CHAPTER 85: DEFEATED LEON?

weapons tightening until their knuckles whitened. Their king’s command forced them forward, but it also gave them what they craved—an outlet for their fury.

They marched into the arena as one, their weapons gleaming in the dying sunlight, the dust swirling like a storm around their massive forms.

Their thoughts burned with one desire: to break this human, to humiliate him, to watch him beg.

Leon smirked, twirling his daggers lazily, his posture deliberately relaxed. His grin was infuriating, mocking, daring them to strike.

"Come then," he taunted, his voice carrying across the arena. "All of you at once. Let’s make this fun."

The Orcs’ eyes blazed red with fury.

Then, with a roar that shook the field, all six generals charged, their combined strength crashing down like an avalanche.

And Leon, grinning like a madman, braced himself for the storm.

At first, things were hard for Leon.

Fighting against seven powerful Orc generals alone was not a small matter. Every second, every strike, every dodge felt like a brush with death. Their combined pressure was overwhelming, their heavy weapons swinging down like boulders crashing from a mountain. The air trembled with each blow, the ground cracked beneath their stomps, dust rising in waves as if the earth itself shivered in fear of their power.

Leon’s body screamed in protest, his arms vibrating every time his daggers clashed against axes or swords. His legs ached as he twisted and spun, the sheer force behind each strike sending shockwaves up his bones. But despite the pressure, his eyes remained sharp, unyielding.

It was hell—yet within that hell, Leon adapted.

The longer the fight continued, the more his movements smoothed out. His reactions sharpened. His instincts, honed by desperation, rose to match their brutality. At first, he was barely surviving, slipping past fatal blows by a hair’s breadth. But as minutes passed, he began to anticipate them—not just with his eyes, but with his body.

Even without looking, Leon felt danger approach from behind. His skin prickled, his heartbeat warned him, and his body moved automatically—ducking, rolling, twisting—before an axe could split him open.

He fought like a warrior who had survived countless battles, a veteran whose body remembered what the mind could not. Every time his heart pounded against his ribs, he moved faster, every ounce of fear sharpening into lethal precision.

And slowly... he began to take control.

Minor cuts bled down his arms, bruises blossomed across his torso, but Leon kept grinning. His daggers slashed, stabbed, and deflected with growing confidence. The Divine Thief Dagger Sutra flowed through him, his strikes unpredictable, his body weaving like a phantom.

Despite being surrounded, he held his ground. A stalemate—impossible, yet real.

The Orcs snarled in frustration. Their prideful eyes widened each time their combined might failed to break him. Their weapons tore trenches into the soil, but Leon danced just out of reach, sometimes leaving them striking at air, sometimes punishing their carelessness with cuts that drew green blood.

To the crowd, it was madness. Hundreds of Orc soldiers and civilians watched, their guttural cheers echoing across the field. At first, they had mocked him, certain the generals would crush the human quickly. But as the battle stretched on, disbelief painted their faces.

Seven generals, their pride, their strongest warriors... being held back by one boy.

It was shameful. It was humiliating.

And it enraged them.

The generals roared louder, their swings heavier, their attacks sharper. They poured more of their pride, more of their fury, into every strike. Yet no matter how hard they pressed, Leon refused to break.

This is it, Leon thought between gasps of breath. This is the limit I was waiting for... the edge of despair where I grow stronger.

But even as his grin widened, he noticed something dangerous.

The generals suddenly stopped.

Their chests heaved, their glowing eyes locked on him, but they no longer attacked. Instead, their muscles swelled, veins bulging as mana surged violently from their bodies.

The air thickened. Dust spiraled into the sky as their power rose.

Leon’s grin faltered slightly. He knew what this was. He had seen it before in their stats panel.

┏━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┓

MUTANT ORC [Head of the Seven Collective — Axe-Wielding General]

LVL 29 — HP: 3300

•─────⋅☾ Skills ☽⋅─────•

EASY BERSERK (Rank E): Enter and exit Berserk at will. Strength surges. Additional skills may awaken.

