SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery

I stood.

The tension in the air was thick, the stench of blood and sweat clinging to my senses. The arena still bore the scars of the last match—the cracked concrete where Stryker had fallen, the lingering echoes of his screams lost beneath the roars of the crowd.

I felt three sets of eyes on me.

"Good luck." Sienna's voice was softer than usual, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. She didn't need to say more. I could hear the unspoken plea in her words—come back.

Camille was next. She smirked, though her usual teasing edge was dulled. "Break a leg. Preferably hers."

Alexis, ever the observer, simply studied me before nodding. "Be careful. She's different."

I gave them all a small nod before turning toward the pit. My heart was steady. My muscles were loose. The doubt that should have been there, the fear of stepping into a deathmatch, never came. Because I wasn't just fighting to win. I was fighting to live.

As I stepped into the pit, the heat from the floodlights pressed against my skin, mingling with the scent of sweat and old blood. The walls loomed high above, their rough surfaces scarred by countless battles. A place built for violence. A place where hesitation meant death.

Above me, beyond the bars separating us from the spectators, Ragnar leaned forward from his private booth. His smile was the kind that made men nervous—sharp, expectant, filled with a hunger that had nothing to do with the fight itself. He wasn't just watching. He was assessing.

I had felt that gaze before. It was the look of someone measuring a piece of meat before deciding how much of it to carve away.

I set my feet, exhaled, and let that feeling roll off me.