A frail girl made her grand entrance.
Dressed in a blood-red gown, adorned like a flower in full bloom, she seemed less a duelist and more a picnicker.
Her short, wavy black hair held a single forlorn crimson bloom of the Scarlet Lotus. Eyes like pigeon’s blood lay still as a stagnant pond. Her delicate features were heaven’s gift—but paid for with a broken body.
She was painfully small…
Malnourishment bleached her skin. Her skeletal frame looked ready to scatter in the wind.
Like a wounded dove with snapped wings, she drifted into the arena—pure, beautiful, helpless…
Yet her opponent was Tyrant Tyran, the arena king with 311 consecutive victories.
Tyran spared no mercy for challengers.
“Fight,” he boomed. “I shall grant you exquisite pain… then an honorable death.”
His massive, bandage-wrapped hand rose slowly, index finger pressing his chest.
His ritual before every duel to the death. Even for this fragile girl, he offered a warrior’s highest tribute: respect.
“Will my death please Master?”
The black-haired girl adjusted her slipping black suit jacket. Beneath it, the blood-red gown left her porcelain legs bare—slender as reeds, exposed to the gritty wind.
Her voice was faint, as small as her 160cm frame before Tyran’s 240cm bulk.
Lenna could’ve snapped those twig-like legs with one hand…
“What odds do you give her?”
“Me?” Jonathan blinked.
The answer was obvious. How could a winless rookie girl defeat a hulking veteran with 300+ wins?
Bets had skewed wildly from the start. No one believed she’d survive.
But Jonathan bit his tongue. He’d seen Lenna’s unusual interest. “Do you… know her?”
If she was Tyran’s lover—or worse—and died here, the whole arena would burn.
Lenna shrugged, indifferent. “Never seen her before.”
Truly. She never memorized faces. This lost fledgling meant nothing to her.
“Frankly… she can’t win,” Jonathan admitted, heart pounding.
This meant the arena would ignore Lenna’s status and run the duel fairly.
Lenna’s lips curled. She sank deeper into her leather sofa. “I agree. But let’s watch. There might be… surprises.”
*Ding-ding—*
The bell rang. Game on.
Tyran didn’t move. He stood rooted like a mountain.
One minute passed…
Two minutes…
Gamblers in the stands grew restless. They craved man against man—blood, sweat, fury. Who let this featherless chick into the ring?!
Drink cartons rained onto the sand. Shouts swelled into a riot…
Jonathan stared at the motionless pair, realization dawning. “She—”
“He’s dead,” Lenna finished.
Yes. Tyran stood frozen, finger still on his chest—mid-ritual. A coin-sized hole pierced his heart. No one saw it happen.
“How?!” Jonathan gasped.
“Special weapon,” Lenna mused. “Hidden in her dress, hair, pockets… even inside her body. Frontier outposts overflow with magic-powered kill-tools disguised as trinkets. Child’s play.”
Curiosity sparked in her. Only a Hero could slaughter a top-tier fighter in one strike. Had she… concealed her power?
“Bring her to me. If possible.”
“The arena guards challengers’ identities. I’m afraid—” Jonathan feigned reluctance.
“Then return my stake. Consider the bet… a gift, Mr. Jonathan. Acceptable?”
A force deeper than greed pulled Lenna toward that girl. Missing this chance would haunt her forever…
***
Backstage, Lenna found the blood-gowned girl. Up close, her starvation was visceral—sticks for limbs, skin stretched over bone.
“I’m Lenna.”
“Master,” the girl whispered, voice thin and accented, straining to be heard. “Have I offended you? I’ll leave immediately…”
She called Lenna “Master”—a regional habit. Not from Almeria.
*Like Lingling tried to…*
Lenna’s pulse jumped. *Her homeland!*
She seized the girl’s wrist. “Your name? Home? Why duel? How did you kill him—”
Questions tumbled out.
The girl paled further, a sickly flush blooming beneath the pallor.
“Master… your hand…”
Lenna released her, softening her tone. “Forgive me. This matters deeply. I lost control.”
“I’m… Minas, Master.” The girl answered honestly, unafraid.
*Minas.*
The name echoed in Lenna’s mind—familiar, yet buried. She only remembered those tied to her own story.
“My home… is gone. My younger siblings need money. I had no choice…” Minas’s crimson eyes trembled. “Master… have I committed a crime?”
She knew Imperial soldiers would shatter her family. This stranger might be dangerous—but also a lifeline.
Minas steeled herself.
“Master… look.”
She limped forward, shrugging off her suit jacket.
Scars—rust-brown and jagged—covered her back. Her starved body swayed, shoulder blades jutting like phantom wings.
“With your noble status… please don’t let the soldiers take me.”
In the empty corridor, the half-dressed girl wrapped her arms around the gray-haired woman. Her fingers clasped lightly behind Lenna’s waist—careful not to soil the fine fabric, careful not to cling too tight.
“I can do anything, Master… anything you desire.”
Her whisper hung in the dusty air.
