---

On another platform, Ryan faced his own nightmare.

The abomination before him defied easy categorization. It moved on four limbs when it wanted speed, rose to two when it wanted reach. Claws that could disembowel with a casual swipe. Teeth designed to tear and rend. And most concerning—intelligence gleaming in those too-human eyes.

This wasn't just a beast. This was a thinking predator.

It circled Ryan, assessing him the same way he was assessing it. Looking for weaknesses. Testing reactions.

Ryan remained still, arms crossed, watching calmly. Waiting.

The creature lunged without warning—a devastating charge that carried the weight of its massive body. Ryan didn't try to dodge. He planted his feet and met the charge head-on.

The collision sounded like a car crash. Ryan was driven backward, boots carving trenches in stone, but he didn't fall. His hands had caught the creature's reaching claws, holding them at bay despite the enormous pressure.

They struggled for dominance—raw strength against raw strength. The creature's other limbs tried to find purchase, claws scrabbling at Ryan's sides, leaving bloody furrows. Its jaws snapped at his face, close enough that he could smell its rancid breath.

Ryan's response was to headbutt it.

The impact stunned them both. The creature reeled back, shaking its head. Ryan's forehead was bleeding, but his eyes were clearer than ever—focused, calculating, showing no pain.

"Again," Ryan said simply.

They clashed again. And again. Each exchange was brutal, primitive, two titans of strength testing each other. The creature would land hits—deep gouges, broken ribs, a bite that tore a chunk from Ryan's shoulder.

But Ryan kept coming. Kept fighting. His regeneration was working overtime, wounds closing almost as fast as they opened, bones knitting back together even as they fractured.

The creature recognized this eventually. Recognized that wearing down its opponent wasn't working. It needed to end this quickly, decisively.

It feinted with its front claws, drawing Ryan's guard high. Then its powerful hind leg came up in a devastating kick that caught Ryan square in the chest.

The impact launched him backward. He slammed into the platform's barrier—the invisible wall that kept fighters contained—and the barrier cracked from the force.

The creature was already moving, capitalizing on the opening. All four limbs propelled it forward in a leap that would crush Ryan against the barrier, drive claws through his chest, end the fight.

Ryan saw it coming. Could have dodged. Should have dodged.

Instead, he raised his arms to block, letting the creature's momentum drive it onto him. Claws punched through his defenses, one of them taking his left arm clean off at the elbow.

Blood sprayed. Ryan's expression flickered—not with pain, but with something that might have been satisfaction.

Because now the creature was exactly where he wanted it.

He had it right where he wanted.

His remaining hand shot out, grabbed the creature by its throat, and slammed it against the barrier with enough force to crack stone. Before it could react, before it could bring its claws to bear again, Ryan's knee came up into its exposed belly.

Once. Twice. Three times. Each impact drove deeper, broke through muscle and hide, found internal organs.

The creature thrashed desperately, its own claws tearing at Ryan's chest and arms, opening wounds that immediately began closing. It was caught between the barrier and an opponent who simply wouldn't stop, wouldn't slow, wouldn't acknowledge damage.

Ryan's missing arm was already regenerating. Within seconds, bone had reformed. Muscle wrapped around it. Skin sealed the new limb. And then that arm joined the assault, both hands now gripping the creature's throat, squeezing with inhuman pressure.

The creature's struggles became frantic. Its eyes—those too-human eyes—showed something that might have been fear. Recognition that it had made a terrible mistake.

Ryan's voice was perfectly calm, almost conversational:

"You're strong. Fast. Dangerous." He tightened his grip, ignoring the claws still tearing at him. "But you can't kill me fast enough."

With a final surge of strength, Ryan twisted. The sound of the creature's spine separating was like a tree branch snapping. Its body went limp, eyes glazing over.

Ryan released it, letting the corpse slide to the ground. He stood there, covered in blood—his own and the creature's—breathing steadily while his wounds closed and his regeneration worked to repair the extensive damage.

He hadn't used a single gift. Hadn't needed to.

Around the arena, watchers stared in a mixture of awe and horror.

---

The other platforms told similar stories—some ending in victory, most in death.

Layla's tiger fought alongside her against a serpentine beast, their coordination keeping them alive where solo fighters fell. Her beast seemed to sense attacks before they came, positioning itself perfectly to intercept strikes meant for its master.

Greg's revolver proved effective against his creature—some kind of wolf-like abomination. Each shot was perfectly placed, finding weak points in armor, disrupting the creature's movement patterns. He fought with the calm efficiency of someone who'd killed plenty before.

But the critically injured never stood a chance.

Their weapons were too weak. Their bodies too broken. Their spirits too crushed.

One by one they fell, torn apart by creatures they couldn't hope to match. Some died quickly. Others suffered, their screams echoing across the arena until merciful death finally claimed them.

When the fighting finally ended, when the last creature had been slain or the last fighter had fallen, Jeren's voice rang out once more.

"Round two, complete! Let's see our survivors!"

The display materialized again, and the numbers were devastating.

{SECOND ROUND RESULTS}

{Remaining Participants: 20}

{Deceased This Round: 50}

{Critical Condition: 1}

{Combat Capable: 19}

Twenty. Out of the original hundred, only twenty remained. Half the participants had died in this round alone.

Akhil stared at the numbers, feeling cold settle into his bones. The tournament was grinding through fighters like a meat processor. At this rate, the third round might claim half of what remained. Then the fourth. Then...

'How many will be left when they face the Centurions?' he wondered. 'Five? Three? One?'

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