CHAPTER 161: WHEN THE SHADOWS BURN

The wheel spun.

A hum echoed through the massive chamber, as hundreds of names blurred across the screen suspended above the arena. Jin, still recovering from his previous fight, watched from the glass box as the platform below them shifted again. Cracked stone repaired itself with glowing pulses of green light. Fallen pillars lifted and reassembled with loud, grinding snaps of matter rewriting itself. The sand from earlier battles swept into the corners as if gathered by unseen wind.

The Dokkaebi’s voice rang out, smooth and unimpressed. "Next contenders—prepare yourselves."

The spinning slowed.

A name blinked once in brilliant silver.

[Hanuel Lim]

Another pulse.

His opponent’s name flashed beside it. A single syllable.

[Rho]

Then the command:[Commence Descent.]

Two new glass prisms dropped from above.

Jin leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. He remembered Hanuel’s sparring—back in the earlier days of the collapse, when the world still felt like it had rules. The man had always been precise. Not flashy, not explosive—just a specialist. Quiet. Lethal. Like he was always saving something.

The cubes cracked open at once.

Hanuel landed without sound, his boots pressing into the stone as if gravity itself respected his silence. Dressed in dark gray and black combat gear reinforced with light shadow-stitched armor, he walked with the kind of measured ease that didn’t need announcement.

No theatrics. No posturing.

His weapon—a long, polished metal pole—rested across his back, held in place by a band of sleek cord. His left hand remained loose by his side. His right touched the shaft once as if to greet it.

On the other side, his opponent hit the ground with weight.

Literally.

Rho stood nearly seven feet tall, all dense muscle wrapped in sun-scorched skin and plated gauntlets. He wore no shirt, only worn wrappings over his torso and heavy metal boots that cracked the tile beneath him with every step.

His knuckles flexed.

Hanuel didn’t glance up.

The Dokkaebi’s voice boomed once more.

[Begin.]

No dramatic lightning. No waiting.

Hanuel moved.

His hand blurred toward the pole—then vanished.

He stepped out from his own shadow ten feet to the left, pole already in motion. The moment the command dropped, he’d already initiated Shroud Echo—a movement technique where his afterimage lingered half a breath too long, forcing his opponent to swing at where he had been.

Rho didn’t swing.

He turned his head—just in time to meet the staff.

CRACK—!

The impact echoed across the arena.

Hanuel’s strike, low and sweeping, hit clean across the man’s ribs. But it didn’t crack bone. The pole rebounded with a dull thump, like it had struck packed earth.

Rho didn’t flinch.

Instead, he drove his heel downward—once.

BOOM.

The ground beneath them shattered. The quake spread outward in a perfect circle of kinetic force.

Hanuel leapt up mid-shadow, twisting in air to avoid the tremor. He spun the pole around his waist, landed behind Rho, and swept upward with a two-handed jab toward the back of the knee.

It hit.

Again, the sound of impact.

But no stumble.

Hanuel’s eyes flickered.

Rho turned his head—not fast, but heavy. A mountain regarding an ant. Then—

He moved.

A backhand swung wide, clearing the space between them with terrifying speed for a man that size. Hanuel bent backward, spine arcing, shadow peeling off his shoulders like cloth. He melted into the stone behind him—and vanished.

A heartbeat later, he emerged again behind Rho.

This time, it wasn’t just his pole.

He thrust a spear of solid shadow—thin, precise—upward toward the side of Rho’s neck.

It pierced.

Just an inch.

The darkness cracked like black lightning—but Rho reached up and grabbed the shadow construct with his bare hand. And crushed it.

Hanuel’s gaze narrowed.

Rho exhaled once. "Interesting."

Then came the real test.

Rho slammed both fists into the floor. Not to strike Hanuel—but to activate something.

From the contact point, veins of pressure cracked outward, raising slabs of stone and debris like tectonic armor. He pulled earth and dust together until his arms resembled living gauntlets—thicker, heavier, humming with packed sand tension.

Hanuel surged forward, pole now spinning with genuine force.

