Draven's crimson eyes narrowed.
Not at the ogre.
At what lay beneath it.
Beyond flesh.
Beyond bone.
Beyond instinct.
Deeper.
Every movement the beast made—
every pulse of mana through its limbs—
every tightening muscle—
every subtle shift in pressure—
Draven saw it.
Not with sight.
With instinct sharpened into something far more cruel.
The ogre roared.
Its massive frame surged forward again.
Its fist dropped like a falling boulder.
Draven moved.
A blur.
The ground where he had stood detonated into shattered stone and dust.
But he was already gone from it.
Already to the side.
One hand skimmed the floor as he pivoted low, sliding beneath the ogre's reach with effortless control.
The second arm swept across instantly—trying to catch him in the rebound.
Too slow.
Draven ducked beneath it.
His chain snapped behind him with a metallic hiss as he shifted position again.
The chamber thundered with each collision of force.
The ogre pressed relentlessly.
Left.
Right.
Downward smash.
Backhand.
Kick.
Each strike carried enough force to crush a vehicle.
Each impact split stone apart.
But Draven continued moving.
Not retreating.
Circling.
Studying.
The ogre's red eyes burned brighter as mana surged more violently through its body.
Frustration crept in.
And with it—carelessness.
Its next swing widened.
Heavier. Less precise.
Draven's eyes sharpened.
There.
Just beneath the sternum.
Slightly to the left.
Deep.
The mana current twisted unnaturally at that point, feeding outward into every limb.
The core.
The ogre roared and brought both fists down together.
Draven vanished forward.
Not away.
Into it.
He slipped between the descending blows as the impact detonated behind him, the shockwave ripping across the chamber and tearing his shirt further.
Blood sprayed from shallow cuts along his shoulder—
Already closing.
Already healing.
The ogre's eyes widened for the first time.
Draven was inside its guard.
Too close.
His foot planted firmly.
Stone cracked beneath him.
His chain coiled tightly around his forearm with a metallic shriek.
Then—
Draven drove his fist forward.
No flourish.
No sound.
Only intent.
Pure.
Focused.
Violent.
His fist sank into the ogre's abdomen.
Not through flesh alone—
but through everything.
The sound was wrong.
A deep, wet, cracking rupture echoed through the chamber.
The ogre's entire body locked in place.
Its roar died instantly in its throat.
Its eyes bulged as blood spilled from its mouth.
Because Draven's arm had buried itself to the elbow.
Straight into its core region.
Silence fell.
For half a second, the entire chamber seemed to forget how to breathe.
Then—
**BOOOOOOOOM.**
Draven pulled his arm back out.
Blood and shattered tissue erupted outward in a violent burst.
The ogre's massive body collapsed immediately.
A sound like a mountain falling followed as it hit the ground.
BOOOOM.
The arena went completely silent.
Not because anyone had been ordered to.
But because no one could process what they had just witnessed.
An A-rank ogre.
Dead.
Not worn down.
Not exhausted.
Not outmaneuvered.
Destroyed.
By a boy.
A child who had never once released visible mana.
Whispers spread through the stands like fractures in glass.
"…That's impossible…"
"…He didn't cast anything…"
"…Was that reinforcement?"
"…No aura at all…"
Above them, the observation orb continued to hover.
Recording everything.
Watching.
Draven glanced up at it.
Calm.
Unbothered.
In his blood-soaked hand—still embedded with torn flesh and fading heat—something glimmered.
A crystal.
Rough. Dense.
Its core pulsed faintly with condensed mana.
The ogre's core.
Lucien, still half-kneeling on the ground, saw it first.
"…Sir…?"
Tharic stared as well, pale and shaking.
Draven raised the crystal without a word.
Then placed it into his mouth.
Silence snapped tight again.
Lucien's breath caught.
Draven bit down.
**CRACK.**
The crystal shattered between his teeth.
Mana erupted instantly.
Raw. Violent.
Like swallowing lightning itself.
His body reacted immediately.
His spine arched.
His jaw locked so tightly it creaked.
Blood began to run from his nose.
Then his ears.
Then the corners of his eyes.
Veins rose beneath his skin, dark and tense, as if something inside him was trying to tear its way out.
The chamber trembled faintly.
Not from released energy.
But from pressure being forced inward.
Contained.
Because Draven wasn't expelling the mana.
He was compressing it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Folding it inward under impossible force.
The raw energy struggled violently, thrashing through his body like a living thing trying to escape.
But Draven had done this before.
Many times.
Far too many times.
His breathing remained steady.
Even as blood dripped from his chin.
Even as his fingers trembled.
Even as thin cracks of strain opened across his skin.
He forced it deeper.
Past resistance.
Past pain.
Past instinct.
Until—
Silence.
The pressure vanished.
Not released.
Contained.
Locked away.
Draven exhaled slowly.
Blood still traced down his face, but his posture straightened.
His gaze lifted once more toward the hovering orb.
Still watching.
Still recording.
Draven raised his hand.
Looked directly into it.
And slowly extended his middle finger.
The arena erupted.
Gasps. Shouts. Shock.
Some stood. Some froze. Some looked away.
Because this wasn't simple defiance.
It was contempt.
Pure and unfiltered.
Draven lowered his hand, wiped a streak of blood from beneath his eye, and turned away.
He began walking.
Slow. Calm. Unhurried.
Chains clicked softly with each step.
Lucien was still staring, unable to speak.
Tharic looked as though he had forgotten how breathing worked.
The last surviving recruit pressed himself against the wall without realizing it.
Because whatever Draven had been before—
that version no longer made sense.
Only one thought remained in all of them.
What is he?
Draven walked past them without stopping.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just forward.
As if none of it mattered.
As if an A-rank ogre had been nothing more than debris on the path.
Chains echoed softly behind him.
A quiet sound.
Yet heavier than anything that had come before.
Lucien finally forced himself upright, still shaken.
Tharic stumbled forward quickly, catching up despite himself.
Not out of courage.
But instinct.
Stay near the only thing here more dangerous than the monsters.
"…Sir."
Draven didn't respond.
Tharic hesitated, then extended his hand.
Resting in his palm was a second crystal.
Smaller than the first, but still pulsing faintly with mana.
Blue-white. Dense. Still stained with blood.
"…I took it from the orc before the ogre appeared," he said quickly. "…I was going to give it to you."
Lucien glanced at him briefly, surprised.
Even in chaos, he had thought to retrieve it.
Draven's gaze shifted downward.
To the crystal.
No expression changed.
Then he reached out and took it.
No acknowledgment.
No thanks.
Just acceptance.
As if it had always been his.
Tharic lowered his hand slowly, unsure what he had expected.
Approval.
A word.
Anything.
But this was Draven.
Silence was all he gave.
Draven turned the crystal once between his fingers.
Then without hesitation—
placed it into his mouth.
**CRACK.**
The crystal shattered.
Mana surged again.
Violent. Immediate.
And again—
it was forced inward.
Contained.
Lucien froze.
"…He did it again…"
Tharic's face went pale.
"…That would kill anyone…"
Draven flexed his hand once.
Tiny cuts sealing instantly.
Then continued walking.
As if nothing had happened.
Ahead, the next gate began to rise.
Stone grinding slowly against stone.
A deep rumble filled the chamber.
Beyond it—
darkness waited.
Another trial.
Another slaughter.
Draven didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward into it.
And after only a brief moment of hesitation—
the others followed.