The Zombie System.

Karsten Rell moves like smoke, two blades spinning in his hands as he circles the pit's edge. Leon tracks his movements, his manna gun steady.

The crowd knew this fighter. Whispers carries his dark reputation—three hunters dead over a contract dispute, his license revoked, and now living underground ever since.

Leon remains silent, conversing his breath.

Rell closes the distance in an instanst. Leon fires once—misses. The ex-hunter weaves between shots as if he can read Leon's intentions.

A knife flickers toward Leon's throat. He jerks back, the blade grazing his collar instead of finding its mark.

Rell's second knife comes low, aimed at Leon's ribs. Leon twists, feeling the steel part of his fabric. Warm blood trickles down his side.

The crowd roars in approval. Real blood. Real danger.

Leon backpedas and fires again. Rell bats the manna shot aside with his blade, deflecting it as if it were a physical object. The round ricochets off the stone.

"Stand still," Rell taunts.

Leon's next shot catches only empty air. Rell has already moved, circling left with predatory patience, reading Leon's rhythm and timing.

A weighted club appears in Rell's off-hand. He whips it across Leon's temple before he can react.

Stars explodes behind Leon's eyes. Blood blurs his vision, and the pit tilts sideways.

Rell presses his advantage. The club strikes Leon's shoulder, spinning him around. Another blow cracks against his ribs—the same ones Elise has healed.

Leon stumbles, his vision fading. The taste of salt and copper fills his mouth.

Rell sweeps Leon's legs out from under him. He crashes hard, his shoulder popping from its socket on impact. Fire shoot down his arm.

The ex-hunter pins him with a knee to the chest, steel pressing against Leon's throat.

"Surrender," Rell says. "I'll make it quick."

Leon stares up through blood and sweat, the crowd chanting for the kill as betting boards flashed updated odds.

"No."

Leon scoops up sand with his good hand and flings it into Rell's eyes.

Rell curses and jerks back, his expression twists in rage. Leon wrenches himself sideways, his shoulder screaming in protest as his dislocated arm hangs uselessly at his side.

They both struggle to their feet. Rell wipes sand from his face, fury etch across his features.

Leon fires with one hand, the shot striking Rell's thigh. The ex-hunter stumbles but manages to stay on his feet.

"Lucky shot." Rell spits.

With a roar, Rell charges again. Leon can't dodge, he is too slow and too injured. Instead, he braces himself for the impact.

Rell's knife scrapes against Leon's ribs just as Leon's skull collides with Rell's nose.

Bone crunches, and blood sprays. Rell staggers backward, momentarily dazed.

Seizing the opportunity, Leon presses his manna gun against Rell's chest and fires at point-blank range.

The shot cracksd ribs, and Rell folds around the impact, gasping for breath.

With a surge of adrenaline, Leon grabs Rell's shirt with his good hand and slams the ex-hunter against the pit wall, pressing the gun barrel into his stomach.

"Yield." Leon demands.

Rell spits blood defiantly. "Go to hell."

Without hesitation, Leon pulls the trigger.

The match-master's whistle cut through the crowd's roar. "Winner by survival—Graves!"

Leon collapses against the wall, his vision swimming. Each heartbeat sends a throb of pain through his dislocated shoulder.

Medics drags Rell away, still breathing—barely.

Leon slumps in the sand, tasting iron in his mouth. Two matches down, five to go.

The crowd's energy shifts; the jokes about the skinny necromancer fades. Betting odds flickers as gamblers reassesses the situation.

Hark appears at the edge of the pit. "Medical?"

Leonshakes his head. "Can't afford it."

"Smart. Save your silver for when you really need it."

Leon crawls toward the gate, his zombie materializing in the tunnel beyond, offering silent support. After that fight, their connection feels stronger—loyalty forges through shared struggles.

"Next match in twenty minutes," the announcer calls. "Graves versus the Crimson Triplets!"

Twins. Leon has heard whispers about them—two fighters who moved as if they shared one mind. They had never lost when paired together.

Reaching the holding area, Leon collapses on a wooden bench. Blood drips from his split brow onto the dirt floor.

Vera approaches, holding out a water skin. "Drink."

Leon accepts it gratefully. The liquid tastes like rust but washes away the metallic tang in his mouth.

"The triplets fight as one unit," Vera explains. "Mirror movements, shared tactics. They've killed seven opponents between them."

Leon tests his injured shoulder; it is still useless. Fighting one-handed against three seems impossible.

"Any weaknesses?" he asks.

"They depend on each other completely. Separate them, and they panic."

Leon nods, feeling his zombie pulse with understanding through their link. It has been watching and learning.

The gate opens again. It is time to face the triplets.

Leon stands unsteadily. His vision has cleared, but his body feels like shattered glass.

Three identical fighters awaits him in the pit—red hair, matching scars, moving in perfect synchronization, breathing in unison.

The crowd surges forward, eager for the spectacle, either a brutal execution or an impossible comeback.

Leon steps onto the sand, blood still dripping from his wounds.

The triplets smiles identical, cold smiles.

"Look, brother," one said. "A walking corpse."

"Already half-dead," the other replied. "We'll finish the job."

The match-master raises his hand. "Final match of the evening—Graves versus the Crimson Triplets!"

The bell rings, and two out of the triplets attacked simultaneously, perfectly coordinated death closing in from two directions.