Nibo cleared his throat. "Speaking of fighting like hell—we need to talk about that move you pulled. Letting yourself get eaten to attack from inside."

"What about it?"

"Don't ever do it again," Nibo said flatly. "That was insane. Reckless. And if it had gone wrong—"

"But it didn't," Akhil interrupted. "It worked. We got the core."

"This time," Nibo emphasized. "Next time you might not be so lucky. Next creature might have stronger stomach acids. Or multiple stomachs. Or internal defenses you didn't account for."

"He's right," Seth added. "That was way too risky."

Akhil wanted to argue, but he couldn't. They were right. It had been reckless. Desperate. The kind of move you made when you were out of options and running on instinct.

"I'll try to avoid getting eaten in the future," he said finally.

"Try very hard," Nibo insisted.

"Very, very hard," Seth emphasized.

"Noted," Akhil agreed with a small smile.

They continued walking, the settlement growing closer with each step. Akhil could already see the glow of forge fires in the distance, hear the faint ring of hammers on anvils. The dwarves were working around the clock, crafting weapons as fast as cores arrived.

His hand unconsciously moved to where his blade usually hung. Empty now—the weapon he'd been using were all blood weapons and was broken during the fight with the Serpent, snapped in half by the creature's thrashing.

He'd need a new one. A real one. Something that wouldn't break. Something worthy of the challenges ahead.

But what?

The question followed him all the way back to the settlement, unanswered but persistent.

Three days to prepare. Two days now, really, with most of the first one gone.

Two days to arm an army, train fighters, and somehow get ready to face a Titan and his ten legendary commanders in a tournament designed to entertain gods.

Two days to choose a weapon that might mean the difference between life and death.

'No pressure,' Akhil thought wryly as the settlement gates came into view.

No pressure at all.

For now, they needed to rest.

*****

Akhil's eyes opened before dawn, staring at the ceiling of the small room he'd been given in one of the settlement's restored buildings. He hadn't really slept—not properly. His mind had been too active, turning over possibilities, weighing options, imagining scenarios.

What weapon fit him best?

The question had chased him through the night, refusing to let him rest. He'd considered everything. Swords. Spears. Daggers. Axes. Even more exotic options like whips or chains or war hammers.

Each had merits. Each had drawbacks. Each represented a different path, a different style of fighting.

But somewhere around the third hour of darkness, as the settlement slept and the forges continued their tireless work, something had clicked.

Not a sudden revelation. More like pieces finally settling into place. A sense of rightness that came from deep instinct rather than logical analysis.

He knew what weapon he wanted.

It was unconventional. Possibly impractical. The blacksmiths might not even be able to forge it properly. But the more he thought about it, the more certain he became.

This was right. This was him.

Akhil sat up, the weight of time pressing down on him. One day left. Just one day until the tournament began, until Jeren's compulsion would activate, until fifteen thousand players would be forced into arenas to fight and die for the gods' entertainment.

One day to make this choice count.

He rose from the bed, dressed quickly in the new clothes that had been provided—simple but functional, replacing the acid-dissolved rags from yesterday. The Serpent's core sat on the small table beside his bed, still wrapped in cloth, pulsing with that internal light.

He picked it up carefully, feeling the weight of potential in his hands.

Time to see if his instinct was correct.

---

The dwarven forges were already in full operation despite the early hour. Hammers rang against anvils in rhythmic percussion, creating a symphony of creation that echoed through the settlement. Sparks flew like fireflies, and the heat was almost overwhelming even from outside the main building.

The pace had intensified. Everyone knew they were running out of time. Smiths worked in overlapping shifts, barely stopping to eat or rest. The air was thick with urgency and the sharp smell of hot metal and coal.

Akhil entered, immediately hit by a wave of warmth and the controlled chaos of desperate crafting. Dozens of weapons lined the walls—finished pieces waiting to be claimed. Swords, spears, axes, shields—an arsenal being born from two days of frantic hunting.

But there was still so much to do. So many fighters still needing equipment.

The chief blacksmith—a grizzled dwarf with a beard so long it was tucked into his belt and arms like tree trunks—looked up from supervising three forges simultaneously. His eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep but still sharp, immediately found Akhil.

"You," he grunted, wiping soot from his face. "Heard you brought in something special. Please tell me you're not here to waste my time with indecision."

"I know what I want," Akhil said firmly.

The dwarf's expression shifted to relief. "Thank the gods. Come on then, let's see this famous core."

Akhil approached, unwrapping the Serpent's core. The light it cast made several nearby smiths pause in their work to stare, despite having seen countless cores over the past two days.

The chief blacksmith whistled low. "Level 40 advanced beast. Still the highest grade anyone's brought in." He looked up sharply. "You're certain you want to use this now? One day left means whatever I forge has to be perfect on the first try. No time for adjustments or refinements."

"I'm certain."

"Then what'll it be?"

Akhil took a breath. "I know what I want."

"Good. Tell me quickly. Every minute counts."

Akhil took a long deep breath, he wasn't sure if he was going to give the best description, but he would do the much he could to the best of his abilities.

"So the weapon is...."

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