A Novel Concept - A death a day, MC will live anyway!

The fourth changing room lay at the end of the corridor. Louis and Blueberry were already inside, and Arnold and Dishnu joined the group thirty minutes later. Before Priam could exchange a few words with his rivals, a second door slid open, revealing an elevator. The infernal contraption whisked them up to a private suite with a perfect view of the arena below.

The stands were packed. Priam estimated nearly twenty thousand spectators, three-quarters of them elves. As he took his seat, the sun above twisted, morphing into a violet eye. One blink—and the world plunged into absolute black. When the light snapped back a heartbeat later, Hekthorn was hovering twenty meters above the arena floor. Next to him floated an elf with golden hair streaked with pink, and a five-thousand-watt smile.

"My dear compatriots, glory to Knaya!" he roared, raising both arms.

"Glory to Knaya!" came the thunderous reply.

Priam winced. The fanatic gleam in the crowd's eyes made his skin crawl.

The announcer let the ovation settle before speaking again.

"I am Zulkar, and today, let me tell you about the duels set to unfold before your eyes... Among you are the descendants of Gaesert, Snahert, and Aelbe—three Champions from the antepenultimate generation."

Seeing Jasmine frowning in confusion, Priam leaned in and whispered, "That means three generations before us."

Zulkar's smooth voice rang on. "These clans wandered for three thousand years through our ancestral lands. Now, they seek formal asylum. Their forefathers' betrayal and their ancestors' weakness grant them no such rights—" He paused theatrically, prompting the crowd to hiss and boo. "But the sins of the parents are not those of the children—especially when the children seek redemption. Over a month ago, they reported the presence of a condemned Fallen."

This time, the crowd lost its collective mind. Young and old, the elves howled like zealots, every face contorted by a deep hatred.

"What the hell… Did Sumstreh bang their Empress or something?"

"Jasmine, please..." Priam groaned, shooting a glance at the Tier 5 hanging in the sky. He didn't want to die for a bad joke.

Zulkar eventually raised a hand, calling for silence with theatrical flair.

"This good deed grants them a Viscount class land! Unfortunately, tensions between the three tribes still run deep. They refused the offer, claiming coexistence was impossible… It's stupid of them, but what else did we expect?" He mock-sighed.

Priam glanced left toward the neighboring viewing box. Braato and his elite warriors and huntresses were seething, their faces a burning cocktail of shame and fury. To have their dirty laundry aired in front of the entire nation was a slap in the face. Three millennia of war, betrayal, and grudges reduced to a handful of words… Sometimes, oversimplification stripped the truth of its dignity.

"Our magnanimous Demiurge decided to revise the reward. Instead of one Viscount Land, he now offers two Baron Lands! With the necro event underway, that's a true lifeboat. As Land Owners, the victors will gain access to the Infrastructure section of the Sun Shop and be able to purchase necro purification rituals to shield their Tier 4s from the Necromoon's passive corruption. It's the only real shot at long-term survival for these Tier 4 tribes."

Watching the crowd drink in every syllable, Priam realized Zulkar was setting the stage by laying out the stakes.

For the three clans, these duels weren't just sporting events. They were the final sparks of hope for warriors ready to bleed for their people. The victors would return as legends. The losers would hammer the last nail into their family's coffin.

Joy and despair would hit harder—and the elves would sit front row for the tragedy.

Priam felt sick. This was the bloody games of Rome reborn before his eyes. And I'm one of the gladiators.

"To decide their fate: a tournament! As judge, our High Marshall. As audience, you. And as a twist... five Champions!"

Magical fireworks erupted from Priam's balcony, dragging every eye in the arena toward him and his crew.

"Behold the next generation of Champions! Barely four months old, yet already baring their fangs. They'll fight with everything they've got, because in this world, passing up an edge today might just mean dying tomorrow!"

As twenty thousand eyes locked onto him, Priam answered with a calm smile.

Lvl Up: [Ciphered Record] lvl 9
MEM +6
META (Affinity) +6
META (Authority) +15

His grin widened.

