Chapter 7

In the arena, the roars of beasts echoed, brimming with vitality and hunger.

Scarface entered first, holding his sword and shield, standing at the center of the arena. The gate on the opposite side had yet to open. This was a common practice. The attacks of the beasts were unpredictable; it was common for them to hesitate and not come out for a long time, or to pounce immediately, ending the fight before the audience was ready.

Scarface waited quietly on the field for a few minutes, and finally, the gate on the opposite side rose.

Even before the beast was visible, its deep roar resounded throughout the arena. The desert leopard slowly emerged from the gate, walking towards the center of the field.

It was a massive beast, its fur the same color as the desert sand, which was probably the origin of its name. It was a natural predator, with bulging muscles under its fur, and sharp claws exposed at the ends of its large forelimbs. Its green eyes, embedded in its large head, sparkled in the sunlight.

Its long tail was held straight, facing Scarface, and its long, sharp teeth protruded from its upper jaw, curving over its powerful lower jaw.

It looked like a leopard but was much larger. Its forelimbs were thick, and its hind limbs were shorter, clearly not suited for long-distance running. However, any predator not adept at running had a characteristic: a stronger short-term burst of power and greater destructive force, capable of subduing and killing prey much larger than itself. The impact of its claws would have a nightmarish, fatal force, far beyond what a human body could withstand.

The desert leopard stopped and looked over. Scarface did not back down, meeting its gaze directly.

Its eyes were large, green, with dark pupils, and had a scattered look, instinctively making one think it was distracted. But predators never get distracted.

Then Scarface realized he had made a mistake; he should not have made eye contact with the beast.

The desert leopard's gaze was exceptionally fierce, filled with an indescribable intimidation. It was openly and directly declaring to Scarface that he was just a small prey. This gaze stirred deep-seated fear in the human heart, reminding him that his species was merely a natural prey, a born weakling. No matter how deeply this fear was hidden, no matter how small it was, it was brought to the surface of consciousness under the pressure of this gaze.

In an instant, Scarface's mind went blank, and the thought of dropping his weapons and fleeing dominated his thoughts. He could not possibly win this fight against the terrifying beast. Fear made his legs tremble and his hands almost unable to hold the shield and sword. Despite his rational mind resisting and telling him he must not retreat or abandon his weapons, instinctual fear almost triumphed.

Just a little more.

The Sword of the Vampire transmitted a chill of death, spreading up his arm to his heart. The indescribable, bone-chilling pain suddenly restored his vitality.

Scarface took a step back. But this was a cautious step, not a retreat or a surrender.

Although he knew that no matter what he did, the desert leopard would eventually pounce, he decided not to provoke it for now.

He suddenly realized his hands were drenched in sweat. The metal of the shield and sword felt slippery, making his stomach knot.

Oh, gods of the starry domain! Please don't let me mess up at this moment. Scarface silently prayed. This was the first time in a long while that he had prayed to the gods in the arena.

The narrow green eyes shifted, with a scattered look, flashing with an elusive light. Whatever this gaze intended to do, its initial goal of intimidating the opponent and winning without a fight had failed.

The desert leopard leaped and pounced at Scarface.

The attack was swift but too monotonous. The distance between them was too great. Scarface used his shield to protect himself and dodged.

The iron surface of the shield rang with a grating metallic sound. Scarface saw four new scratches on the shield. Normally, only a full-force strike from a dagger or short sword could leave such marks.

The desert leopard growled, seemingly trying to express something. Then it turned and charged again.

What it was trying to say no longer mattered.

In an instant, Scarface thrust his sword directly at the beast's throat, but the desert leopard was far more agile than it looked. It dodged the sword and struck the shield with one of its forepaws.

The strike cut through the metal layer of the shield, the force so great that it made Scarface stagger, almost losing his balance.

The desert leopard charged a third time. This time, Scarface did not block it head-on but used a skillful technique to deflect the force, using his shield to parry.

