Chapter 92: Underground Battle Frontier

One after another, the six strongest combatants still standing abandoned their separate skirmishes and turned toward the center chalk-ring:

A fast swordsman, a long-reach spearman, two battle-mages, a plated mercenary, and the top-ranked arena veteran who had cleared the northern wall.

Moving in unison, the six of them closed a loose ring around Kōya’s boots.

The scarred veteran rolled his shoulders, leveling his notched blade. "Looks like the rest of the class caught on."

Kōya held the Hero Sword at a low guard. "Caught on to what?"

"That if we don’t clear you together, nobody else walks out with a pass."

Behind the front line, both battle-mages planted their staves and began chanting in rapid, overlapping cadences.

Kōya glanced once at the blood-streaked sand between their boots. Showing his full hand in front of four hundred witnesses was out of the question, yet letting six seasoned killers coordinate a crossfire was a quick way to get pinned.

The left-hand mage fired a roaring bolt of flame.

Kōya blurred off the center line as the blast scorched the sand behind his heel. The spearman lunged for his throat from the left while the fast swordsman slashed at his ribs from the right; Kōya parried the spear shaft thirty degrees across his body, twisting his torso between the weapons so the two attackers’ blades fouled each other in a shower of sparks.

From his blind side, the plated mercenary charged like a bull with his shield raised. Kōya caught the iron boss on his flat and slid six feet backward across the grit—right as the second mage detonated an explosive rune beneath his heels.

Kōya kicked off the stone and launched himself eight feet into the air above the smoke.

Below him, the scarred arena veteran was already waiting on the exact flagstone where Kōya’s arc had to come down, his heavy longsword cocked at his hip for an upward impalement.

*Good read,* Kōya thought at the peak of his jump. *Wrong landing spot.*

Snapping his core muscles in midair, Kōya kicked the flat of his boot off the rising shaft of the spearman’s weapon below him, redirecting his downward momentum three feet to the left to drop silently behind the veteran’s shoulder.

One controlled strike of the Hero Sword’s spine sent the veteran’s sword spinning across the sand; a crisp side-kick rolled the man clear into the grit. Before the spearman could retract his shaft, Kōya caught the wood in his left hand, yanked the fighter forward off his heels, and dropped him with a pommel strike to the breastplate.

Twenty-five feet away, the first mage fumbled his grip in panic while the second mage poured every ounce of his mana into a massive, unstable sphere of fire at the tip of his staff.

Kōya didn’t have three seconds to spare.

His scarred left hand tightened around the leather hilt, waking a thin current of pale Heroic Power along his forearm; simultaneously, his right side answered with a dense, heavy pull of dark Demonic Mana. Two separate rivers, kept strictly divided across his spine so neither current touched the other, poured straight down into his calves.

Kōya crossed the twenty-five feet in a single silent blur.

Strike one shattered the glowing staff out of the first mage’s grip. Strike two dropped the second mage to his knees with a tap to the collarbone. Strike three caught the plated mercenary across the helmet visor as he turned, laying him flat in the sand.

Three movements. Three bodies down.

Across the vast subterranean quarry, not a single spectator made a sound.

In the center of the circle, only the top arena veteran remained on his feet, having scooped up a fallen broadsword from the sand. He looked slowly at the five unconscious men sprawled around Kōya’s boots, then raised his eyes to Kōya’s calm face.

"You aren’t human-standard, kid," the veteran said quietly.

Kōya lowered his blade an inch. "Probably not."

The veteran let out a short, breathless laugh and raised his recovered sword. "At least you don’t lie about it."

He lunged across the sand with everything left in his lungs.

Steel met steel in a blurring web of sparks. Unlike the brawlers earlier, the veteran wasted zero energy: his elbows stayed tight, his footwork glided over the torn flags without catching, and every low cut flowed seamlessly into a high feint or a throat counter. Hundreds of lethal bouts lived in his wrists, and Kōya gave that experience the respect of clean steel.

Low slash—blocked. High bind—turned. Pommel feint—slipped by half an inch.

For twelve rapid exchanges, the only sounds in the cavern were the rhythmic clack-clang-clack of their two blades and the scrape of leather soles on stone. A whistling riposte from the veteran sliced a shallow two-inch cut through Kōya’s coat sleeve; Kōya’s returning edge drew a thin red line across the veteran’s leather pauldron.

Sweat stinging his eyes, the veteran gritted his teeth in the bind. "You’re still matching my pace."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I don’t need the rest to win this."

