The adventurer slowly smiled, 'I only have to avoid three strikes'

Jeren smiled seeing the shift in his reaction.

"You see?" Jeren's voice carried clearly over the stunned silence. "The gods themselves want you to succeed. They offer their blessings, their power, their favor. All you need to do is fight. Entertain them. Show them your worth."

The adventurer's hands moved to his weapons, no longer trying to run. His eyes fixed on the Centurion with new determination, new confidence born from divine promises.

Somewhere beyond the mortal realm, in spaces between spaces where gods dwelled, divine voices rang out with anticipation.

"Finally!" a voice boomed—the God Poloneus, leaning forward eagerly. "Look at his stance now. He has the bearing of a true warrior! This one might actually do it!"

"I enhanced his willpower specifically for this," the Goddess Jayne chimed in, her voice bright with hope. "Gave him just enough courage to see past the fear. Come on, mortal—show us what you're capable of!"

"He's got fire in his eyes now," the Goddess Nova observed, slamming a fist on the armrest of his divine throne. "That's what I've been waiting for! Someone with the guts to actually challenge these damned Centurions!"

"It's been seventy-three matches," another voice added—a goddess whose domain was war. "Seventy-three fighters, and not one has managed to defeat even a single Centurion. Jeren's gotten too comfortable. Too confident."

"This one's different though," insisted the God Poloneus "Look at his footwork. He's trained. Experienced. And with our blessings—"

"He might actually land a hit this time!"

"Maybe even survive long enough to trigger Fortune's blessing!"

"If he draws first blood and gets Crimson Rage, the odds shift entirely. The Centurion won't be expecting enhanced attributes."

The gods watched with genuine investment now, not cruel detachment, but actual hope that finally—FINALLY—someone might break Jeren's stranglehold on these tournaments. That someone might prove the Titan of Tournaments wasn't invincible.

They wanted entertainment, yes. But more than that, they wanted to see an underdog win. Wanted to see their blessings mean something. Wanted their wagers to pay off.

Because if the mortals kept losing, if Jeren kept winning, the whole thing became predictable. Boring.

And gods hated being bored.

Jeren smiled behind his mask, seeing the transformation in the adventurer's posture. He'd seen it a thousand times before—that moment when survival instinct gave way to ambition, when fear was replaced by the intoxicating possibility of divine favor.

That was the true power of his tournaments. Not compulsion, though that was useful. But temptation. The promise that anyone, no matter how weak, might gain the attention of gods. Might transcend their mortality through sheer entertainment value.

They always fought in the end. Always.

The adventurer drew his sword, magic crackling around the blade as he channeled power into it. His stance was decent—trained, competent, the product of years surviving in this death game.

The Centurion simply waited, sword held loosely at his side, not even bothering to take a defensive position.

"Come on," the Goddess Jayne whispered in her realm, hands clasped. "Just one good strike. That's all I'm asking."

The adventurer charged.

His sword blazed with blue fire as he closed the distance, fast and precise, aiming for the Centurion's exposed side. A good strike. A killing blow, if it landed.

"YES!" the God Poloneus roared. "That's the approach! Use the speed, don't give him time to—"

The Centurion moved.

Not quickly. Not with any particular urgency. Just... moved.

The adventurer's blade passed through empty air. Before he could recover, before he could even process what had happened, the Centurion's sword was simply there, pressed against his throat.

No flash of movement. No dramatic clash of weapons. Just professional, casual, absolute superiority.

The arena fell silent.

In the divine realm, the excitement died instantly.

"No..." the Goddess Nova breathed, slumping back in her seat. "No, no, no! He was supposed to—I gave him the courage! I enhanced his will!"

"Three seconds," the God Poloneus said flatly, staring at the scene in disbelief. "He lasted three damned seconds. I wagered a thousand coins on him!"

"The Centurion didn't even try," the Jayne growled in frustration. "Didn't even take a proper stance! Just... casually ended it. Like swatting a fly."

"Seventy-four matches now," the goddess DaylithNight said bitterly. "Seventy-four, and not a single victory. Not even a close call."

"Jeren's making fools of us," another god muttered. "Offering these blessings, making us think the mortals have a chance, when he knows—he KNOWS—his Centurions are unbeatable."

"I actually thought this one would do it," the God Nova said quietly, genuine disappointment in her voice. "I really did."

The adventurer stood frozen, blue fire still flickering along his sword, divine promises still floating in translucent screens before his eyes. Three gods had wagered on him. Had offered blessings. Had genuinely believed he might succeed.

The Centurion's blade pressed just slightly harder, and a thin line of blood appeared.

The gods watched in bitter silence as the Centurion's sword moved in a single, efficient arc.

The broadcast showed it all. Every moment. Every drop of blood. Every piece.

Then the screen cut to Jeren, standing exactly where he'd been, that same pleasant smile visible in his bright, calm eyes.

"The tournament begins in three days," he announced. "All players currently converging on the southern district will participate. Those who try to flee will be brought back. Those who refuse to fight will be compelled. But those who embrace the opportunity..." He gestured with his fan toward where the adventurer had fallen. "Well. At least they'll die with hope in their hearts."

The broadcast ended.

The screens went dark.

And in the plaza, surrounded by hundreds of terrified players, Akhil felt the full weight of what was coming settle over them all.

This wasn't a battle they could fight. Wasn't an enemy they could defeat through strength or strategy.

This was entertainment. A show. With fifteen thousand players as unwilling performers and gods as the audience.

And failure meant more than death.

It meant dying for nothing. Dying as a joke. Dying while the gods laughed.

"Three days," Ryan said quietly beside him. "We have three days to figure out how to survive this."

Akhil stared at the dark screen, at the spot where Jeren had stood with such casual confidence.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Three days."

It didn't seem like enough.

It would never be enough.

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