Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

The arena fell into tense silence as the fighters squared off.

Nathan stood tall, spear in hand. His broad shoulders were relaxed, but his whole body was ready to strike.

His silver-gray eyes locked onto his opponent without a hint of doubt. He didn't need to speak; his presence alone demanded respect.

Ivaim, usually quick with sharp remarks, kept unusually quiet.

He leaned forward slightly, lips pressed into a thin line.

'If he hears laughter from the crowd while he's fighting—and realizes it's because of me... I might get my throat impaled,' he thought grimly.

His lips twitched despite himself.

'Though with my good luck, the guy next to me will probably get his throat impaled instead.'

On the opposite side, Seren shifted her weight, her axes gleaming under the lights.

Her wild grin promised chaos, but there was calculation in her stance.

Beneath that savage exterior was a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Ivaim leaned forward in his seat, hands steepled beneath his chin.

He didn't speak. For once, his sharp tongue was silent.

His eyes flickered between Nathan and Seren, quietly assessing their movements.

'This is going to be quick... or brutal.' he thought. Maybe both.

The announcer's voice echoed over the tension-filled arena. "Ready... Begin!"

Seren moved first, dashing forward with frightening speed, her axes already slicing through the air.

Nathan didn't flinch. His hand flicked subtly, and a wall of jagged iron spikes erupted from the ground between them.

Seren grinned. Instead of pulling back, she dove straight at a shard of polished metal within the wall.

Her body shimmered—and then vanished into the reflection.

Ivaim's brow lifted.

'There it is. Reflections. She's not fighting head-on.'@@novelbin@@

The crowd gasped, scanning the arena for Seren. She was gone, as though she'd melted into thin air. Nathan stood unmoving, eyes narrowed.

A flicker caught Ivaim's attention.

The gleam of Seren's reflection danced along the metallic surface of Nathan's spear.

Nathan must have seen it too. With a calm twist of his wrist, his spear elongated, splitting into countless shards that spun through the air like a swarm of razor-edged birds.

Seren materialized behind Nathan, axes raised for a killing blow—but instead of flesh, her blades struck swirling iron.

A cage of sharp, twisting metal closed around her in an instant. Nathan clenched his fist, and the cage tightened, forcing her to vanish into a reflection shimmering on the arena wall.

The audience held its breath. The air felt thick, heavy with tension.

Ivaim leaned forward, brows drawn in thought.

'He's controlling the entire battlefield. She's got nowhere safe to go...'

Seren reappeared near the edge of the arena, sweat glistening on her brow. The confidence she'd started with was gone, replaced by determination laced with frustration.

She knew the truth—stalling against Nathan was suicide.

With a fierce roar, she charged forward, darting between reflections gleaming across the metallic walls and surfaces scattered throughout the arena.

Her axes blurred as she struck from impossible angles, each blow aimed to catch Nathan off guard.

Nathan didn't flinch. His movements were precise, calculated. Sheets of iron rose like shields, blocking every attack with brutal efficiency.

Sparks flew as Seren's axes met unyielding metal. The crowd winced at each clash, the echoes ringing like war drums.

But Nathan was waiting. Watching. Your adventure continues at My Virtual Library Empire

Seren flickered in and out of reflections, her form a ghostly blur.

She reappeared just a fraction too slow after a retreat—barely noticeable, but enough.

Nathan struck.

With a thrust of his hand, the arena floor erupted. Molten steel twisted upward, wrapping around Seren's legs like a serpent.

She gasped, struggling as the metal hardened, locking her in place. Her axes slipped from her grip and clattered uselessly to the ground.

The crowd gasped.

Nathan strode toward her, his spear gleaming in the harsh light.

He raised his hand—and one of Seren's fallen axes shuddered, then flew into his grasp.

Without a word, Nathan leveled the weapon at her chest, the polished iron glinting under his control.

The announcer's voice boomed over the stunned arena.

"The winner—Nathan, the Iron Warden!"

The crowd erupted, cheering wildly, though some spectators cast uneasy glances at the defeated Seren, impressed by her fierce struggle despite the loss.

Nathan flicked his fingers, and the metal bindings around Seren melted away.

She collapsed to one knee, breathing heavily but refusing to break.

"You fight well," Nathan said quietly, his voice steady and composed.

Seren smirked through her exhaustion.

"Next time," she panted, "you won't see me coming."

Nathan nodded once, dismissing the fight from his mind as he turned and walked away.

In the stands, Ivaim exhaled quietly.

'I still have my throat...' he thought dryly, lips quirking into a faint smile.

...

The arena buzzed with lingering excitement, echoes of the previous fight still hanging thick in the air.

The announcer's voice boomed once again, cutting through the fading cheers like a blade.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for the next match!" The crowd hushed, eager to hear who would step into the ring next.

"From Darrowmere—known for painting the battlefield red—we have Eris, the Man of Crimson!"

A figure emerged onto the arena floor, his crimson coat billowing behind him like a flag of war. His scarred face wore a smirk, as though he already knew how the fight would end.

The long, curved blades strapped to his sides gleamed ominously under the harsh light.

The crowd roared at the sight of him. Eris was infamous, and his reputation for ruthless victories preceded him.

"And facing him," the announcer continued, pausing dramatically, "from the humble town of Fendral—don't let his unassuming smile fool you—it's Ivaim, The Underdog!"

The reaction was mixed—cheers, laughter, and murmurs rippling through the audience. Ivaim strolled onto the arena floor with a carefree air, his posture loose and relaxed.

He gave the crowd a casual wave, as though this was a pleasant afternoon stroll rather than a life-or-death fight.

'They sure love that title...' Ivaim thought with a faint grin, shaking his head.