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Tournament

    He checked his status to see how much he had grown from Xavier''s rigorous training.


    Name: Travis Blackthorn


    Age: 17


    Level: 21


    Stats:


    Strength: 1/10


    Speed: 1/10


    Flexibility: 1/10


    Stamina: 1/10


    Luck: 1/10


    Mana: ???/????


    "So I gained a single level. Cool, I guess. My mana is unreadable for some reason, but that doesn’t matter. For now, I just need to learn this technique, which I’m sure will give me the edge in any fight that comes," he thought, his lips curling into a determined smirk.


    The skill he was focusing on was Blinding Step, a technique Xavier had demonstrated earlier. It allowed him to move at a speed that made him almost invisible to the naked eye. From what Travis had gathered, it wasn’t merely a physical enhancement but a genuine skill, as if it bent the laws of perception. "If Xavier calls it a skill, then that’s good enough for me," he reasoned, feeling a flicker of excitement at the thought of mastering it.


    "Okay, I just need to channel mana into my legs. Seems simple enough. Well, let’s do this," he thought, rolling his shoulders to loosen up.


    He began his training, visualizing mana as a stream of energy coursing through his body. Concentrating it in his legs was easier in theory than in practice. At first, he felt a tingling sensation, then a sharp jolt of energy that surged down to his calves, making his muscles twitch involuntarily.


    With an eager leap forward, Travis attempted the skill—but his newfound speed threw him off balance. He slammed into a nearby wall with a dull thud, groaning as dust and bits of plaster rained down on him.


    “Damn it…” he muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder.


    Hours passed, marked by repeated attempts and equally repeated failures. His body ached from countless crashes, his clothes torn in places from skidding across the ground. Yet, each misstep brought him closer to control. He started to feel the flow of mana more clearly, the energy syncing with his movements.


    Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he managed a clean run. He darted from one end of the training ground to the other in the blink of an eye, skidding to a stop with a triumphant grin on his face.


    “Got it,” Travis whispered, his breath coming in heavy gasps. Relief and pride surged through him, though the faint burn in his legs reminded him how much he still had to improve.


    But instead of stopping there, an idea sparked in his mind.


    '' What if I could take this skill further? '' He recalled all the games he had played, where mastery wasn’t just about using a skill but innovating with it. His imagination raced with possibilities.


    "Let’s see if I can enhance this," he muttered to himself, his grin widening.


    This was just the beginning. For Travis, it wasn’t enough to learn a skill. He wanted to own it, make it something uniquely his.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ....


    Outside the city, vibrant posters adorned nearly every wall, advertising the long-awaited fighting tournament. Brightly colored fliers showcased dramatic artwork of warriors locked in battle, their weapons clashing against the backdrop of the grand coliseum. At the bottom of each poster, bold letters declared:


    "FIGHT FOR GLORY – 3 DAYS OF THRILLING COMBAT!"


    This wasn’t just any tournament—it was the one where Travis would fight for his freedom.


    The announcement had sent ripples of excitement through the city of Valorim. Whispers spread quickly among the citizens, from the merchants in the bustling marketplace to the children playing in the narrow alleys. By the evening, nearly everyone had decided to attend, eager to witness the spectacle.


    The timing couldn’t have been better. With the tournament scheduled over the weekend, starting on Friday, no one worried about work. Each of the three days would feature a single fight, giving the audience plenty of time to savor the build-up to each clash.


    It had been years since anything this thrilling had happened in Valorim. The city’s main source of income came from its massive coliseum, a towering structure visible from miles away. The coliseum cast a long, ominous shadow over the city, a constant reminder of the town''s darker side. Yet, it was also the reason Valorim thrived.


    The prosperity brought by the coliseum made people overlook its grim purpose. Criminals, rebels, and the unfortunate were often forced to fight for survival, but the spectacle ensured the city remained peaceful. Crime was nearly nonexistent—few dared to risk being thrown into the arena.


    Despite its reputation, Valorim was an unusually harmonious place. The citizens were united in their support of the coliseum, knowing it was the lifeblood of their economy.


