Surviving These Unfair Scenarios [LITRPG - DIMENSION HOPPING]

The Coliseum skybox buzzed with renewed tension, a stark contrast between the two teams. Angela, Drake, and Katya stood watching, their faces a mix of profound shock and growing apprehension. The score, [Noob Reapers: 3 - D/W/N/O: 2], now blazed on the main screen, a grim testament to Magnus Thorne's cunning and overwhelming power. Kazue, having just been defeated, lay unconscious on a plush chair, his breathing ragged, but his body already completely recovered under the system's quick healing. Katya, with her eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and mounting dread, was the most worried, kneeling beside the motionless body of her friend. Even Meera, still somewhat recovering from her own brutal match, managed to shift, painstakingly making space for Kazue beside her. At the same time, Katya did not leave her side, like a silent and fierce guardian.

Angela and Drake spoke briefly, their voices low and grim. The girl's expression was one of resignation, her mind already calculating the bleak odds that loomed before them.

"This is it, then."

She murmured, her gaze fixed on the main arena floor, not truly seeing the empty space.

"The inevitable conclusion, I guess. We knew this was the most probable outcome from the very beginning, didn't we?"

On the other hand, Drake, with his face etched with exhaustion and a profound weariness, could find no words of encouragement. He merely sighed, a heavy sound, his gaze distant.

"Yeah."

He replied, his voice rough.

"We just... kept trying until the end."

Shortly after, Magnus Thorne was swiftly transported to his skybox, his formidable form already showing signs of healing, his previous injuries fading into nothingness as he absorbed the Coliseum's restorative energies. He was received amidst a chorus of praise and triumphant shouts from the members of his team, their cheers echoing across the vast arena. Moyan watched him from a distance, his charismatic smile unwavering, though a subtle, unreadable glint flickered in his eyes.

The main system board displayed a massive holographic image, initiating the mechanical process of drawing the next fighters. Its carousel of images spun rapidly, blurring the faces of the remaining combatants. However, before the random draw could finish, Moyan moved. He extended an arm into the air and a luminous system window materialized directly in front of him.

The system window pulsed, its text blazing, overriding the random selection process. Moyan's image, previously just one among many, was instantly forced into the draw of combatants, highlighted, and then designated as the next fighter, replacing whatever random selection had been underway. A ripple of surprise went through Magnus's team, their cheers faltering as the unexpected intervention unfolded before them.

Angela furrowed her brow in confusion and turned to Moyan, looking at him with a sharp and analytical gaze.

"Moyan, why did you do that?"

She asked, her voice tight with bewilderment.

"You're the only one left from our side capable of fighting anyway. There are no other fighters left for our team."

Her words, rapid and precise, laid bare the seeming futility of his action. Moyan, however, merely looked at her, his smile unwavering.

"That's not entirely accurate. Analyze the format a little more closely."

He stated calmly with a smooth voice, then paused, allowing his words to sink in.

"The format is 'best of seven'. That implies a maximum of seven fights, yes. However, if you tally our remaining capable combatants versus theirs… you will find a discrepancy."

Drake, his body still aching with some lingering exhaustion, pushed himself upright, his eyes widening as he followed Moyan's logic.

"He's right!"

The blond exclaimed, a sudden realization dawning on him.

"There are only six of us: me, you, Angela, Katya, Meera, and Kazue."

He looked at Moyan, then back at the main screen.

"That means we didn't have enough fighters to complete the series anyway. Even if Moyan wins now, we'd still be one fighter short for the seventh match."

A cold dread settled in his stomach. The trap had been far deeper than they realized. Moyan merely chuckled, a low, knowing sound.

"Oh, but that's where you're both mistaken."

He corrected, his smile widening, his gaze sweeping over the group.

"There is someone else. You simply haven't accounted for him."

His hand rose, and with a deliberate gesture, he pointed directly at Falk perched innocently on Drake's head. The mechanical bird, who had been quietly observing the proceedings, whirred, his optical sensors blinking rapidly. He tilted his head, letting out a surprised series of clicks and whistles.

"Me?"

He chirped, his mechanical voice filled with utter bewilderment.

"But I am merely a mechanical familiar, so to speak! I'm not even a user, and my combat capabilities are negligible. Am I even accounted for this?"

His gears whirred in a comical display of mechanical embarrassment. Moyan nodded, his expression one of profound, almost sympathetic understanding.

"Indeed, little bird. That, I believe, was the largest hidden trap of this entire wager. That was the primary reason Magnus Thorne opted to participate twice and ensure three victories for his team."

His gaze hardened slightly.

"Eventually, one win would be almost automatically gained against Falk, an automatic victory to secure the best-of-seven, ensuring his team's triumph."

Falk, hearing this, emitted a series of rapid whirs, his mechanical mind processing the humiliation, his shame palpable despite his artificial nature, embarrassed that he had not discerned such a simple, basic trap himself. Angela's face paled. She quickly calculated the implications.

"Then it changes nothing."

