Charles limped slowly toward the edge of the arena, the rain still pouring over his tattered tunic.

Each step was a struggle—not from physical exhaustion, but because he was working hard to sell the act of being gravely injured.

The burns on his arms and face, though less severe thanks to the lightning that healed him, still stung enough to make his performance believable.

His breathing was heavy, his head bowed, letting the water stream down his face to hammer home the image of a warrior on the brink.

The blue system tab blinked in his vision, reminding him of his new level:

[Level 7. Upgrade points available: 1.]

The thrill of leveling up made him want to grin, but he held it back, knowing it wouldn't look right for someone in his supposed state to be smiling like that.

Before he could reach the tunnel to the locker rooms, a group of medics intercepted him.

There were five of them—four young women and an older man, all dressed in light blue tunics that stood out against the coliseum's dark gray stone.

The women carried bags with bandages and jars of ointments, while the man held a small artifact that looked like a fire extinguisher, probably for dousing any lingering flames.

One of the women, with brown hair tied back in a braid, approached first, her face etched with concern.

"Rian Cole, hold up!" she said, raising a hand. "Are you okay? What hurts? We need to check you out right now!"

Charles blinked, caught off guard by the urgency in her voice.

"Uh… I'm beat to hell," he lied, forcing a grimace of pain. He clutched his arm where the burns were still red and exaggerated a wince. "My hands… and my face. Everything's burning."

The woman with the braid, who seemed to be in charge, nodded quickly.

"Easy, we've got you. Come, sit here."

She pointed to a stone bench at the arena's edge, where another team member was already laying out a blanket to shield him from the rain.

The other three women stepped forward, each holding a jar or cloth, and began tending to his wounds with a gentleness that caught him by surprise.

"This might sting a bit," said a second woman, with dark skin and green eyes, as she applied a cool ointment to the burns on his arm. "But it'll keep infection at bay. Hang in there, okay?"

Charles nodded, faking a soft groan of pain as the ointment settled into his skin.

Truth was, the ointment felt more soothing than painful, but he couldn't let them notice.

"Yeah, it's fine," he mumbled, keeping his voice low and shaky.

A third woman, with short blonde hair, handed him a water bottle.

"Here, drink this. You've gotta be dehydrated after that fight."

"Thanks," Charles said, taking the bottle with a trembling hand.

He took a slow sip, letting the water ease his parched throat.

The fourth woman, younger with a soft voice, was cleaning the burns on his face with a damp cloth.

"By the gods, Rian," she said, almost in a whisper. "How are you even conscious? A lightning bolt hit you…"

Charles forced a weak chuckle.

"Dumb luck, I guess," he replied, shrugging. But his words were just a smokescreen.

He knew exactly why the lightning hadn't killed him: his element, lightning, had healed him. But that was a secret no one in the coliseum could know, or they'd accuse him of witchcraft.

And in the Storm Clan, witchcraft was a crime punishable by death.

The older man on the medical team, who'd been watching silently until now, stepped forward with the artifact in hand.

"We're taking you out on a stretcher," he said, his tone firm but kind. "You're in no shape to walk to the locker rooms. You could collapse."

Charles hesitated for a second.

He wanted to refuse, but the idea of being carried off on a stretcher worked in his favor.

Playing the weak card would keep suspicions at bay.

"Alright," he said, sighing as if resigned. "Do what you gotta do."

The women helped him lie down on a stretcher they'd brought from the arena's edge.

As they settled him in, Charles couldn't help but notice how they treated him with a mix of care and awe.

The woman with the braid even gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"You're incredible, Rian," she said, smiling. "No one thought you could beat Syris after that fight with Darion. And then that lightning? You're a legend."

Charles managed a tired smile, feeling a mix of relief and amusement.

'If they only knew,' he thought.

As they carried him toward the tunnel, the crowd kept chanting his name, the echo of "RIAN! RIAN!" booming through the stands.

But not everyone in the coliseum was cheering.

◇◆◇

In the stands, Kain watched the scene with a scowl, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

He stood apart from Lira and Kaira, arms crossed, eyes locked on Charles as he was carried off on the stretcher.

The rain soaked his dark hair, but he didn't seem to notice.

His mind was a storm of rage and confusion.

'How the hell did he do that?' he thought, grinding his teeth. 'Rian Cole, that damn loser, beating Darion *and* Syris Kael? And surviving a lightning bolt to the head?'

The idea was ridiculous. Kain remembered exactly what Rian was like just days ago: a weak Rookie, always head down, barely able to handle the clan's basic challenges.

The Rian he knew couldn't dodge attacks with flips, couldn't unleash explosions that shattered wind barriers, and sure as hell couldn't walk away from a lightning strike unscathed.

"This ain't normal," Kain muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes. "This has to be witchcraft."

It was the only explanation that made sense.

No one improved that fast without outside help, especially not someone like Rian, who'd never shown a lick of talent.

Kain had heard rumors about sorcerers using forbidden magic to boost their power, but he'd always thought they were just stories.

Now, watching Rian being treated like a hero, he was starting to believe those rumors might hold water.

And then there was Lira.

Kain glanced at her, still talking with Kaira a few meters away.

Lira had sworn she had nothing to do with Rian's sudden change, that she was just "upholding the clan's honor" by letting him fight.

But Kain didn't buy it.

'She's behind this,' he thought, anger swelling in his chest. 'It's gotta be her. Who else would help that nobody?'

The thought that Lira, his own sister, was secretly backing Rian made his blood boil.

He wanted to yell, punch something, or better yet, face Rian and beat the truth out of him.

"Damn it!" Kain growled under his breath, taking a step forward.

A random spectator beside him raised an eyebrow.

"Everything okay, buddy?" the man asked. Kain shot him a glare that could curdle milk.

"Mind your own business," he snapped, before turning back to the arena.

Rian was already disappearing into the tunnel, carried by the medics, while the announcer kept hyping the crowd.

"WHAT A NIGHT, FOLKS!" the announcer shouted, his voice echoing through the coliseum. "Rian Cole has defied all odds! Two back-to-back victories, a lightning bolt from the sky, and he's still standing! This guy's a force of nature!"

Kain clenched his teeth so hard they ached.

"Force of nature, my ass," he muttered.

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