"Looks like our Champions are confident," chuckled Zulkar. "Will they be our dark horses, or will the clans prove that three thousand years of legacy can't be outmatched with a few months of ambition? If you're having second thoughts about your bets, now's your last chance," Zulkar teased. "Let the first match begin: Khalienne of the Gaeserts versus Jasmine the Shadow!"

The arena exploded in a wave of cheers and chants. As the noise surged, a soft hand landed on Priam's shoulder.

"What do I do?" Jasmine asked.

"You win," he replied. "Keep your aces hidden—but win."

"Okay!"

The arena's protective bubble peeled open, and Jasmine vaulted from the balcony. Ten meters below, she hit the ground and tucked into a roll. With her attributes and the low gravity, it was overkill—but a decade of training didn't fade overnight.

To her left, the Gaesert huntress landed lightly, knees bent in a controlled motion.

Springing to her feet, Jasmine bounced toward the center of the arena with a carefree gait. The crowd's deafening roar could have shaken most combatants. The assassin just smiled. Contrary to popular belief, Guild members didn't shy away from the spotlight.

After all, the brightest light casts the darkest shadow.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

A white cross marked her starting point. She stepped onto it and raised her arms. At her fingertips, a flicker of Death Aura flared to life, sharp and magnetic—drawing every gaze like a lighthouse in the storm. A lesser user would have employed it to kill the enemy's attention. Jasmine, however, knew that nothing captivated a crowd like death.

Twenty thousand gazes burned into her. She smiled.

"I hope you bet on me!" she shouted, flexing her Charisma.

Lvl Up: [Drop-dead Gorgeous] lvl 8
CHAR +9

The crowd erupted. She had them.

Now, it was time to intimidate her foe.

"I've got nothing against you," Jasmine called to the young woman ten paces away. "But you're going down."

The huntress clutched a curved bow to her chest. Her cyan eyes steeled with resolve, but her fingers trembled. She wasn't used to so many strangers or social pressure. Facing an extrovert, she was already on the back foot.

"Well, well, looks like we've got a fiery spirit tonight! This should be interesting," the announcer shouted. "Let me remind you of the rules: no rules! Go wild, our High Marshal will keep you alive. One last word before we get started, sweethearts?"

"For the Gaeserts," muttered the huntress through clenched teeth. Even with sound amplification, the crowd barely caught it.

"The next time you call me 'sweetheart,' I'll make you eat your own balls," Jasmine said without even glancing at the announcer.

This time, the crowd heard the words loud and clear. Silence hung for half a second, then laughter exploded through the stands. The presenter just smiled, unbothered.

"Begin," commanded the Demiurge.

The Gaesert opened her mouth, and Jasmine leapt to her right. A split second later, a dart grazed her shoulder. Poison.

The assassin coiled herself like a cat. An instant later, her legs uncoiled like springs, and she shot forward, closing the distance.

The huntress was already retreating, but the gap in their physical stats was obvious. Gritting her teeth, she raised her fist and slammed it toward the ground.

Jasmine caught a glimpse of a white ball before a blast of smoke swallowed her opponent whole. She slowed, extending her senses to the nearby shadows.

"Bitch," she hissed, realizing the thick cloud blocked out too much light for her Shadow Sense to work.

A projectile whistled from the smoke, and only Jasmine's bloodline-evolved agility saved her. The arrow crossed the arena and slammed into the far wall with the force of a tank round.

Watching the spiderweb of cracks spread across the stone, she winced. If that hits me, I'm toast.

Jasmine shrugged. Simple solution—don't get hit. Maybe too hard for her Juggernaut boss to grasp, but the Shadow was used to this.

A second shot followed the first, but Jasmine's pulse didn't spike. A surprise only deserved the name the first time it was used.

A dancing step saved her by a hair's breadth. It was close, but the assassin didn't see the point in wasting energy dodging further. The next volley came—seven arrows loosed in the same second. The Shadow smiled, feeling her instincts awaken.

The huntress wasn't a Champion, but a prodigy of an Elysium clan was no pushover.

A side-step, a quarter turn, and a light hop placed Jasmine in a safe trajectory. Then her instinct flared. Narrowing her eyes, she spotted two arrows about to cross midair. Overclocking her arm muscles, the Shadow snatched the closest one mid-flight and hurled it back at the sender.

