The arena air felt heavier than ever.
It was no longer the atmosphere of a school competition.
The crowd wasn’t simply cheering anymore.
They were watching with hunger.
Every clash, every fall, every display of power had changed them.
Students who had entered the arena expecting to prove themselves were now beginning to understand the real purpose of Foshi’s training.
This wasn’t a tournament.
It was selection.
Only those capable of surviving pressure would move forward.
Pinezoku walked beside Maris, one hand pressed against his battered armor.
A thin streak of blood marked the corner of his mouth.
The hostility between them had changed.
Not friendship.
Not hatred.
Something quieter.
Respect.
Pinezoku glanced sideways.
“You’ve become strong.” Maris looked at him.
“That’s a weird thing to hear from the guy who was beating me a few minutes ago.” Pinezoku gave a faint smirk.
“You survived.” Maris shrugged.
“Apparently I’m difficult to get rid of.” Pinezoku almost laughed.
Almost.
Then the announcement echoed across the arena.
“And the winner is—Sophria Fruilder!” The crowd erupted.
Sophria stood motionless.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then her expression slowly changed.
“That means…” Her eyes moved toward Maris.
“…I’ll fight Maris next.” Her cheeks turned red.
“Oh no…” A nearby student glanced at her.
“You look more frightened about fighting him than you did fighting Lyberia.” Sophria immediately looked away.
“That’s because Lyberia doesn’t know me.” The student raised an eyebrow.
“And Maris does?” Sophria’s face became even redder.
“That’s exactly the problem.” She lowered her voice.
“What am I supposed to say to him?
‘Hey, boyfriend, sorry if I break your bones?'” The student stared.
“You’re thinking about the wrong part.” Sophria sighed.
“I know.” She looked toward Maris again.
He was already watching the next match.
She thought, “Why does fighting him feel more terrifying than fighting someone who actually wants to kill me?” Her fingers tightened.
She thought, “Because I don’t want to hurt him.” Then her expression hardened.
She thought, “But I also don’t want him to think I’m weak.” Across the arena, another announcement rang out.
“Next match!” The crowd gradually quieted.
“Melio Berrum versus Applee Fru!” Melio stepped into the arena.
His expression was empty.
No excitement.
No fear.
No arrogance.
He walked like someone who had already decided how the battle would end.
Across from him, Applee entered.
His breathing was heavy.
His fists were clenched.
His entire body trembled—not from fear, but from determination.
He stared directly at Melio.
“I’m going to defeat you.” Melio tilted his head.
“Try your best, brat.” Applee’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t call me that.” Melio didn’t respond.
The referee raised his hand.
“Begin!” BOOM!
Applee launched forward.
His fist came down with tremendous force.
Melio simply stepped aside.
The punch struck the ground.
CRACK!
Dust exploded upward.
Melio appeared beside him.
Applee’s eyes widened.
“Too slow.” Melio caught his arm.
Applee tried to pull away.
“Let go!” Melio twisted his grip, redirected Applee’s momentum, and hurled him upward.
The crowd gasped.
Applee spun through the air.
Melio watched him fall.
Then he jumped.
For a brief moment, both fighters were suspended above the arena.
Melio drove his elbow into Applee’s side.
BAM!
Applee was sent crashing downward.
He hit the ground hard.
Dust swallowed him.
Several students flinched.
“That was brutal.” “He’s not even giving him time to breathe.” Maris narrowed his eyes.
He thought, “Melio isn’t fighting emotionally.” His gaze followed Melio.
He thought, “He’s calculating every movement.” The dust cleared.
Applee was still conscious.
He pushed himself up.
His breathing was ragged.
One knee touched the ground.
Then he forced himself upright.
Melio looked at him.
“Stay down.” Applee wiped his mouth.
“No.” Melio’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Why?” Applee clenched his fists.
“Because I haven’t won.” A few students exchanged glances.
One whispered, “He’s insane.” Another replied, “Or stubborn.” Applee raised his head.
“I don’t care how strong you are.” His voice grew louder.
“I don’t care how many times you knock me down.” He charged again.
“I WILL NOT LOSE!” Melio met him head-on.
Their fists collided.
BOOM!
Applee’s arm shook.
Melio’s didn’t.
Another clash.
Another.
Applee attacked with everything he had.
Melio defended with precision.
Step.
Block.
Counter.
Strike.
Applee stumbled.
Melio struck his stomach.
Applee doubled over.
A gasp escaped the crowd.
He dropped to one knee.
Melio stood above him.
“You fight better than them.” Applee looked up.
Melio’s expression remained cold.
“I like your struggle.” He grabbed Applee’s uniform and pulled him upright.
“But struggle doesn’t make you strong.” Applee’s eyes burned with anger.
Melio continued.
“A loser is still a loser.” He released him.
Applee fell backward.
This time, he didn’t rise.
The arena became silent.
The referee raised his hand.
“Winner—Melio Berrum!” The crowd erupted.
Melio simply turned around.
No celebration.
No smile.
Nothing.
Maris watched him leave.
He thought, “He’s getting stronger.” His eyes narrowed.
He thought, “But he’s also becoming colder.” Melio walked past him.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
Yet both understood.
The next time they fought, neither would be the same person.
— Applee’s Memory Darkness.
A television screen illuminated a small room.
Young Applee sat on the floor, staring at the news.
“Elites have successfully cleared the danger zone.
Dozens of civilians were rescued.” His eyes widened.
“Grandpa…” An elderly man sitting behind him looked over.
“What is it?” “Who are they?” His grandfather smiled.
“They’re Elites.” “Are they really that strong?” “Strong enough to protect people when everyone else is running away.” Young Applee’s eyes sparkled.
“I’ll become one.” His grandfather laughed softly.
“Then you’ll have to work harder than everyone else.” “Why?” “Because talent can disappear.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“But effort can keep moving.” Young Applee looked back at the television.
“I’ll never lose.” His grandfather smiled.
“Then remember something.” “What?” “Winning isn’t about never falling.” The old man’s expression became serious.
“It’s about refusing to remain on the ground.” — Present Applee’s unconscious body lay beneath the arena lights.
His fingers moved.
Just slightly.
A strange heat began gathering beneath his skin.
Steam escaped from his body.
The students nearby noticed.
“Wait…” “Is that steam?” Foshi’s eyes immediately sharpened.
He stepped forward.
“Interesting.” The energy inside Applee was reacting.
Something was trying to awaken.
Foshi looked toward Melio’s retreating figure.
Then back at Applee.
He thought, “Perhaps this defeat wasn’t the end of his path.” Applee’s fingers clenched.
Inside the darkness of his unconscious mind, one thought remained.
He thought, “This is my last defeat.” His breathing became steadier.
He thought, “I won’t lose like this again.” The energy around him intensified.
He thought, “Next time…” His eyes remained closed.
But his will was awake.
He thought, “I’ll be the one standing.” — Across the arena, Sophria watched Maris.
Her upcoming match suddenly felt much more serious.
She thought, “Everyone here is changing.” Her gaze moved from Applee to Melio.
Then finally to Maris.
She thought, “And Maris is changing faster than anyone.” Maris stood silently.
His reddish-yellow gradient hair moved slightly in the wind.
He watched Melio disappear into the corridor.
He thought, “Melio…” His fists tightened.
He thought, “Don’t become someone I have to stop.” The arena fell quiet again.
Another match was coming.
And with every battle, Fruikler Academy was producing something far more dangerous than Elites.
It was producing monsters.