Thalos materialized in midair.
His boots hit rough stone, knees bending instinctively as he took in the world around him. A ruined city stretched in every direction—crumbling towers, shattered cathedrals, alleyways choked with broken cobblestone and creeping blackvine.
Duskhaven's legacy twisted by arcane decay.
The sky above was dusk, perpetual and heavy, casting long shadows through broken stained glass and collapsed archways. Far in the distance, he heard the groan of ancient timber and the clatter of bone on stone.
The battlefield has been chosen.
Ten competitors. Three days. No rules beyond survival.
Thalos kept his breath low and steady. This wasn't a game simulation anymore—no respawns, no hand-holding tutorials. Every mistake bled. Every decision mattered.
Just as he took his first steps, a soft pulse echoed through his body—a gentle warmth rolling through muscle and marrow.
System Update: Trait Synchronization Complete
Innate Traits Activated
He paused, letting it wash over him. No flashy lights. No buff icons. Just a feeling—like his body had finally remembered how it was supposed to move.
His mind processed it with quiet calm:
Human Lineage Traits:
Adaptive Soul – Gain +1 to all attributes per level.
Quick Learner – +10% experience gain from all sources.
Vampire Traits:
Blood Resonance – Heal when drinking blood. Temporarily boosts physical stats.
Nocturne Blade – Increased combat and perception in dark environments. Decreased effectiveness in bright or daylight settings.
All passive. All subtle.
But undeniably real.
His vision adjusted further into shadow. He could now read the city not just by sight, but by instinct—where the threats lingered, where shadows pooled unnaturally, where old magic still whispered. His muscles didn't feel stronger, exactly—but more efficient. Tension unwound. Footwork flowed.
This wasn't power in the form of fireballs or lightning bolts.
It was clarity.
Alright, he thought. Let's survive.
Thalos moved through the outskirts first, ducking between collapsed balconies and broken stairwells. No sign of the others yet—but he knew they were somewhere in the ruins, stalking, watching, waiting.
He wouldn't make the first move.
His plan was simple: build up his stamina, eliminate weaker threats, observe rival movements, and conserve blood energy.
Noise echoed down the alley—a slow, scraping shuffle.
He ducked low behind a fountain overgrown with moss and watched as a skeletal figure limped into view. Its body was patchwork—scraps of leather armor fused with rot and bone. Empty sockets glowed with dull red light.
Undead. Tier one, maybe two.
He didn't hesitate.
Thalos sprang from his cover and closed the distance in two swift steps. His blade flashed in a tight arc—efficient, practiced. The creature barely turned before its spine was split and its bones scattered like brittle wood.
He didn't celebrate.
Instead, he crouched beside the remains, watching for a second wave, and used the pause to scan the surrounding buildings. Nothing stirred—yet.
He moved on.
By midday, he'd cleared a chapel, two collapsed guard posts, and half a market square—six undead put down with clean strikes and a carefully managed pulse of blood empowerment. No overexertion. No flashy finishes.
He'd found a leather pouch of blood-preserved jerky and a small vial of thickened blood sealed in crystal—a minor restorative. Enough to keep going, for now.
He climbed to a second-floor balcony to rest, taking a few slow breaths. His body was steady, but the air hung heavy with tension.
Still no sign of the other candidates.
Too quiet.
He took stock of his condition.
Status Check:
Vitality: Normal
Blood Core: Stable
Fatigue: Low
Mental State: Alert
Missions: Ongoing
That was all the system offered.
No scoreboard. No kill count. No warning if someone was coming for his throat.
Exactly how it should be.
Near dusk, the city changed.
Roars echoed from the deep—the low guttural bellow of something big. Thalos froze on instinct, crouched behind the arch of a ruined bell tower.
The sound stirred something primal.
A beast, not undead. Likely summoned into the city for the trial. Possibly tracking scent or movement. Definitely bad news.
Thalos changed direction, keeping to tighter corridors and narrow choke points where large foes couldn't follow. That's when he heard it—footsteps, soft but precise.
Not undead. Not a beast.
A player.
He dropped into an abandoned apothecary and crouched low behind the cracked display shelves. Through the window, he saw the silhouette—a tall figure in fitted leathers, a long polearm strapped to their back, moving with purpose.
They didn't seem to notice him.
Not yet.
He stayed still, waited for them to pass, then slowly moved out the rear entrance into the alley.
I'm not here to start fights I don't need, he reminded himself.
But it wouldn't always be his choice.
That night, he found a cellar beneath a collapsed inn.
The stairs had caved in, but a tight jump got him inside. Dust and rot clung to the air, but it was defensible—one entrance, thick walls, decent cover. No signs of undead nesting.
He barricaded the door with a tipped cabinet and rested against the wall, blade across his lap.
The ache in his shoulders settled slowly.
His mind drifted.
He remembered Elira asking if she could keep his boots if he died.
Not today, he thought with a half-smile.
He allowed himself a few bites of jerky, drank a few mouthfuls of water, and meditated briefly to steady his blood flow. The core pulsed softly in his chest—just enough to feel alive.
As sleep came in short, alert waves, he didn't wonder if he could win.
He wondered how many would still be breathing come morning.
And whether he'd have to stain his blade redder than bones and beasts.