The veteran’s scarred mouth split into a fierce grin. "Then show me one stroke of the real thing before the glass runs out."

Kōya inclined his head.

His right boot shifted forward two inches as a single pulse of internal pressure surged through his shoulders.

The veteran barely got his broadsword raised across his chest before Kōya’s downward cut arrived. Steel struck steel with the force of a falling boulder, buckling both of the veteran’s knees straight into the sand. A quick turn of Kōya’s wrist sent the broadsword flying ten feet away, and the third movement stopped the razor edge of the Hero Sword one millimeter from the veteran’s throat.

Silence held the bowl for two heartbeats.

Then the final bell clanged from the rostrum.

The gold-coated announcer stood slowly behind the parapet, staring down at the twenty-three fallen fighters littering the broken limestone for a full second before finding his voice.

"The grand qualification is complete!"

Four hundred throats exploded at once, the roar hammering down from the balconies as wagers flew across the tables.

Kōya lowered his blade from the veteran’s neck, sheathed the Hero Sword with a quiet click, and walked across the debris of broken shafts and cracked stone toward the rising iron portcullis.

The moment Kōya stepped into the torchlit staging corridor, Lyra hurried up to his side, her dark eyes wide.

"You terrified every person on those balconies," she said, scanning his sliced sleeve.

"I saw."

"Including me."

Kōya looked down at her pale face. "Sorry."

She blinked up at him, her shoulders dropping an inch. "You’re getting very fast with that word."

"What did you pick up from the crowd?" Kōya asked.

Lyra’s expression turned dead serious. She pointed a finger toward the upper tiers and leaned in close so passing guards wouldn’t catch her voice. "More than yesterday. The Mega Slave Auction is built in strict layers."

"Go on."

"The main public floor is just the outer shell," she murmured. "Wealthy syndicate merchants have private viewing rooms on the second level. The high noble houses hold reserved chambers above them. The Demon representatives use their own warded access tunnels." She swallowed hard. "And the Demon Peers sit in a high ring above everyone else."

Kōya’s eyes narrowed. "So tonight’s pass gets us into the restricted middle circle."

"Yes. Close enough to see the boxes, though not the top ring itself."

Down the stone passage, Varen detached himself from the shadow of the VIP archway and walked toward them, clapping his gloved hands once before holding out a heavy octagonal metal token.

"You passed the audit," Varen said.

Kōya took the cold iron disc, turning it over to inspect the arcane crest stamped on the front and the serial numbers etched into the back. "What is this?"

"Proof of qualification. Present that at the restricted auction colonnade, and the guards open the inner gate."

Kōya closed his fingers over the etched numbers and looked up at Varen. "And if I want higher access once I’m inside?"

Varen’s sharp smile returned. "Then survive long enough in that room to earn an invitation."

He turned on his heel and walked back into the shadows of the taproom.

Lyra looked down at the black iron octagon resting in Kōya’s scarred palm. "We’re actually walking into that hall."

Kōya slipped the token into his coat pocket. "Yes."

Looking toward the spiral stone staircase leading back to the street, he checked the dried blood on his cuff and their light supply pouch.

"The doors open in two days," Kōya said.

Lyra nodded beside him. "And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we buy medicine and fresh gear."

She stared up at him across the torchlit tunnel. "That’s your grand strategic plan?"

"It’s the practical one."

"You just fought twenty-three killers to a standstill in a blood pit."

"Which is why we need bandages."

A bright laugh escaped her throat, echoing off the damp limestone walls as they started up the steps. "Fair enough."

High above the empty sand of the main octagon, at the far end of the third-tier VIP balcony, a tall man in tailored court silk stood with both hands resting on the stone balustrade.

Throughout the twelve-minute melee below, he hadn’t spared a glance for the screaming gamblers, the heavy sacks of gold on the side table, or the seven-foot beastman. From the opening bell to the three-second blitz that had dropped the mages, his dark eyes had tracked Kōya alone.

"Interesting," the man murmured, his thumb tracing the engraved seal ring on his left hand.

Half a step behind his elbow, a liveried attendant bowed his head. "Shall I have our men investigate his lodgings tonight, my lord?"

"Wait," the nobleman said, watching the dark coat and the blue dress vanish into the stairwell shaft below. "He holds an inner-ring pass now. Let him walk through the front doors of the auction hall."

His thin smile faded as he turned away from the rail. "Everyone who matters in Slane will already be waiting in that room."