It had been two months since I last stepped into the underground arena. After weeks of intense training, I had grown taller, my body stronger, and my strength and endurance had improved significantly. One afternoon, brimming with energy, I decided to return to the familiar arena after school.
Clutching my ID tag, I entered the arena. I drew a steadying breath and adjusted my mindset. Most of my time was consumed by classes, leaving no other way to earn money.
A victory at my level brought one thousand credits. Ten consecutive wins promoted a fighter to the next rank and increased the prize to five thousand. Ten more consecutive victories would raise the level again, granting ten thousand credits. Every match demanded that I take the initiative. Small and lean, I had to dominate from the first move and catch opponents off guard.
That evening, my opponent appeared. He was tall and slender, eyes sharp and movements fluid. Something about him vaguely reminded me of a classmate, but I pushed the thought aside. My goal was clear. Win this match, build my streak, climb the ranks, and earn more.
He struck first, a low sweep aimed at my calf. I twisted aside just in time and countered with my short dagger toward his shoulder. A sharp sting shot through me as my armor scraped and tore. The metal plates cried under the strike, leaving a deep, jagged scar.
"Damn it…" I clenched my teeth as I inspected the tear. "Seeing my armor damaged hurts both physically and financially. Repairs will cost money, maybe even a full replacement."
Sensing my momentary distraction, he launched a high kick aimed at my chest. I stepped back sharply, dagger raised to block the blow, but the impact rattled my arm and shoulder, pain shooting through me.
I forced myself to focus.
When his attacks eased for just a moment, I surged forward. My dagger slashed his side, then I spun into a downward kick, forcing him back several steps. The arena reeked of sweat and metal, and every breath felt heavy. My heartbeat thundered in my chest.
He struck back with a furious flurry. Low kicks, upper cuts, elbows. Each attack threatened to break my defenses. I dodged and blocked, but another swipe tore a corner of my armor. The chilling metal dug into my flesh.
"Again…" I ground my teeth. "I will have to spend money to repair this armor." I forced myself to remain calm, moving with agility. I leapt, spinning through the air, dagger aimed at his knee. He stumbled, leaving an opening. I pressed the advantage, delivering rapid strikes to his shoulder and side. He collapsed, defeated.
The audience erupted. I panted, hands slick with sweat, heart hammering. My armor bore new scars, each one a testament to my struggle and effort.
Later, sitting in the locker room, I examined the damage to my armor. My handcrafted work lay marred, and I felt both physical and financial pain. Repairs were unavoidable. Just then, the arena's weapon supplier arrived with a new shipment. Among the items, one piece of material caught my eye. It was perfect for crafting a whip. I had long wanted one. Without hesitation, I spent heavily to claim it.
Back in the workshop, I began crafting my whip while planning a new set of armor. The thought of my damaged plates still stung, but it strengthened my resolve. Only by becoming stronger could I survive in the arena.
Meanwhile, the school had entered its third term. Beyond daily drills and simulator sessions, firearms training brought a rare spark of excitement to otherwise repetitive routines.
Our instructor, Man Li, was an A-ranked operative, legendary for taking on S-ranked soldiers alone. Her presence radiated authority and calm precision, and her eyes carried an almost oppressive aura.
Training was strict and detailed. We learned rifles, pistols, sniper rifles, and their attachments. Every screw and spring had to be accounted for during assembly and disassembly. We practiced close-range shooting under thirty meters, balancing speed with precision. Long-range shooting required adjusting for wind, breath, and trajectory over hundreds of meters. Mobile firing demanded shooting while running, dodging, and turning, a supreme test of coordination and reflexes.
Man Li corrected every motion. During mobile drills, she counted every hit and observed posture, trajectory, and precision.
On the final day, we faced an agility test. Each student had to hit multiple targets while moving within a strict time limit. Most students fired frequently but inconsistently. Some were fast but missed often. Others were slow but steady.
When it was my turn, I moved deliberately. Each shot counted, each bullet struck the target. My rate of fire was lower, but every shot hit dead center. Balance, breath, and timing merged instinctively. Every dodge and turn felt like an extension of calculation, predicting the flight of each bullet before it left the chamber.
"This is not by chance," I thought. "In my past life, I was a killer. Every skill I have with guns comes from instinct. Observing a target, judging distance, shooting while moving, all of it flows automatically. Even if I fire only a few shots, they will all hit their mark."
The scoreboard confirmed it. One hundred percent accuracy. Others fired more often but hit far less. Efficiency and precision had won.
Man Li raised a brow, observing closely. She noticed my uncanny ability to move, aim, and fire with flawless timing. Every bullet struck exactly where intended. She nodded approvingly and recorded my performance. My efficiency far exceeded most students. Others fired recklessly, wasting bullets, while I used the fewest shots and struck with perfect precision.