He struck three times in rapid succession—throat, ankle, temple.

Each hit deflected. Not because Rho blocked them, but because the density of the makeshift armor refused to budge.

Hanuel stepped into another shadow, slipping to Rho’s left—

Only to find Rho already there.

The man had shifted his weight mid-rebound, dragging his left foot to pivot and swing a stone-covered elbow straight into Hanuel’s direction.

The blow landed.

Hanuel’s form splashed back—literally, shadow bursting outward to absorb the impact, saving his ribs from caving in.

He rolled and launched again, this time high.

The pole extended—its true trick: range. The shaft stretched mid-strike, extending beyond what physics allowed. Hanuel flipped overhead and brought it down in a perfect vertical arc—

CLANG.

Right onto Rho’s raised forearm.

The impact sent a shockwave upward. Dust spiraled. The two combatants stood face-to-face now.

Breathing.

Measuring.

Jin watched, his fingers tightening unconsciously. This wasn’t speed versus power.

It was method versus resistance.

And Hanuel wasn’t done adapting.

He stepped back once, shadows curling around his boots.

Then he thrust his hand out—not the pole—and dozens of thin shadow lances sprouted upward like weeds from the ground, surrounding Rho.

Trapping him.

Hanuel lunged again—pole sweeping horizontally while the shadow spikes closed in.

Rho didn’t dodge.

He charged through.

Broke the shadows.

Took the pole across the temple—and kept moving.

Hanuel twisted midair, redirected the pole across his back and used the momentum to flip over the man’s shoulder—

Then spun it around and stabbed it into the ground behind him to slingshot himself out of range.

Jin’s eyes widened slightly.

This wasn’t just Genshu. This was Genshu with evolution.

A dance of angles, gaps, and feints wrapped in unnatural movement.

The first cracks of exhaustion started to show on Hanuel’s arms—not in form, but in tension.

Still, the shadows whispered at his back.

He was far from done.

And Rho?

He smiled.

And took another step forward.

The ground beneath Hanuel’s feet cracked—not from the force of his weight, but from the coiled tension running through his stance. His opponent charged, earth splintering beneath massive strides, muscles ballooning mid-movement as his density shifted.

Hanuel didn’t move.

Not until the last second.

He vanished.

No smoke, no flash—just gone. The brawler’s fist slammed through a shadow, the momentum cracking a crater in the stone platform. Dust shot up like smoke from a cannon.

Behind him—Hanuel reappeared.

A fluid spin, pole flashing in a perfect arc.

The tip struck the brawler’s calf with the force of a steel bat.

The impact cracked—not flesh, but the stone-like armor that now layered his skin. It chipped, revealing muscle beneath.

The brawler grunted. Not in pain. Just acknowledgment.

Hanuel was already gone again.

Shadowstep.

He blinked into the brawler’s blind spot and jabbed upward—pole striking the lower ribs, rebounding like it’d hit solid granite.

A second jab.

Then a third.

The brawler twisted mid-blow, taking one strike to his hip, then swinging a counterpunch like a boulder being hurled from a catapult.

It missed Hanuel by inches.

But only just.

A shockwave from the punch rattled the arena wall behind them, stone fracturing like spiderwebs.

Hanuel skidded backward across the dust-slick tiles, pole held crosswise to brace. He was breathing harder now, but his focus never wavered.

The brawler smiled for the first time.

"Fast," he muttered. "But I’m still standing."

Hanuel’s grip shifted.

His pole spun once—then stilled, tip scraping the ground as his fingers pulsed with shadow energy.

From his feet, a ripple of darkness spread outward like ink in water.

It snapped toward the brawler’s shadow.

And latched on.

The giant man stiffened. For a heartbeat, his own feet wouldn’t move—frozen in place by the manipulation of his anchored shadow.

Hanuel blurred forward.

Pole whistling through the air, he aimed for the shoulder.

The strike landed—clean, deep.

A shock ran through the brawler’s upper body. Not enough to disable—but enough to bruise.

Another follow-up: a rising sweep aimed for the chin.