A detonation shook the smoke. The huntress was using explosive arrows.

The counterstrike must have missed, as another salvo came almost immediately. She's only got one trick? Boring. Let's end this.

The Champion jerked her head upward. Her long hair lifted like in a shampoo commercial, and for an instant, the shadows of a hundred thousand strands appeared on the ground. The assassin's soul resonated with her Concept, and the shadow-needles surged into the smoke. Despite the cloud's size, sheer volume guaranteed at least a hit.

A hundred thousand needles minus one hundred and three exited the other side, pinpointing the enemy's position. Got you.

A warrior might have dived into the smoke to tackle their prey. Jasmine was an assassin.

Lifting a hand, she unclasped the pendant at her neck and slid it into her palm. A press on the central gem unraveled the chain into twenty thin metallic threads. The sixty-centimeter necklace grew to nearly twelve meters.

A quick slipknot later, Jasmine had a lasso that she flung into the smoke. The first cast missed. The second struck something. The tension in the cable confirmed it—she had hit her mark. The Champion pulled while stepping back.

Moments later, the wounded huntress came skidding into view. A hundred holes riddled her body; the shadow-hairs had pierced her defenses.

The crowd erupted, drunk on bloodlust, and Jasmine pouted.

"Well?" she asked the announcer.

The elf clapped his hands. "Victory to—"

"Your opponent hasn't yielded, and is still conscious," the Demiurge interrupted.

Jasmine frowned but strode toward the huntress. The Gaesert's arms were locked behind her by the steel lasso, rendering her unable to rise or fight. Utterly defeated.

Kneeling beside her, Jasmine gently turned the woman's face. Beneath streaked warpaint and tears was a teen. Jasmine suppressed a sigh. She felt like a bully.

"Sorry," the Shadow whispered. "I'm doing this for my boss."

The huntress's eyes sharpened. "And I for my clan."

Then she jerked her head sideways and bit down on one of the arrows in her quiver. The rune-etched shaft resisted for a heartbeat before snapping. The explosion triggered a chain reaction with thirty other rigged arrows. All the ammunition detonated at once.

Despite her young age, the huntress was ready to die for a draw.

The arena shook with a deafening boom. Priam shot to his feet, face twisted by fear and fury. He tried to vault the balcony, but the protective barrier prevented interference. A punch bounced off it, and he roared while grabbing Promesse.

"Clear out!"

[Tribulation Heroic Strike]. [Kinetic Sovereignty].

As most of Oasis's team fled the viewing box to avoid the fallout from the Juggernaut's newest ultimate, the explosion's smoke curled, pushed aside by the blooming of a black rose.

At the heart of the arena, the shadow flower unfurled to a five-meter radius before opening wide. In its heart, no pistil, but a deadly beauty. A few thorny vines barely covered Jasmine's nude but unscathed body. She was glaring upward, eyes burning with fury.

"Was that really fucking necessary?" she spat.

At her feet, a puddle of blood caught Priam's eye. Floating in it were white shards and dark powder. His stomach turned as he recognized bone fragments and ash.

"To disqualify her prior to her complete exertion would have constituted an insult to her valor," the Demiurge said quietly.

"Your fucking honor's worth shit! She was a kid!"

Pride and dread swelled in Priam's chest as he heard his friend speak. You didn't talk like that to an elf whose destructive power rivaled a nuke. However, Jasmine was no longer the assassin who blindly served the powerful.

The High Marshal descended to the ground, locking eyes with the Shadow.

"Not a kid. A warrior. Still, I concur with your assessment; it would be inequitable for her to perish here."

He raised his hand, and Priam's soul wept.

Turning his gaze and perception away, the Champion waited for the feeling to pass before daring to look again. What he saw stunned him.

In the center of the arena, the Demiurge now stood before two young women.

"Victory goes to Jasmine Kaldwin of Oasis," he said calmly. As if he hadn't just brought someone back from the dead. As if he hadn't just toyed with death.

The reverent silence of the masses, Jasmine's shock, the huntress's dazed expression, and the Tier 5's serene confidence… The scene seared itself into Priam's memory, and, far from despairing him, the miracle whispered to his ego.

The Juggernaut burned to reach those heights.

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