If he had been hit directly, his thigh or arm would have been severed from his body.

Suddenly, Scarface realized he should thank the coaches, especially Sagar. If he had worn armor, he would have died much faster. Wearing armor, he could not have dodged so nimbly, and even if the armor could block the claws, it could not withstand the force that could break bones.

The desert leopard immediately dispelled Scarface's foolish thoughts. Its tail swept across and hit Scarface's calf. The force of the blow was no less than a full-force strike from a whip expert. The sound of breaking bones echoed, followed by intense pain. Scarface staggered, finding his leg unable to support his body, and he had to kneel.

The desert leopard pounced from the front.

It was not stupid; this attack was not meant to use its claws but to simply collide. It used its body to knock down the off-balance human, then it could do as it pleased.

Scarface raised his shield, but it was useless against such a collision. The desert leopard rammed into the shield, knocking Scarface down and pinning him beneath its body.

It pounced on its prey. Now, only the shield stood between it and its prey. It pressed its paws on the shield, trying to tear it apart or push it aside, then tear and bite the prey's flesh. The imminent victory, just a step away, made it wild with excitement. Its massive paws clawed at the shield, each strike cutting through the metal and deeply into the oak.

Scarface was pinned beneath, the deep roars of the desert leopard echoing in his ears, the immense weight pressing down, making it impossible to escape. The stench of the predator's breath filled his nostrils.

Scarface raised his right hand and thrust his sword into the beast, the sensation in his hand telling him the blade had pierced through the thick fur and into the flesh. With his vision blocked, he could not determine where he had hit. It was probably between the neck and shoulder, as the desert leopard let out a terrifying roar and reared up on its hind legs.

The desert leopard's blood flowed down the sword, reaching the hilt, warm and sticky.

The pain and the thirst for blood combined, giving the desert leopard a new burst of strength. The iron layer on the shield could not withstand so many strikes and finally peeled off, the metal torn away and flung aside. More strikes landed on the shield, oak splinters flying. It roared and screeched, attacking the shield with its teeth and claws.

At the brink of life and death, Scarface used all his strength. His muscles bulged, and he pushed the sword deeper, hoping to damage a vital organ.

The desert leopard's hind leg kicked forward, its claws tearing through the coarse trousers and leaving a massive wound on Scarface's leg. But now, Scarface felt no pain; his only thought was to drive the sword deeper into the desert leopard's body.

A crack appeared on the shield, the claws having torn through the thick wood, leaving a row of transparent holes. But Scarface could feel the desert leopard's movements becoming slower, its strikes weaker. Even the immense weight pressing down on him was gradually lessening.

It could no longer maintain its previous posture and began to tilt to the side.

Seizing the opportunity, Scarface flipped over, pinning the beast under the shield. This position was uncomfortable for the beast, and it struggled, but its strength had greatly diminished, and it could not break free. Scarface knelt on the ground, persistently driving the sword deeper into its body. The beast let out a terrifying screech, filled with the pain of impending death.

As usual, this sound did not bring Scarface any comfort.

He maintained this position for a long time, until he was sure the beast under the shield was completely stiff and immobile. He released the grip on the shield, unfastened the strap, and tried to stand up, only to realize he could not.

One of his legs was a bloody mess, and the other was twisted into an abnormal, bizarre arc.

The arena was silent, with no sound from the audience. Perhaps they were stunned by the intense battle, or perhaps Scarface's ears had stopped working.

He released the sword, which had penetrated too deep into the beast's body to be pulled out. This magical longsword had played a significant role. If it were a regular sword, it would not have penetrated so deeply.

"I survived!" He suddenly raised his hands high, shouting silently to the sky.

He let his hands fall and looked around. His vision began to blur, and the world started to sway.

What's happening? Is there an earthquake?

Scarface's mind was dazed, and this thought suddenly popped into his head.

The next thing he remembered was the world tilting at a ninety-degree angle, completely distorted.

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