She murmured, her voice tight with frustration.

"Even if you win this match, Moyan, we still lose the overall wager because of Falk's guaranteed defeat. We still don't have a seventh fighter."

Her mind saw no escape. Moyan's smile, however, held a new, profound confidence, a glint of something utterly unfathomable.

"Oh, but do not worry."

He assured them, his voice calm and reassuring, cutting through their despair.

"I have a plan. You all have done enough already."

And before Angela or Drake could ask any more questions, before they could demand an explanation for his audacious claim, Moyan's body shimmered. A blinding flash of light enveloped him, and he was instantly transported to the combat arena below, leaving the skybox in stunned silence…

The Coliseum pulsed with renewed anticipation as two new system screens materialized above the arena, announcing the next clash.

Opposite Moyan, a new member of the 'Noob Reapers' materialized. This was Thomas Sáenz, a man of imposing height and slender build, with hair so long and unkempt that it completely obscured his face. He walked barefoot, his ripped jeans and oversized white shirt giving him a disheveled, almost wild appearance.

He held a pair of wickedly sharp scissors in each of his elongated hands, their metallic surfaces gleaming under the arena lights. Thomas appeared laughing, a high-pitched, almost manic cackle that grated on the nerves, and he immediately began to mock Moyan. His voice, thin and cruel, filled the arena with contempt.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

He drawled, his hidden face conveying immense disdain.

"Another piece of trash from the team of nobodies? You look even weaker than the last two. Pathetic. Do you even know what you've gotten yourself into?"

He spun his scissors, their blades catching the light, a promise of pain.

"This will be over even faster than the last two defeats."

Moyan, however, did not respond. He simply stood in the center of the arena, his posture relaxed, his charming smile unwavering, his gaze fixed on Thomas with an unnerving intensity. He offered no retort, merely an impassive, yet utterly confident, silence.

The Coliseum's announcer, his booming voice echoing through the vast space, began the countdown.

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"Welcome, esteemed users, to the sixth match of our best-of-seven wager!"

The voice thundered.

"On my left, from the formidable team 'Noob Reapers', we have Thomas Sáenz! And on my right, from the... from 'Outsiders', we present [ERROR: NAME CORRUPTED]... Moyan Varrick!"

Thomas Sáenz merely cackled, his voice filled with sadistic glee, sensing Moyan's lack of response as fear.

"Oh, I can tell you're scared, little man."

He hissed, his voice echoing in the arena.

"You should be. See these?"

He raised his two pairs of gleaming scissors, their blades clashing with a sharp snip.

"These are 'The Scissors of Destiny', Rank A. They cut more than just flesh, you see. They cut through fate itself. And unlike the petty rules of this Coliseum, these can affect you even outside the system's range. So don't expect a simple 'Critical Damage' to save you from what's coming. I'll make sure you feel every cut, every snip, every moment of your defeat."

His voice was low, filled with a promise of prolonged agony, his body trembling with sadistic anticipation for the combat to begin.

The combat began. Thomas raised his two pairs of scissors, his long hair thrashing and their blades gleaming under the arena lights, prepared to strike. His body tensed, coiled for a devastating lunge with the promise of pain etched on his hidden face. But before he could even register the initiation of his own attack, and even before his sharpened blades could begin their descent, Moyan was already there. His movement was a blur so impossibly fast that no eye in the Coliseum, not even the enhanced vision of Magnus in his skybox, could track it. No one saw him move; all that registered was the sudden, overwhelming impact.

Moyan's fist was already directly in Thomas's face. The man only managed a strangled, bewildered gasp.

"Eh?"

A sound cut short as the blow landed with a sickening CRACK! The impact was absolute, a concussive force that shattered bone and muscle, sending Thomas spinning backward violently. His tall, slender body rotated through the air, completely out of control, tumbling head over heels with such force that he completed several dizzying revolutions before finally collapsing onto the polished arena floor. He lay there motionless, his body unresponsive, and utterly defeated.

Immediately, two system screens materialized in the air above his prostrate form, blazing with definitive green text.

A profound, absolute silence descended upon the Coliseum. The roar of the distant crowd, the hum of the arena, all seemed to vanish, replaced by the deafening quiet of disbelief. Thomas's unconscious body shimmered, dissolving into fine, iridescent dust that scattered and vanished, instantly returning to his skybox. Magnus and his entire team were utterly incredulous, their faces frozen in masks of shock and bewilderment. Their absolute confidence, their casual arrogance, was momentarily shattered by the instant, brutal display of power.

But Moyan was not finished. He stood calmly in the center of the arena with his hand still extended from the punch. He then slowly recoiled and extended his other arm again, his hand moving with a precise, deliberate motion, and once more, a system window materialized before him.

In that instant, with a blinding flash of light, Magnus was forcibly teleported from his skybox. His colossal form materialized in the center of the arena, directly opposite Moyan, his previous shock giving way to bewildered fury, as the sudden, unexpected teleportation caught him completely off guard.

