sacred belief that no person—whether king or commoner—shall be treated differently within its walls."

"There will be no cheating. No outside interference. No tricks or traps."

He looked directly at Dante.

"It will be a fair fight."

"Six versus six sounds good," Dante said. His voice was calm. Analytical. Like he was evaluating a business proposal. "But one month is too far away. And as for the opponents you choose... to be honest, I wanted to fight the heads of state themselves."

"To beat all your asses personally. Face to face."

He tilted his head. Questioning. Almost innocent.

"Why come up with this stupid idea of choosing champions? You can change the rule if you want."

"Or," he let a slow, mocking smile spread across his face, "you can just tell me if you're scared to fight me yourselves."

Rowan's face turned a deep, furious red. Like all the blood in his body rushed to his head.

Hssssss.

He hissed. An actual hiss. A sound of pure, venomous rage. Like a snake about to strike.

It was Elira the Sage who stepped in. Her voice was calm. Placating. Diplomatic.

"Among us, Dante, there are few who are true fighting types."

She gestured to the assembled leaders.

"King Adrian is a ruler, not a duelist. He commands armies. He doesn't fight in single combat. Lord Damien is a merchant, not a warrior. He trades in gold, not steel. And Lord Rowan, for all his... noise, is a king who hasn't seen a real battlefield in decades."

Dante laughed. Short. Sharp. Utterly contemptuous. The sound echoed in the silence.

"I knew it. This old man is completely useless. He just has a mouth to throw big words around. No substance. All talk."

A deep, deafening silence fell over the amphitheater.

Every person froze. Shocked at the blatant disrespect. No one talked to kings like that. No one.

Dante looked over at Masha. She had her hand over her face. Her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Pure, complete exasperation on her face. Like she couldn't believe he'd just said that out loud.

Elira, to her credit, didn't flinch. She simply sighed. The sound of a patient teacher dealing with a particularly difficult, and particularly brilliant, student.

"We will make sure to select our champions carefully," she continued. Her voice was still calm. Professional. "They will be warriors who are on a similar power level to you all."

"We will not send our greatest legends. Our most powerful archmages. We are, after all, giving you a chance to prove yourselves. Not to be executed."

"No, we're not doing that," Rowan snarled. His pride was wounded. Raw.

But King Adrian, for the first time, spoke with firm, royal authority.

"King Rowan," he said. His voice was low. Reasonable. But it carried undeniable weight. "They have just arrived in our world."

"They have no experience with our fighting styles. Our magic. Our skills."

He looked at Rowan directly.

"To send our greatest champions against them would not be a test. It would be a slaughter. Elira is right. It must be a fair fight."

Rowan looked like he was about to argue. But he was now outnumbered. He let out a low, frustrated growl.

"Fine," he spat. "You can send whatever weaklings you want. I won't mind."

His expression darkened.

"But I will choose whatever warrior I want from my kingdom."

He stalked over to Dante. His massive form looming over him. His eyes blazed with cold, personal hatred.

"I want to see you on your knees," he whispered. His voice was a low, poisonous promise. "I want to see you beg for mercy during the fight."

"And do not believe you will have mercy from my side," the Vampire King's cold, silken voice added from his shadowed seat.

"I, too, will send my strongest fighter."

His crimson eyes gleamed.

"I am very interested to see what a hero's blood tastes like."

The threats were real. Tangible. A promise of pain and suffering that went far beyond a simple defeat.

Rowan stepped back to the center of the stage. A cruel, triumphant smile returning to his face.

He had one last rule to add. The final, brutal twist of the knife.

"The format will be six one-versus-one duels," he declared. His voice boomed. "The team that has the most wins at the end will be the victor."

He paused. His eyes locked onto Dante.

"And if the result is a draw—three to three—then you will lose."

He let that sink in.

"You're the ones who made the challenge. You're the ones who claimed you would show us your worth."

"The burden of proof is on you."

He let a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"And one more thing. No fighter can fight again. Which means every one of you will fight once. And only once."

Dante felt a jolt. A sudden shock. A flicker of cold, hard reality piercing through his arrogant confidence like a knife through silk.

'Shit.'

The rule was a masterpiece of strategic cruelty. Brilliantly designed. It made the wager infinitely harder. Changed everything.

He could win his own fight. He was certain of that. Absolutely certain. He was immortal. Unkillable. A god wearing human skin. He had near-infinite mana. Divine blessings. An army of the dead at his command. He had no doubt about his own victory.

But his team...

He looked at them. Really looked at them. Saw them clearly for what they were.

At Erica. His unstable, powerful, but emotionally volatile valkyrie. She had raw power. Incredible destructive force. But her control was shaky. Her emotions ruled her.

At Lana. His chaotic, unpredictable maniac who thrived on chaos and bloodshed. Deadly. Skilled. But too wild. Too reckless. She fought for fun, not victory.

At Masha. His brilliant, powerful, but still inexperienced cryomancer. Smart. Tactical. But she lacked real combat experience. Real battle-hardening.

At Jin and Talia. His brave, loyal, but deeply wounded warriors. They had heart. They had skill. But they were broken inside. Traumatized. Scarred.

Could they win? Could each of them, alone, face a champion chosen from the best warriors of an entire kingdom? Champions who'd trained their whole lives? Who'd fought in real wars?

The path to victory had just become a razor's edge. Impossibly thin. Sharp. Dangerous. One wrong step and they'd all fall into the abyss.

He hadn't just wagered his own life. His own fate.

He'd wagered theirs. All of them.

And now, he had one month. Just one month. Thirty days.

One month to take his broken, traumatized soldiers and forge them into something more. Something stronger. Something worthy of victory.

One month to forge gods from shattered humans.

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