    As the sun dipped below the horizon, the excitement reached a fever pitch. By the time the gates of the coliseum opened, a massive crowd had gathered. Families, children, and elders alike formed long lines, all eager to secure seats for the show.


    Inside the coliseum, the atmosphere was electric. Thousands of spectators filled the seats, their cheers echoing off the ancient stone walls. Merchants wandered through the aisles, selling roasted nuts, mugs of ale, and colorful souvenirs shaped like gladiator helmets.


    High above the arena floor, in the VIP section on the top tier, the tournament’s organizers watched the scene unfold. They sat in a row, their seats plush and adorned with gold trim.


    “This is the biggest crowd we’ve had in years,” one of the men remarked, his voice tinged with satisfaction.


    “Indeed,” another replied, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “Though I wish we could’ve exploited this further. A longer tournament would’ve drawn even more money.”


    “Doesn’t matter,” another interjected. “It’s not a death battle, after all. Rules are rules.”


    “True enough,” the first man agreed, though he sounded disappointed. He turned his gaze to Svelte, who sat at the far end of the row. “Let’s just hope your boy lives up to the hype, Svelte.”


    Svelte, a lean man with sharp features and a glint of confidence in his eyes, smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. Travis will put on a spectacular show. And when he loses,” he said, his tone darkening, “the coliseum will have a new King Gladiator. I’ll see to it personally.”


    The others chuckled, though some exchanged wary glances. The crowd below roared louder as the announcer stepped into the center of the arena, signaling the beginning of the tournament.


    .....


    In the dimly lit cell, Travis sat cross-legged on the cold, hard floor, his mind racing. The faint echoes of the cheering crowd outside seeped through the thick stone walls, a constant reminder of what awaited him. His heart pounded in his chest, not just from fear, but from the weight of uncertainty. Who would he be fighting? What kind of opponent had they prepared for him? He wasn’t sure if he was ready—but there was no backing out now.


    He exhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. "No point in panicking," he muttered under his breath. Rising to his feet, he began stretching his arms and legs, loosening the tension in his muscles. He couldn’t afford to pull something mid-fight. Every movement needed to be precise and deliberate.


    The heavy clank of iron keys jolted him from his thoughts. The cell door creaked open, revealing a guard with a grim expression. Without a word, the guard stepped forward, producing a set of heavy chains. Travis raised his wrists, his jaw tightening as the cold metal clamped around them. The weight was familiar by now, but it didn’t make it any easier.


    The guard led him down a narrow corridor, the flickering torchlight casting elongated shadows on the damp walls. The air was thick, carrying the faint scent of sweat and blood from past combatants. They finally arrived at the inspection room, a small, windowless chamber with a single table and two guards standing at attention.


    “Stand here,” one of the guards barked, motioning to a spot in the center of the room. Travis obeyed, his eyes scanning his surroundings for anything that might give him a hint about his opponent or the upcoming fight.


    One of the guards stepped forward and began reciting the rules in a flat, emotionless tone. “No weapons allowed. No killing. No use of magic or magic-enhancing items.”


    Travis nodded, his face betraying no emotion. The rules weren’t much, but he wasn’t concerned about them. He relied on his skills, not weapons or tricks, and killing wasn’t his style anyway.


    The guard’s gaze lingered on Travis for a moment before he unlocked the chains with a practiced flick of his wrist. The weight fell away, leaving faint red marks on Travis’s skin. He flexed his wrists, rolling his shoulders as he tried to ease the stiffness from being restrained.


    “This is it,” the guard said, his voice low but firm. “The crowd’s waiting. Don’t embarrass yourself.”


    Travis smirked faintly, his nerves settling just enough to let a flicker of his usual confidence shine through. “okay.”


    The guards exchanged a glance but said nothing more. One of them gestured to the door leading to the arena. Beyond it, the roar of the crowd grew louder, a deafening wave of anticipation and excitement.


    Travis took a deep breath, steeling himself. Whatever awaited him on the other side of that door, he knew one thing for sure: he wouldn’t go down without a fight.


    TO BE CONTINUED
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