The break was short—only one hour to recover. I sat in silence, staring at my hands.
"Narrate," I whispered, "why can't I have a skill to fight? Something real, something strong."
The spirit's voice was calm. "Because your gift is luck. If you keep winning, it will evolve. That is the path to becoming a powerful hero."
The king's voice thundered across the arena.
"Next match: Dransart versus Alovent Disor, the enchanter of durability."
Meanwhile, in his chamber, Alovent prepared.
"Dransart defeated Clever and Bange," his subordinate warned.
Alovent sneered. "Troublesome. I'll take the medicine to crush him."
"Which medicine, boss?"
"The one that strengthens my body. Don't you know?"
The arena filled with cheers as the match began.
Alovent's body shimmered with his Undegradable Body skill, each strike bouncing harmlessly. I dodged, weaving through his attacks, relying on perspective and instinct.
Then, my hidden talent stirred. Lucky Looter. My hand brushed his pouch, stealing the medicine.
Alovent noticed, snatched it back, and swallowed it. His eyes gleamed—until his body faltered. His mighty skill failed.
Narrate's voice explained, "He mistook the medicine. It lowered his MP instead of boosting his strength."
I seized the moment, channeling every ounce of power into a final blow. My sword struck, and Alovent fell.
The crowd roared, but the king's gaze was cold. He did not like what he saw.
"One hour until the next round," the king announced. "Prepare yourselves, hero candidates."
I hurried to my room, but a stranger blocked my path.
"Who do you think he is?" a subordinate muttered.
"A hero candidate who fights bravely," another replied.
The stranger silenced them. "Enough. I am Sanot Izu Nuvair, alchemist. I don't waste time. Move aside."
I frowned. "Narrate, what's an alchemist?"
"An intelligence-based class. They can cast all sorts of magic. Judging by his name… he's royal."
I shrugged. "Royal or not, I need sleep." And I closed my eyes.
The semi-final arrived.
Sanot stood across from me, his sword glowing. He unleashed fireballs, the blade channeling magic. I dodged, rolling across the arena floor.
The ground shook as he used Ground Breaking. Dust and stone erupted, but I leapt high, landing behind him. My sword pressed against his neck.
The king raised his hand. "Dransart is the winner."
Narrate whispered, "Alchemists are powerful in magic, but weak in one-on-one combat. By forcing him into submission, you denied his healing skill. You won… by wit, not strength."
The crowd erupted. I had reached the final round.
Dransart, the newcomer, stands at the edge of destiny. Will luck crown him hero—or will fate demand a heavier price?