The settlement's main square had transformed into a staging ground. Three hundred warriors, armed and armored, stood in organized groups—each one assigned to a different arena based on the information they'd gathered.

Some of the adventurers went out to scout and came back with news.

Five arenas. Five separate battlefields where Jeren's tournament would unfold simultaneously.

Akhil stood at the center of the square, the Blood Fang resting against his shoulder, surveying the groups. This was the hardest part—dividing their forces, trusting others to lead when he couldn't be everywhere at once.

"We need someone strong and reliable leading each group," he'd said during the planning. "Not just for strength, but for accountability. People who can make decisions, who others will listen to."

The divisions had taken careful consideration.

Ryan and Nibo were paired together—raw power and battlefield experience combined. Ryan's regeneration and titan-like strength complemented Nibo's devastating axe work perfectly. They'd lead one group.

Nyla and James formed another team. Their combination was nearly unbeatable—Nyla's ice control creating opportunities that James's evolved chains could exploit mercilessly. The synergy between them was something Akhil had witnessed firsthand during their hunts.

J and the dwarven king, Thorin, would lead a third group. Akhil had been surprised when Thorin volunteered, massive war hammer resting casually on his shoulder. He hadn't seen the dwarves fight yet—they'd been too busy forging weapons. But looking at Thorin's scarred hands and the casual way he hefted a weapon that probably weighed two hundred pounds, Akhil was certain they wouldn't be weak. After all, you didn't spend decades working in furnaces that could melt steel without developing considerable strength.

Seth had been assigned to lead the fourth group, his new gauntlets already proving their worth during practice. His martial arts expertise and tactical mind made him a natural choice.

And Aria had chosen to stay with Akhil for the fifth group.

"Someone needs to keep you from doing something reckless," she'd said with a slight smile. "Might as well be me."

Now, standing in the square with everyone armed and ready, Akhil addressed them one final time.

"Remember the plan. Observe first. Survive. Work together." His eyes swept across the assembled warriors. "And most importantly—don't give up. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it looks, keep fighting. Keep thinking. Stay alive."

"We'll meet again when this is over," Nyla said firmly, her frost-covered blades gleaming. "All of us."

"Damn right we will," Ryan agreed, cracking his knuckles.

With final nods exchanged, the groups began moving out—each heading toward their assigned arena location based on the magical markers that had appeared to guide them.

Akhil's group moved through the streets, about sixty fighters following him and Aria. The tension was palpable, every person gripping their weapon tightly, eyes darting nervously.

They were halfway to their destination when every billboard in the city suddenly lit up.

The screens that had shown Jeren's previous broadcasts flickered to life simultaneously, bathing the streets in harsh light. And there, displayed across every surface, was his face.

Jeren.

Akhil felt his jaw tighten. Around him, fighters stopped moving, staring up at the screens with expressions ranging from fear to hatred to grim determination.

Jeren's face filled every screen, his white mask covering his lower features, his bright eyes visible and... tired? Disappointed?

He let out a theatrical sigh, the sound carrying through every speaker in the city.

"It seems none of you are as excited as I am about this?" His voice held mock sadness, and behind his mask, Akhil could sense the false sympathy. "Where's the enthusiasm? The anticipation? The fighting spirit?"

His expression shifted, becoming almost petulant behind the mask.

"Sadly, the tournament has to go on, even if you're not interested." He began fanning himself with his ornate fan, the movement lazy, casual. "So let's go over the rules together, shall we?"

Akhil's hand tightened on the Blood Fang. Rules. At least they'd finally learn how this nightmare actually worked.

But then Jeren paused mid-fan, his eyes gleaming with something darker.

"But first..."

The smile that formed on his face—visible even with the mask—was predatory. Dark. The expression of someone about to reveal a trap.

[DING!]

The system notification appeared simultaneously for everyone. Akhil's vision was suddenly filled with glowing text:

{YOU HAVE JOINED THE TOURNAMENT OF GODS}

{PARTICIPANT NO. 6788}

Around him, others received similar notifications. Numbers appeared before their eyes, each one different, each one assigning them a place in whatever system Jeren had created.

"Participant 6788?" Akhil muttered, staring at his number. The implication was staggering—there were at least that many people enrolled in this tournament. Possibly more.

"I'm 6791," Aria said beside him, her voice tight. "We're close in sequence."

"I'm 6805!" one of their group members called out.

"6799 here!"

The numbers were being called out across their group when suddenly—

One of their fighters vanished.

Not gradually. Not walking away. Simply gone, as if reality had erased him from existence.

"What—" someone started.

Another person disappeared. Then another. Then three more simultaneously.

"What's going on?!" Panic erupted through the group. People spun around, looking for enemies, for threats, for any explanation.

Fighters were vanishing at random—pulled away by some invisible force, leaving empty spaces where they'd been standing moments before.

"Everyone stay calm!" Akhil commanded, but even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice. What was happening? Where were they going?

"Hey, y'all shouldn't be worried."

Jeren's voice cut through the panic, drawing everyone's attention back to the screens.

The Titan's smile had widened, genuine amusement evident in his bright eyes.

"Your friends are fine. They're here." He gestured broadly, and the camera view pulled back, revealing an enormous arena. And standing in it, looking confused and terrified, were the people who'd just vanished—along with dozens of others Akhil didn't recognize.

One hundred fighters, all staring around in shock, trying to understand how they'd been transported instantaneously.

"The first one hundred participants will be leading the first tournament," Jeren announced, his voice carrying false cheer. "Isn't that exciting? Such an honor!"

Around Akhil, the remaining fighters stood frozen, horror dawning as they understood what had just happened. Jeren hadn't just organized a tournament. He'd created a system. Could teleport people at will. Could force participation whether they agreed or not.

"Now, back to the rules," Jeren continued, as if he'd merely paused to take a breath. That dark smile never left his face. "First rule—and this is important, so listen carefully..."

But Akhil barely heard him. He was staring at the screen, at the one hundred fighters trapped in that arena, at the casual display of power that had just ripped people from the streets and deposited them wherever Jeren wanted.

Around him, reactions varied. Some people looked confused, still trying to process what had happened. Others had sunk into despair, the hopelessness of their situation finally settling in.

But Akhil saw it clearly. And from the expressions on Nyla's face in another group, on Ryan's, on the faces of everyone who'd fought beside him—they got the message too.

Crystal clear. Undeniable. Terrifying.

'No one is escaping this tournament.'

It didn't matter how far you ran. Didn't matter how well you hid. Didn't matter if you refused to participate.

Jeren could reach out and pluck you from wherever you were, deposit you in his arena, force you to fight.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.