The entire match had lasted maybe fifteen minutes.

Divine attention, which had been scattered across the hundred matches, suddenly converged on Ryan's platform.

{God of War has entered your viewing box!}

{Goddess of Strength is intrigued!}

{God of Destruction wants to see more!}

{Ancient Titan Prometheus is watching with interest}

The comments exploded:

[God of War: NOW THAT'S A FIGHTER!]

[Goddess of Battle: That final punch... incredible force concentration]

[Unknown: Did he just shake the entire arena with one hit?]

[God of Storms: I'm changing my bet. This one might actually win.]

[DaylithNight: Holy shit, is he even human?]

Jeren's eyes were now locked entirely on Ryan. His previous interest in Seth paled compared to the fascination evident in his expression.

"My, my," he breathed, genuine excitement coloring his voice for the first time. "What power. What control. And that final strike..." He laughed—a sound of pure delight. "Oh, the gods are going to love you. This is exactly the kind of performer we need!"

On screens throughout the settlement, Akhil watched both matches conclude. Seth's technical precision and fore perception. Ryan's overwhelming power and systematic destruction.

Both had won decisively. Both had drawn massive divine attention. Both had painted targets on their backs for every subsequent match.

And somewhere in the divine realm, gods who'd been bored for millennia sat up in their seats, suddenly very, very interested in this tournament.

"Two down," Akhil muttered, his eyes never leaving the screens. "And the others...." He turned his gaze to the other participants who had been carried they were still struggling in their various matches.

Around him, his group watched in awed silence. Seeing the matches, understanding the stakes, realizing that any of them could be called next.

The tournament had begun in earnest.

And already, it was clear that some fighters were in a completely different class than others.

The question was: would that be enough?

Or would the gods' entertainment simply demand more blood, regardless of skill?

On screen, Jeren's smile widened as he surveyed the arena—at the unconscious bodies, the wounded fighters, the exhausted victors.

"Round one, complete!" he announced cheerfully. "And what a spectacular showing! But don't rest too long, dear fighters. After all..."

His eyes gleamed with dark promise.

"You still have two more battles before you've earned even a moment's reprieve."

The gods laughed.

And the tournament ground on.

The settlement's screens showed the aftermath of the first round—a mix of triumph and tragedy that painted the arena floor in shades of victory and blood.

Everyone watching had been impressed by Seth and Ryan's displays of strength. The way Seth had dismantled his opponent with clinical precision, the devastating final punch Ryan had delivered that shook the entire arena—it was the kind of combat that inspired hope, made people think they might actually survive this nightmare.

But Akhil didn't let that deceive him.

His eyes weren't fixed on the two victors standing calmly on their platforms. Instead, he scanned the other ninety-eight participants, cataloging injuries, assessing exhaustion levels, noting who was still standing and who wasn't.

What he saw made his stomach tighten.

Many of the adventurers were struggling. Badly. Their opponents—those ninja constructs—had been far more skilled than they'd appeared. While Seth and Ryan had dominated their matches, others had barely survived. Some hadn't survived at all.

Bodies lay motionless on platforms throughout the arena. Blood pooled on stone. The sounds of combat had been replaced by groans of pain and ragged breathing.

Jeren's voice cut through the grim silence, cheerful and completely unbothered by the carnage.

"Well now! What an exciting first round!" He clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Let's see the results, shall we?"

With a wave of his fan, a massive display materialized in the air above the arena—visible both to those present and on every screen throughout the settlement.

{FIRST ROUND RESULTS}

{Total Participants: 100}

{Deceased: 30}

{Critically Injured: 42}

{Victory (Minor Injuries): 26}

{Victory (Exemplary Performance): 2}

The numbers hung there, stark and undeniable. Thirty dead. In one round. Just like that, three-tenths of the participants had been eliminated permanently.

"Thirty brave souls who gave their all!" Jeren announced, as if celebrating them rather than mourning. "The gods were most entertained by their struggles. Let's give them a round of applause!"

He actually clapped. Standing there in his luxurious robes, surrounded by divine attention, the Titan of Tournaments clapped for the dead as if they'd merely lost a game rather than their lives.

Dark shapes began moving along the edges of the arena—faceless attendants dragging the bodies away. Where they took them, what happened to those corpses, nobody wanted to imagine.

Akhil's jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. Around him, others in his group looked sick, horrified, some openly crying as they recognized friends or comrades among the dead.

But there was nothing they could do except watch.

His eyes moved to the survivors. The critically injured—forty-two people barely standing, clutching wounds, some missing limbs or sporting injuries that would have killed them if not for whatever magic kept the participants alive within their platforms.

'They won't survive another round,' Akhil thought grimly. 'Not in that condition. Unless they receive divine healing...'

Then there were the twenty-six who'd done well. Not as spectacularly as Seth and Ryan, but competently. These fighters stood with confidence, weapons still ready, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

Akhil scanned their faces, looking for anyone he recognized from his settlement, from the guild, from—

His eyes stopped on one figure, and recognition hit him like a physical blow.

A woman stood calmly on her platform, barely winded despite having just finished a fight. Beside her, a massive tiger—easily the size of a horse—sat with predatory grace, licking blood from its fangs.

'Layla!'

He'd met her during the emblem quest, before everything had gone to hell. She'd been strong then, skilled enough to impress even in that chaotic situation. But seeing her now, seeing how she stood with that same confident posture, that same sharp awareness...

"She's gotten stronger," Akhil muttered to himself, studying her carefully. The way she moved, the way the tiger responded to her subtle commands—she'd clearly been training, pushing herself.

His chest tightened slightly. 'I still haven't told her. About the game. About how this is all virtual, how dying here doesn't mean actual death but consciousness trapped in the lobby...'

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