This time the brawler twisted with it, his density shifting rapidly across his body—turning soft to absorb the blow, then hardening again to launch a backhand.

Hanuel ducked, pole sweeping low.

The shadow that had snared the brawler’s foot coiled tighter.

And Hanuel launched himself forward in a burst of momentum, stabbing the pole downward like a spear—aiming to pin the brawler’s shadow to the floor entirely.

But the man growled.

And his entire body liquified.

It wasn’t actual liquid—but his body softened to an impossible consistency, rippling as the pole phased through him.

"Adaptive Density," Hanuel muttered under his breath. "Of course."

The shadow snapped—but only because the anchor had lost cohesion. The brawler reformed mid-pivot, slamming a fist down where Hanuel had been an instant before.

Hanuel kicked off the wall, rebounding in the air like a slingshot.

"Enough warm-up," he whispered.

He raised his pole.

And the shadows around him responded.

Lines of darkness crisscrossed the floor now—his earlier steps and strikes having quietly mapped the battlefield in long, threadlike runes.

And now, they activated.

From a dozen directions, shadow clones burst into being.

Not full illusions—just brief flickers, shapes mimicking Hanuel’s movement.

All of them sprinted at the brawler.

The giant let out a sharp grunt, eyes narrowing. He turned, arms up—ready to crush the closest figure.

But the real Hanuel dropped from above.

Pole-first.

"Form Eight: Nightfall Descent."

The brawler looked up just in time.

A single impact.

Clean.

Precise.

The blow struck his shoulder—his dominant arm—causing the limb to drop slightly from the force.

Hanuel didn’t let the advantage go to waste.

A twist of his hand. A spin of the staff.

And then—he drove the end of the pole into the ground.

From it, a burst of shadow exploded upward in a jagged spike.

It pierced the brawler’s side—shallow, not fatal, but enough to stagger him again.

The crowd—watching from above, behind reinforced crystal—reacted. Some gasped. Some leaned forward.

But the brawler only smiled wider.

He cracked his neck.

"Alright," he muttered.

And his skin... changed.

Not just the color. The consistency.

It gleamed now, like obsidian flecked with volcanic gold. His arms thickened. His neck pulled tight. He wasn’t just increasing his density—he was upgrading the very structure of his flesh.

Then, he roared.

And the ground cracked.

The entire arena tilted as he punched the floor beneath them, causing slabs of stone to rise in sharp angles—forcing Hanuel to leap to maintain footing.

The brawler rushed him.

Each footstep echoed like a bell tower collapsing.

Hanuel spun mid-air, pole dancing around him like a second limb.

But this time?

The brawler didn’t slow down.

His body turned to full stone—heavy, hulking, and indomitable.

Hanuel struck again. And again. He moved with the elegance of a dancer, spinning low, twisting high, using his shadow as both anchor and extension.

But nothing broke through.

Not now.

The brawler slammed his fists into the ground again, launching himself upward in a vertical punch that shattered air.

Hanuel backflipped once—barely.

But the shockwave clipped his ankle.

He spun out, landing in a rough crouch across the arena.

Pole braced.

Breathing heavy.

The brawler landed across from him.

"You’re good," he said. "But how long can you keep that up?"

Hanuel didn’t answer.

He raised his weapon again.

But this time...

A crack formed near the base of the staff.

Just a hairline fracture.

The fracture shouldn’t have bothered him.

A weapon, after all, was only as good as the hands that wielded it.

But Hanuel had never seen that staff crack before.

Not in training. Not in sparring. Not in the early trials where monsters fell like puppets in the dark.

Now?

It splintered just a little more.

And the brawler didn’t slow down.

His form crashed forward, each footstep a miniature quake. He twisted mid-sprint, density shifting like rolling metal—his right arm solidifying like a siege hammer, veins glowing with mineralized energy.

Hanuel sidestepped. Barely.

A punch missed his head by inches, but the air alone howled past his ear and blew back his hair. The force sent a ring of dust exploding outward, and Hanuel was already on the move, skidding sideways, pole twirling in his hands for balance.

Shadowstep.