AXE MASTER (Passive): Peak of axe wielding. Close to forming Axe Intent. Attacks naturally +10% stronger.

PRIDE OF THE SUPREME ORC (Bloodline): Rare S-Rank bloodline. The more their pride is wounded, the more their stamina, intelligence, and strength increase. Power rises endlessly in combat.

┗━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┛

The generals tilted back their heads and roared.

Their eyes glowed blinding white. Their flesh tightened like drawn steel, bulging with grotesque strength. The ground trembled beneath their feet.

The crowd erupted into cheers once more, their earlier doubt swept away in frenzy. They screamed their generals’ names, chanting in rhythm, beating weapons against shields.

Leon’s lips tightened. He could feel the change. Their power had spiked—it was no longer level 29. Their bloodline pushed them closer to level 31 or 32 beasts. And worse, they would only keep growing the longer he dragged this out.

If I keep holding back... I’ll be crushed.

He didn’t dare meet their power head-on. He couldn’t block anymore. Every strike now could shatter his bones if mistimed. So he became the wind again, darting between their swings, letting their strength fall against empty space.

Their axes and swords crashed into the earth, tearing massive cracks, but Leon was already gone, daggers flashing for a counter.

Now!!

He lunged for a blind spot—dagger thrusting straight for an exposed throat.

But the general twisted at the last instant, his axe intercepting with brutal force. Sparks exploded. Leon staggered back.

His pupils contracted. They’re adapting even faster. Their bloodline’s making them sharper every second. This isn’t just strength... it’s growth in real time.

A normal man would have despaired. But Leon only grinned wider, teeth bared like a beast.

Because this was what he craved.

The closer he was to death, the stronger his dagger sutra grew.

And tonight, in this savage field, under the roar of thousands of Orcs, Leon vowed he would break through.

Leon could feel his hands go numb, his grip on the dagger trembling ever so slightly. Sweat stung his eyes, but he had no time to blink it away—his instincts screamed. Danger.

From his right, a blade whistled through the air, the sound tearing against his eardrums. He jerked his body left with all the speed his agility stat could muster, narrowly escaping a sword arc overflowing with mana. The blade tore past him by mere centimeters, the mana force brushing his skin like a burning wind. If he had hesitated for even one heartbeat, that strike would have cleaved half his body apart.

He had no chance to breathe. Another Orc immediately filled the opening, its sword descending in a ruthless vertical slash.

Damn it!

Leon twisted again, rolling along the ground and kicking himself upright, dust clouding around his boots. His heart thundered in his chest. Every strike they unleashed carried killing intent, even though this was supposed to be a spar. His body hurt everywhere. His lungs burned. His stamina bar was draining quicker than he wanted to admit.

’Luckily for me, this is not a life-and-death battle,’ Leon told himself, though the bitter smile tugging at his lips betrayed how little comfort that thought gave him. He wiped the sweat from his brows with the back of his hand, the salt stinging the corner of his eyes.

He could not deny it: if he had been rash earlier, if he had struck out arrogantly at the Orc King when they first confronted him, he would be a corpse by now. A single flick of that spear could have ended him. The only reason he was still alive was because of the secret. The so-called key to escaping this dungeon. The only thing keeping the Orc King from skewering him like an insect.

Leon ducked another swing, sweat dripping freely now, soaking through his clothes until his entire figure looked drenched. His muscles ached, his steps were growing heavier, his breathing ragged. His body screamed for rest, but he refused to stop.

’Come to think of it,’ he thought bitterly as he dodged again, ’that Orc King must be holding back rivers of rage. I’ve slaughtered his villagers without mercy, cut down his warriors like animals, even humiliated his generals... if not for the "secret," I’d already be in pieces.’

And then—he slipped.

His step lagged for a fraction too long. His dodge was a breath too late.

Shhk!

"AAARGH!!!"

The sword of one of the Orcs bit into his hand, cleaving through flesh until white bone glistened beneath torn skin. Blood sprayed like a fountain, hot and fast, covering his arm in crimson. It spurted with each beat of his pounding heart, dripping onto the dirt until the ground itself darkened beneath him.