The Coliseum's automatic announcer, its voice glitching and momentarily stuttering, began to present the two combatants once more. Magnus, regaining his composure and clenching his jaw, looked at Moyan, his gaze sharp and questioning.

"What is this?"

He demanded, his voice a low growl.

"Why are you doing this? Why bring me here, specifically, when you're clearly so powerful? You could have selected anyone else for the final fight!"

He paused, his tactical mind trying to comprehend the illogical move.

"And even if you intended to face me from the start, why challenge me to a duel now, after I've fully healed? The logical play would have been to challenge me immediately after my previous combat, when I was tired and wounded, to make it an easy win for you!"

His words were a blend of confusion and accusation. Moyan merely offered a small, sarcastic laugh, a sound that held no amusement, only a subtle contempt. He shook his head.

"Do you truly believe me so stupid?"

The boy's voice was smooth, cutting, yet utterly calm.

"Do you truly believe I wouldn't know that a man like you would have sufficient Plot Devices to avoid such unfavorable situations?"

His smile widened with a weird glint in his eyes. He implied Magnus would have found a way to escape a challenge if he had been vulnerable.

The opponent leader's eyes widened, then a wide, malevolent smile stretched across his face, his lips curling in genuine, if dark, amusement. He threw his head back and laughed, a booming, unrestrained sound.

"Hah! You caught me!"

He boomed, his voice filled with a genuine appreciation for Moyan's tactical foresight.

"You are quite right! Even if you had tried such a trick, even if you had challenged me then, I would have had my way. I could have simply moved to my skybox with a Plot Device, or interfered with the last combat to ensure my participation anyway! So, in the end, it would have been the same! Your grand plan would have amounted to nothing!"

His laughter boomed, a declaration of his own cunning. The automatic announcer's voice, still glitching slightly, began the final countdown for this unexpected, forced duel.

Magnus began to prepare himself, his massive form tensing, his arms flexing. His grin, though still wide, held a new edge, a hint of genuine excitement for the power Moyan had just displayed.

"Who are you, by the way?"

He rumbled, his voice low and demanding.

"This team, 'Outsiders', means nothing to me; never heard of them. But you… you are clearly an extremely powerful user. It's unusual to see such a powerful individual outside the most famous teams."

Moyan merely rolled up his sleeves, his movements fluid and unhurried. His gaze remained fixed on his opponent, his smile unchanged.

"I have nothing to say to someone like you."

He replied calmly, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

"But the reason I wished to fight you, in particular, is because I have a score to settle with you."

Magnus laughed, a booming sound that filled the arena.

"A score to settle? Ha!"

He boomed, a glint of predatory amusement in his eyes.

"Is this revenge? Was your team one of the countless others we, the 'Noob Reapers', have destroyed?"

He mocked the idea, attempting to provoke Moyan, knowing that destabilizing an opponent emotionally, especially by inducing excessive anger or rage, was a tactical advantage. He watched for any flicker of emotion and any sign of weakness. Moyan, however, remained utterly calm. He merely shook his head slowly.

"No. In fact, this is the first time I have ever met you or your team."

His voice was serene, an eerie counterpoint to Magnus's taunts. The man, genuinely confused, frowned.

"Then why this 'revenge' against me?"

He demanded. Moyan's eyes, usually so bright with charisma, hardened into cold, unwavering points of light.

"I wouldn't call it revenge. Merely... a settling of accounts."

Suddenly, as the counter hit 0, Moyan's body exploded with an immense, blinding surge of energy, so potent that Magnus, despite his immense power, involuntarily took several staggering steps backward. His eyes widened, his jaw dropping in genuine stupefaction as he processed the raw force emanating from the guy. He instantly recognized the power, a presence he had only ever seen from one source.

"Wait!"

Magnus gasped, his voice a raw whisper.

"Don't tell me..."

Several system windows, blazing with stark, green text, materialized directly in front of Moyan Varrick, confirming Magnus's terrifying realization.

As Moyan's power continued to surge, intensifying with blinding speed, Magnus barely managed to regain his composure.

"How is this possible?!"

He demanded, his voice a raw roar of disbelief, filled with a desperate need for answers.

"That's an Authority! I recognize that power! But only members of 'Team Eden' wield an Authority! Who the fuck are you?!"

His mind raced, grappling with the impossible reality. Moyan merely met Magnus's furious gaze, his own eyes now glowing with an ethereal light. His voice, calm and tranquil, yet infused with a chilling, profound bitterness, filled the arena.

"I am no one important."

He stated simply, a casual dismissal of his true identity.

"I am merely here to ensure you pay for your actions."

Magnus roared, his confusion turning to fury.

"What are you talking about?! What have I done?!"

Moyan's gaze hardened further, his voice dropping, taking on a tone of quiet, yet absolute, contempt.

"You severely hurt and mock someone very important to me."

He replied, his words laced with a clear, undeniable bitterness.

"Even if she doesn't remember."