The tension hung thick in the air as Lucy and Seth leaned their weapons against a nearby rock.
"No weapons this time," Seth said with a confident grin, as if to prove he didn't need steel to win.
Lucy frowned, mentally bracing himself for hand-to-hand combat—something he wasn't entirely sure he was ready for, but couldn't refuse either.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Seth asked, cracking his knuckles. "I wouldn't want to accidentally break you."
"Touching," Lucy replied, his voice steady. "But I'm already broken, so no pressure."
An awkward murmur ran through the group. Some of the girls on the team looked at Seth as if he'd just stepped out of a romance novel: tall, strong, with that heroic confidence that seemed to shine on its own.
"Come on, Seth! You got this!" one of them shouted, hands shaped like a heart.
Lucy slightly turned his head toward the voice.
"Wow, he hasn't even won yet and already has a fan club. Hope they at least bring banners."
Seth scowled. He clearly wasn't used to being taken lightly.
"You're looking for me to take you seriously, huh?"
"I'm looking for the floor. If I see it, maybe I'll throw myself down and save you the trouble."
No warning. Seth moved like a golden lightning bolt, precise and deadly toward his target. Lucy barely reacted, raising his arms and sidestepping. He felt air whip past his face. A clean strike. Terrifyingly fast.
He wasn't playing around.
Lucy stepped back, measuring distances with careful steps. Seth gave no rest; his attacks were constant, rhythmic, almost choreographed. It was obvious he had trained. He knew how to fight. Damn, he was the protagonist of this story.
Still, Lucy wasn't just decoration.
On the third charge, Lucy ducked low. He rolled on the ground, scraping his arm against the stone, and pulled a small vial of dirt from his pocket. He'd improvised the idea after breakfast, just in case things got ugly. And ugly they had from the start.
"What are you doing with that?" Seth asked, pausing for a second.
Lucy didn't answer. He smashed the vial and threw dirt into the air in front of him. It wasn't magic. Not a spell. Just dirt. But enough to distract the senses.
Seth coughed, covering his eyes with an arm.
That was the moment.
He lunged forward, pivoted on one foot, and with all the strength he could muster in his heel, struck Seth's abdomen. The sound was sharp. He flew back several meters, landing on his back, and silence reigned for a second.
The crowd froze.
Lucy was breathing heavily, shoulders raised, trying to control the trembling in his hands. His leg hurt—whether from the effort or nerves, he wasn't sure.
"He… he knocked him down?" someone whispered.
A couple of girls who had been cheering for Seth now looked at him with a mix of concern and disappointment. Lucy smiled.
"Don't worry," he said between breaths. "He'll probably get up with a motivational speech and sparkly eyes."
As if called by his words, Seth growled. Slowly, he got up, clutching his stomach, eyes darkened. His wounded pride burned hotter than the blow.
"That was dirty," he spat.
"Not personal. I just don't like losing without at least kicking you once."
But Lucy wasn't ready for what came next. Seth surged forward with renewed speed and a more visceral fury. Lucy barely took a step back when a fist slammed hard into his head.
The world blurred.
The pain was instant, sharp, like a giant bell exploding inside his skull. He staggered, unbalanced, as the crowd's murmurs turned to screams.
"Lucy!" Ren tried to run to him, but two guards stopped him.
Everything crumbled. The ground seemed to float. Voices echoed distantly.
"Idiot…" a nearby voice murmured. Irina. Angry or worried? He didn't know. It was the last thing he heard before falling.
Darkness.
Silence.
Waking up was like a Monday with a hangover: confusing, dark, and with a headache that sounded like a percussion orchestra in his brain.
Lucy opened his eyes—or thought he did. Everything was black. He stretched out a hand and touched something sticky. Then something metallic. Then something that squeaked. He yanked his hand back with a scream.
"Was that a rat or some damn magical creature!?"
He tried to sit up, but the world spun like a rollercoaster designed by a psychopathic ADHD patient.
"Well… I'm alive. I think. Although I wouldn't rule out that this is hell and they put me in the recycling corner."
He felt his head, noticing a big lump at the back. Definitely not a nightmare. The fight, the blow, the "hero" of dirty hits… it was all real.
Feeling around, he found bags, glass, pieces of something that once was food. And a smell… a terrible smell of old trash and rot.
"Where the hell am I?" he asked, expecting no answer but secretly hoping for something less growly.
The place was damp, dark, and looked more like a dump than a cell. No voices, no footsteps, no Gregorian chants from any priestess. Not even Ren. Nothing. Just the echo of his breathing and the occasional squeak.
"Perfect. From summoning hall… to mystical sewer. What an inspiring evolution."
He crawled a bit, feeling walls, searching for an exit, a door, a crack, anything that said: "this is how you leave the hero's trash dump." But there was nothing. Only cold and stink.
He sighed, leaning his back against a pile of bags or whatever.
"Right, the weakling in the group gets betrayed and thrown into a dark, trash-filled place. How original. Never seen that before. This really breaks the mold," he said with a sarcastic grimace.
"Next step: find a legendary magical artifact among the rubble or unlock some hidden power deep in my soul. Because obviously… the system rewards misery, right?"
He kicked something metallic.
"Is this a helmet? A chamber pot? Doesn't matter, I'll wear it and if it glows, it's mine."
He paused and sighed.
"Honestly… if someone offers me a power with a ridiculous name like 'Darkness Mode of Pain' or 'Outcast Instinct,' I'll take it. But conditions apply: it better come with heating and betrayal repellent."
A squeak made him stop. Maybe a rat. Maybe worse. Maybe a "secret boss" unlocking part two of the tutorial.
"Anyway," he huffed, "welcome to the cliché underworld of magical trash, where everything smells bad and your dignity goes down the drain. Great. I'm sure this will end very well."
With a mix of resignation and sarcasm, Lucy moved forward—blind, bruised, surrounded by garbage—but with a crooked smile on his face.
After all, if this world wanted to follow the script, it better be ready for what happens when the secondary character stops playing by the rules.