The beast lingers at the far end of the colosseum, pacing with tense, twitchy steps like a caged animal. Its head hangs low, the top of its hunched back nearly level with Ryoma's height. Its breathing is loud and ugly, like dragging gravel through a wet throat.
Then, suddenly, it spins, launches into a mad dash straight toward the arena wall. Gasps erupt, spectators in the lower rows rear back in reflex.
Bu then…
ZzzZZAKT!
A sharp arc of blue light explodes from the collar around the beast's neck. The creature jerks mid-leap, limbs locking up mid-air before it crashes back to the sand with a pained snarl.
It writhes, snarling and gnashing its fangs.
Commentator A, smooth and smug: "Easy now, citizens! That's just the collar reminding our guest where the boundaries are."
Commentator B, with a theatrical growl: "Ladies and gentlemen! Feast your eyes! It's the lowborn hellhound, the reject runt of the Therowulf breed, Class-F, but still all bite!"
Commentator A: "Oh, don't be fooled by that 'F'. Those claws are still sharp, and the appetite's real. But don't worry. If you're sitting above Row Five, your intestines are probably safe."
Ryoma watches this unfold, rooted in place near the entrance. He glances back, but the double doors are already sealed tight. Just like the beast, he's caged in. Both of them want out, but neither has a choice.
Then the bell rings. The match has officially begun. And instead of a war drum, there comes laughter.
Commentator B, delighted: "Oh-ho! And now, ladies and gentlemen, meet our sacrificial offering! Entering the arena with unmatched fashion sense, please welcome… what is that? A suit?"
Commentator A: "I think it's what happens when a salaryman falls into a laundry machine and comes out unemployed. No armor, no shield, no weapon… Is this a gag round?"
Commentator B: "Maybe he's just too poor to die in style."
Ryoma walks forward, slowly at first. The sand grinds beneath his office shoes. His slacks are wrinkled, shirt untucked, one sleeve still stained from the bar.
Now he regrets not picking any of those armors and shields back in the armory room. But here he sees the rusted weapons scattered across the battlefield. Blades cracked, hilts broken, clubs warped with blood.
He sees the beast tense again, and the crowd begins to chant something. He can't make it out at first. His heart pounds too loudly.
But then, it clicks.
"FEED HIM. FEED HIM. FEED HIM."
The chant grows louder. Ryoma blinks, gulps, sweat forming above his brow. He doesn't see any handlers, no referees. There's only that one beast, and him.
His throat goes dry. His smile from earlier is long gone. Still, he walks, veering sideway, one step after another, keeping his distance.
Then the beast snarls, its limbs flexing, back legs coiling. It looks ready, not to escape but to fulfill the spectators' demand. It knows they want to see blood, blood that will earn it a return to its containment enclosure.
Ryoma's Vision Grid flickers to life. Lines sketch themselves across his field of view. For a half-second, he expects clarity, maybe zones of red, highlighted joints, or maybe the cheat sheet he saw earlier on with Mikhail.
But this time, it shows him something else.
***
[WARNING: Neural Interference Detected.
User fear response exceeding threshold. Vision Grid unable to resolve target weaknesses.]
***
"No… no no no! Don't screw with me now!"
Ryoma tries to breathe, trying to calm. But he can't, his heart feels like it's trying to punch its way out of his ribs.
The beast isn't just there. His mind paints it bigger than it is, much wider, much taller. The claws look longer. In his vision, it's death coming on four legs. Even the roar seems louder now, deeper, as if reality itself distorted to fuel his fear.
Then the beast lunges, a blur of muscle and teeth. It charges forward, direct, and with violent speed.
Ryoma doesn't move. He just can't. His brain shuts down.
But at least, something else kicks in.
***
[SYSTEM INTERFACE: PREDICTION TRAJECTORY ACTIVE]
→ Target Momentum Detected
→ Calculating Directional Flow
→ High Probability Vector Marked
***
Before Ryoma's conscious mind catches up, he sees it, thin arrows of light painting the air in front of him.
One glows bright orange, solid and sharp. Two more, semi-translucent, veer slightly left and right. A handful of nearly invisible ghost-arrows flicker off in lesser paths.
Maybe the system telling him: If it moves, it's moving there. But sadly, his body is still frozen.
"Move, damn it! MOVE!"
Then suddenly…
Twitch!
His left leg, the very one he lost once, jerks and pushes him to dive sideways. The beast hurtles past where he stood, its claws missing him by a hair's width.
Ryoma crashes into the sand, pain shoots up his arm, his shoulder slamming hard against the stone.
The beast, unable to stop its momentum, slams into the arena wall with a bone-jarring THUD, sending a spray of sand and blood into the air as it recoils.
It's stunned for just a few seconds. But that brief moment is enough for Ryoma to gasp for air, and to assess the brutal exchange that just took place.
"That line… That one solid arrow… It predicted it. Like it knew."
His hands tremble. But his brain's rebooting now. And for the first time, his fear starts to melt, not completely, but enough to think.
And the beast shakes itself off with a furious snarl, wheeling back around. Its claws scrape the stone floor, slow at first, but picking up speed.
Ryoma backs up, stumbling sideways. That's when he steps on something metal, slick with blood. It's a rusted sword, bent near the middle.
His sharp eyes instinctively capture the weapon's condition in detail. And soon, the system gives him some descriptions.
But he doesn't care to read and simply grabs the sword. The weight's off, and the balance is wrong. At least, it's useful nonetheless.
Commentator A: Well, would you look at that! He's finally holding a sword. Almost looks like a fighter now. Almost."
Commentator B: "Ah, there it is! A weapon in hand! He's upgraded from office drone to… I dunno, discount gladiator?"
Seriously, he isn't prepared for this. But he really has no choice. The beast charges again. And Ryoma runs, not away but at an angle, zigzagging through the wreckage of past battles.
His eyes flick rapidly across the ground, scanning the scattered debris, all while keeping the beast in his peripheral vision. He doesn't need to stare long. Just a glance, and each object locks into sharp detail, like his mind snapshots everything in an instant.
The system responds in sync, each item he locks onto flickers with a faint outline, briefly tagged before the focus shifts again. It doesn't scan everything at once. It waits on him, and his focus guides it to what he means to see.
And that's always been his edge. Those sharp eyes weren't just about clarity, but precision. Now, that instinct feels amplified, like the system is just catching up to something he's always had.
There are spears snapped in half, axes embedded in the floor, chains, broken helmets, even a full breastplate torn open like paper.
Soon, his Vision Grid kicks in again. Still not spotting weakness on the beast, but there are faint outlines on the floor: Instability Marks.
It doesn't show hot to win the fight. It shows him where the monster might be stumbled.
"There, just a few meters ahead."
It's a patch of uneven ground, strewn with broken halberds and a twisted polearm shaft. His Grid Vision shows the marks in glowing faint orange, pulsing.
Ryoma darts for it, then sidesteps. The beast, closing fast, steps into the mess, and its pace stutters. Its claws clack awkwardly against the metal. One foot skids and it growls.
Then it does something strange. It kicks the weapons aside with its foreleg, almost like a horse pawing at thorns.
"It doesn't like that," Ryoma realizes.