The World Is Mine For The Taking

"Yeah, I think that man's going to lose," Trill said. She shared the same sentiment as Titania. Both of them had already written off the thin man, convinced this fight was another dull prelude to defeat.

Their assumption wasn't entirely unwarranted. The thin man dodged the massive brute's attacks by the barest margins, his body twisting and hurling itself out of the way in desperate arcs. Each time, he threw his entire body out of harm's way, making it look like he was just barely scraping by. Every move looked reckless, chaotic, and entirely unsustainable.

"I'll give it a minute before it's over," a spectator said with a shrug, arms crossed.

"Yeah, there's no way that guy's pulling off a win. Not when he's scrambling around like a cornered rat."

"Goddammit," another spectator muttered under his breath, frustration boiling over. "Another boring-ass match. Can't they give us something with actual stakes? This is just some low-tier bullshit."

The crowd mirrored their sentiment, restless murmurs and groans spreading through the arena like a ripple of discontent.

"You're both so wrong," came Yr's voice, muffled by her usual drowsiness. She had just woken up and leaned against me, still looking half-asleep. Drool dripped lazily from her mouth onto the back of my neck.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Titania asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't get it," Yr replied, her sleepy eyes fixed on the fight. "If you're only watching what's on the surface, then you're completely missing the point."

Titania blinked, tilting her head like a confused puppy. Continue reading on My Virtual Library Empire

I knew what Yr meant, though. The thin man wasn't struggling—far from it. His every movement was deliberate, calculated. What looked like reckless flailing was actually controlled precision. He wasn't wasting energy; he was using just enough effort to dodge each swing, staying one step ahead. He was luring his opponent into a false sense of dominance.

And then, the turning point came.

The huge man overcommitted. His massive blade swung down with such force that it slammed into the platform, the stone shattering on impact. The tip lodged deep into the ground, refusing to budge no matter how hard the brute yanked at the hilt.

In that moment of vulnerability, the thin man's lips curled into a wicked grin. His figure blurred, vanishing like a wisp of smoke.

The next instant, a human head rolled across the bloodstained platform. The huge man's severed skull hit the ground with a sickening thud, his eyes still wide in shock, uncomprehending of the fate that had befallen him. A geyser of crimson erupted from the stump, painting the stone platform in viscous red arcs.

The thin man stood over his lifeless opponent, his blade glistening with fresh blood.The huge man was dead. The thin man had won.

Titania and Trill stared in stunned silence. The crowd, too, was paralyzed—silent except for the faint gasps of disbelief.

Killing might have been prohibited in the tournament, but everyone knew the rules were little more than a flimsy suggestion. The only consequence the thin man would face was disqualification—hardly a punishment for the spectacle he'd just delivered. The most the tournament committee would do was disqualify him—nothing more. This was, after all, a battle.

"Oops," the thin man said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity as he let his sword clatter to the ground. He raised his hands in a faux gesture of innocence, his grin widening into something devilishly smug. "My hand slipped. My bad."

Then, instead of screams of horror echoing through the crowd, cheers erupted, loud and jubilant. It was almost surreal, the way these people celebrated what was, by all definitions, cold-blooded murder. A man had just been decapitated in broad daylight, yet the crowd roared with approval.

But this was a battle. A tournament, yes, but ultimately a blood-soaked contest where lives were currency and death was always part of the equation. Bloodshed wasn't just a possibility—it was an expectation.

And so, even though it was murder, the people cheered.

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" a man in the crowd shouted, his voice filled with excitement.

"I thought this sword festival was going to be a complete snoozefest! Finally, some real entertainment!"

"This has been boring as fuck so far! I'm glad someone had the guts to spice it up!"

For these spectators, the thin man's victory—and his victim's gruesome death—was nothing more than a thrilling performance. The fact that someone had just died was meaningless. It wasn't personal; it was a spectacle.

The thin man stood on the platform, his bloodied sword discarded, and gave a theatrical bow, his movements exaggerated and mocking. He looked down at the crowd like an actor soaking in the applause, his grin never faltering.

Meanwhile, the referee glanced at the corpse of the hulking man, sprawled lifeless with his severed neck still oozing blood. Yet even he didn't seem disturbed. If anything, he appeared... amused, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips.

"Killing is prohibited," the referee finally announced, though his tone lacked any real conviction. "The rules state that anyone who breaks this will be disqualified from the tournament."

"My bad," the thin man said, raising a hand in mock apology, his voice smooth and unapologetic. "I didn't think my blade would actually go all the way through. I was aiming to stop just before his neck, but... you know, my hand slipped. Maybe we can figure something out so I'm not eliminated?"

"Don't eliminate him!" a spectator cried out, their voice ringing with desperation. "He's the only one who made this boring shit worth watching!"

"Yeah! Let him stay!" others echoed, their voices joining in a chaotic chorus of agreement.

I could understand, in a way, why they acted like this. To them, the dead man was just another nameless face. They didn't care about him because they didn't know him. But still, their excitement over someone's death was deeply unsettling.

"The rules are the rules," the referee finally said, his smile fading as he addressed the crowd. "As such, he is eliminated from the tournament effective immediately."

The spectators booed loudly, their disappointment almost palpable. It was a sickening display, this hunger for more blood, more death. Humans, at their core, were no better than beasts.

"I feel like I'm going to puke," Titania whispered, her hand covering her mouth as her other clutched at her stomach. Her face was pale, and her eyes trembled with unease.

Seeing her like that, I decided enough was enough. It was clear this had been too much for her to handle, especially after nearly losing her own life in yesterday's match. I didn't want her mental state to spiral further, so I placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go," I said softly.

Without another glance at the arena, we left, leaving behind the bloodthirsty crowd and the twisted spectacle they so desperately craved.

***

Myrcella's POV

I was summoned to the throne room by my father. I didn't know why, but it sounded urgent. Walking beside me was Angelica, my loyal knight. Ever since the cultist group, Eclipse, attacked, she had devoted herself entirely to me, swearing to protect me with her life. Now, she was practically glued to my side, working tirelessly around the clock. Even when I was in my room, she stood guard just outside. Her determination and loyalty were unmatched.

But gods, I wished she'd ease up a little. While I admired her sincerity, having her constantly hovering around me felt suffocating at times. I didn't want her to burn out—or worse, feel trapped by the oath she'd sworn. I'd asked her countless times if she wanted some free time or if there was something else she'd rather do, but she always declined.

She refused to leave my side, adamant about keeping me safe. "I won't let any harm come to you," she'd say, her expression resolute.

All I could do was sigh, though deep down, I was grateful for her. She wasn't wrong to be cautious. Lately, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was plotting against me. Even in my own home, I didn't feel safe. The thought of enemies lurking within the castle walls was terrifying.

At one point, I'd even entertained the idea that my father might be behind it. But no, that didn't seem likely. He wouldn't make such a reckless move so early in the game. If there was a plot brewing, it had to be aimed at overthrowing the entire royal family of Milham.

This wasn't the time to dwell on it, though. Father had sent a maid to fetch me, insisting I come immediately. He rarely used the word immediately, so whatever this was, it had to be serious.

When I entered the throne room, the atmosphere was tense. Soldiers from another kingdom were present, their armor gleaming under the light. Standing in front of them was a man I didn't recognize.

He wasn't muscular by any means, but there was something unnerving about him. His wicked grin stretched across his face, smug and confident. His long, shaggy hair looked unkempt, adding to his disheveled appearance. I couldn't place him, but everything about him screamed trouble.