Ready for what? The answer seemed obvious.

'The Centurions. The real challenges. We're being groomed to face the ten commanders, to put on spectacular shows when we finally meet them.'

It was systematic. Calculated. Start with manageable opponents to weed out the weakest. Give survivors time to grow, to adapt, to become worthy challenges. Then throw them against legendary warriors and watch the resulting carnage.

The thought was terrifying for multiple reasons. If this was just preparation, just the warm-up rounds to make them strong enough to face the real threats...

'How powerful are the Ten Centurions? How would I fare against one right now?'

The question sent cold dread through his stomach. He'd fought Titans before—Langdon, the Blood Monarch wearing his own body. Those battles had pushed him to his absolute limits, nearly killed him multiple times.

And the Centurions were supposedly stronger. More skilled. Undefeated across seventy-four tournaments.

'I'm not ready,' Akhil acknowledged with brutal honesty. 'Not yet. Maybe not ever.'

But there was a flip side to this realization. If every battle made participants stronger, then the tournament was also an opportunity. A chance to grow, to push past normal limits, to achieve power that would normally take years of training.

'We're gauging our own strength with every fight,' he thought. 'Learning what we're capable of. Finding our limits and then breaking through them.'

It was a cruel teacher, this tournament. But effective.

The five-minute break elapsed faster than anyone wanted. Jeren's voice rang out again, cutting through whatever small comfort fighters had managed to find.

"Time's up! I hope you've all recovered sufficiently, because..." His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Round two is about to begin!"

The reaction was immediate. Those critically injured participants—the ones who'd received no healing, no gifts, who were still bleeding and broken—looked at each other with pure terror.

They knew what was coming. Knew they couldn't survive another fight in their condition.

Some tried to run.

"There's no way I can continue like this!" one man screamed, stumbling toward the edge of his platform. "It's not fair! I can't—"

He stepped outside his designated circle.

For one heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then pressure descended—not gradually, but all at once, like the weight of a mountain concentrated into a single point. The man's eyes went wide, mouth opening in a scream that never came.

His body simply... collapsed.

Crushed. Pulverized. Turned into meat paste in an instant, blood and viscera exploding outward in a grotesque spray that painted the arena floor.

Several other fighters who'd been moving toward their platform edges froze mid-step, horror etched into their faces.

Jeren let out an exaggerated sigh of disappointment, as if dealing with misbehaving children rather than witnessing a gruesome death.

"I suppose I should have mentioned this earlier—my apologies for the oversight." His tone carried absolutely no genuine remorse, even a subtle flash of annoyance could be seen in his eyes.

"Stepping outside your designated platform means instant death. You see, the gods are gathered here, watching from their divine realm. Their presence permeates this arena, and puny mortal bodies like yours simply can't withstand exposure to such power."

He gestured casually at the pulverized remains.

"The platforms protect you. Keep you stable, maintain your existence despite the overwhelming divine attention focused on this space. But step outside that protection?" He smiled coldly behind his mask. "Well. You've seen the result. So be good children and stay inside your boxes, won't you?"

Akhil felt his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached. On the screen beside him, Aria made a sound of disgust. Seth cursed under his breath. Nyla's ice abilities were unconsciously activating, frost forming in the air around her from sheer anger.

"This makes things even worse," Akhil said quietly, though his voice carried to those nearby. "The platforms are cages. No escape. No running. No option except to fight or die."

It was psychological torture as much as physical. Those injured fighters who knew they couldn't win their next match—they had to stand there anyway. Had to face their opponents. Had to die slowly, piece by piece, rather than taking the quick death of stepping outside.

The other participants—those doing well, those with a chance—could only look at the injured with pity. Several wanted to help, you could see it in their expressions. But what could they do? Leave their own platforms and die? Somehow transfer healing they didn't have?

Seth's face had hardened into something cold and determined. Ryan's expression remained calm, but his fists clenched slightly—the only sign of emotion he'd shown.

They understood. Everyone understood.

No mercy. No escape. No help coming.

Just fight, survive, and pray you were strong enough.

Shadows began gathering on the platforms again. But this time, what emerged made several fighters take involuntary steps backward.

These weren't human ninjas. Weren't humanoid at all.

From the darkness rose abyssal creatures—monsters pulled from nightmare, covered in chitinous armor or dripping with toxic ichor, sporting too many limbs or mouths in wrong places or eyes that burned with malevolent intelligence.

The sight of them sent primal terror through even the bravest fighters. These weren't opponents you could reason with, couldn't predict, couldn't rely on human combat patterns to counter.

These were beasts. Predators. Killers shaped by whatever dark realm Jeren had pulled them from.

And just like before, the difficulty seemed tailored to each participant's performance.

Those who'd struggled in round one faced creatures only slightly stronger than their previous opponents—still deadly, but possibly manageable.

Those who'd done moderately well faced significantly stronger beasts—creatures with more dangerous abilities, tougher hides, faster reflexes.

And Seth and Ryan...

Seth's opponent materialized as a massive scorpion-like creature, easily fifteen feet long, with a stinger dripping venom that sizzled when it hit stone. Its pincers looked large enough to snap a man in half, and its many legs allowed for frightening mobility.

Ryan faced something even worse—a hulking abomination that looked like someone had combined a bear, a gorilla, and something from the deepest ocean. It stood on two legs but moved on four when needed, muscles rippling under thick hide, claws like daggers, and a roar that shook the arena when it spotted its prey.

The divine chat exploded with activity:

[God Poloneus: Now THIS is entertainment!]

[Goddess Nova: Those creatures... magnificent specimens]

[Unknown: Can they even survive these?]

[DaylithNight: The difficulty scaling is insane! Those two are being punished for doing too well!]

[Vaydrix : Or rewarded. True warriors need true challenges.]

[Goddess Jayne: I'm betting on the boxer! He's got that look in his eyes!]

Jeren surveyed the arena, taking in the fear, the desperation, the grim determination on various faces. His smile was visible even behind his mask—pure satisfaction at a show about to exceed expectations.

"BEGIN!"

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