He flickered once—disappearing into the curve of his own silhouette.

And emerged again to the brawler’s left.

He lunged. Staff drawn back, charging for a diagonal strike to the ribs—

But the brawler pivoted mid-swing.

The two collided.

CLANG.

The strike landed—but the pole didn’t bend.

It cracked.

A real crack this time. No hairline fracture. No warning.

The steel bent unnaturally, as if time and pressure had finally caught up with it, and in that moment—

The brawler grinned.

He ducked low and launched a left hook, knuckles like carved stone.

It hit.

Not clean—but enough.

Hanuel’s form crumpled and flipped backwards. His pole slipped from his hands, skidding across the arena like a forgotten relic. He rolled once, shadow bursting around him to dampen the force, but the damage was done.

He staggered to a knee, one eye half-shut from the hit.

The brawler straightened.

"Still standing?" he rumbled.

Hanuel didn’t answer.

His gaze locked on the staff lying halfway between them. The bend in it was sharp now—almost jagged. Useless in a proper block. Too warped to channel his full momentum.

But worse?

His hands felt... light.

He’d trained his whole life with that weight.

And now it was gone.

He reached toward the shadows instinctively, trying to summon a replacement—but they flickered. The strain of the fight, the constant dodging, the shadowstepping—it had drained him. Not fully, not yet, but close.

Across from him, the brawler exhaled—steam curling from his shoulders. His body shimmered with dense, glinting armor of shifting stone, like his skin was living ore.

"You’re slippery," he said. "I’ll give you that."

He slammed a foot forward.

The arena cracked underfoot.

"But that won’t save you now."

He charged again.

Hanuel didn’t rise.

He drew a line in the dirt with his fingers, shadows crawling upward like smoke around his wrist.

He whispered something under his breath—a mantra, maybe. A prayer.

Then he stood, slow and deliberate.

No staff.

No backup weapon.

Just him.

And the dark curling at his fingertips.

The brawler raised both fists overhead, crashing them down in a double-hammer strike that could have broken bones.

But Hanuel didn’t meet it head-on.

Instead—

He dove.

Straight at the man’s shadow.

His body twisted, melted into the ground as if swallowed by his own silhouette, and emerged behind the brawler—

For just a moment.

He summoned a spike from the brawler’s shadow, launching it upward toward his back.

But the density shifted again—muscles turned to armor, skin hard as raw quartz.

The spike shattered.

The brawler turned, elbow swinging with crushing speed—

And caught Hanuel full across the ribs.

CRACK.

Pain. Sharp. Real.

Hanuel’s feet left the ground. His body sailed across the arena and slammed hard against the opposite wall, shadows barely softening the blow.

He dropped.

Dust rose around him.

The brawler started walking forward—slow, deliberate, breathing steady.

"You fought well," he said. "Clean. Efficient."

He raised his fist.

"But you should’ve brought a new stick."

Hanuel looked up through the blur in his vision.

And saw it.

The staff.

Lying between them.

Still cracked.

Still waiting.

He reached toward it.

Not with his hand.

But with the last of his shadow.

The staff twitched.

Lifted.

And flung itself toward him.

Hanuel caught it mid-air.

And stood.

For one last time.

The brawler didn’t slow.

Hanuel raised the pole above his head—his form perfect, despite the injuries, despite the exhaustion.

He channeled every step he’d taken.

Every technique learned.

Every shadow bled for this moment.

He shouted a name—not of a form.

But of an intent.

And brought the staff down.

The brawler met it with a punch.

And the staff—

Snapped.

Not bent.

Not chipped.

Snapped clean in two.

The backlash threw Hanuel backwards again, his body skidding across the ground.

He landed hard.

Breathing ragged.

One half of the broken pole lay beside him.

The other half, still clutched in his hand.

He didn’t move.

The brawler stood over him, expression unreadable.

He didn’t strike again.

Not yet.

Because he didn’t have to.

Hanuel wasn’t done.

But the weapon he’d trusted for everything?

Was.

And for the first time in this trial—

He was at a disadvantage that couldn’t be dodged.