We're the Myth

CHAPTER 4: VERSUS

As the two of them searched for seats, their eyes drifted up to the giant overhead screens showing a close-up of the action below.

"Look," Ethan said quietly, his gaze fixed on the scrolling numbers. "Only about sixty-two people left and that includes us."

Gabriel leaned back on the bench, a teasing grin on his face. "You think we'll end up fighting each other? Poor you if that happens." His tone was half-mocking, half-playful.

A faint sound made them glance toward the stairway landing. Nicolas had stirred in his wheelchair, head no longer bowed.

"You think so?" Nicolas asked, voice calm but edged with curiosity. "You're awake," Ethan said softly, leaning a little toward him.

Before anyone could answer, a sharp chime burst from the arena speakers, announcing the end of the match below.

A girl's voice followed, bright and taunting. "That was a nice fight, but let's be honest..." Her pale face appeared on the massive screen as she looked straight into the camera, a sly smile curling her lips. "COME ON! WHERE ARE THE CHILLS?"

She perched on the very top of the glass barrier that ringed the battleground an enormous cage known simply as The Pit, the size of a basketball court, surrounded by a narrow strip of grass and heavy steel mesh that threw shifting shadows across the floor.

Her skin was almost translucent, but from her neck up to the edge of her chin ran faint, scale-like patterns, as if a serpent's hide hid beneath her flesh. Short hair framed her face, streaked with neon-green highlights that matched the eerie glow of her eyes. She wore no uniform, only a street-style outfit of black with sharp green and white lines. Swinging her legs like a child, she tilted her head and sighed. "Still thirty matches to go."

She peered up at the screen again. "Who will be our next examinees?" Numbers flashed: 4990 and 5021.

"Interesting," she mused as the image of Number 4990 appeared, selecting a sleek bow and arrow. "So far, you're the only one to use that weapon today."

The camera cut to Number 5021 just as he strode past the weapon racks without even glancing at them, stepping straight into The Pit.

The girl blinked, surprised. "Wait! seriously? A non-weapon fighter?" She leaned closer to the camera feed, then let out a soft laugh. "Wow... am I blushing? My gosh. Sorry, but Number 5021 is just so pretty." Her neon eyes sparkled with mischief as she tapped her cheek in mock embarrassment.

A sudden, ear-splitting BLARE thundered from the speakers, making the glass walls of the upper gallery vibrate. The crowd fell silent, every gaze snapping toward The Pit below.

Inside the cage like (the pit), Number 4990 moved first. He gripped his bow, fingers a blur as he snatched two arrows at a time, nocking them with impossible speed.

Thwip thwip!

The first pair shot out like twin streaks of silver. Before they even clattered against the steel mesh, he'd already drawn two more, releasing them in another lightning volley.

The host's voice leapt through the arena. "Four arrows in what? five seconds? Are we seeing this?!"

But her amazement quickly shifted to the other combatant. Number 5021 empty-handed slipped sideways with feline reflexes. One step. Twist. Drop of the shoulder. All four arrows sliced past, their tips sparking faintly as they scraped the concrete floor.

Instead of retreating, he sprinted forward, shoes slapping the cold concrete with a rhythm that echoed like drumbeats.

"Whoa-!look at that dodge!" the girl shouted, half-laughing, half-breathless.

4990 backpedaled, eyes wide. He pivoted, firing as he moved, turning his attack into a running barrage. Arrows hissed through the air like angry hornets, skittering across the hard floor when they missed.

But 5021 barely slowed. He zig-zagged with a speed that blurred his outline, a lean shadow darting between the shafts. One arrow streaked toward his chest, his hand shot up, snatching it mid-flight. The audience roared.

Still running, he snapped the captured arrow cleanly in half with a sharp twist. The broken shafts became two short stakes, one in each fist.

"Did... did he just catch that?" the host squealed, her neon eyes wide.

Like a wolf closing on prey, 5021 surged forward. Sneakers screeched against the polished concrete as he exploded into a final burst of speed, the sound sharp and metallic.

Panic flared across 4990's face. He loosed another arrow, but the shot went wild.

With brutal precision, 5021 drove the jagged arrow shard into 4990’s left hand. The Vital Band on 4990’s wrist flared to life, glowing a sharp yellow.

5021’s eyes darted to it, his movements calculating. Yellow meant injury, not fatal, but enough to weaken. The fight wasn’t over yet.

He twisted, then slammed the second broken shaft straight through 4990’s right palm. The archer screamed, the sound echoing harshly off the concrete walls.

The Vital Band pulsed again, this time a blazing orange. The glow reflected faintly in 5021’s eyes. Orange critical condition. Any more damage and the boy’s body might not hold.

5021 froze. His grip loosened on the bloodied arrow shaft. He stepped back, chest rising and falling, gaze still fixed on the band’s urgent glow. He didn’t need to kill him; the Vital Band was the boundary every student carried, strapped tight to their wrist like a second pulse.

(Blue- meant strong, normal.

Yellow- meant weakened, in pain.

Orange- meant critical injury, medical care required.

Red- meant survival was half chance, half miracle.

Black off- And if the band ever went dark no light at all it meant the student’s life had already ended.)

4990 cried out, the bow clattering across the concrete with a harsh clang. His knees buckled as he staggered back against the cage wall, trapped, hands skewered by the very weapon he'd trusted.

5021 stood over him, chest rising and falling, the broken arrow-stakes dark with blood. His eyes cold, unblinking locked on his opponent's, the faintest curl of a grin ghosting across his face.

From above, the girl's voice cracked through the speakers, a mix of awe and delight. "Ohhh... my... stars. Did everyone see that? 5021 just turned arrows into nails! Now that is what I call a chill!"

A loud chime echoed through the arena, signaling the end of the battle. The crowd roared as Number 5021 raised a hand, waving with a cocky ease almost like an idol greeting his fans.

On the massive screen above, his live feed appeared as he walked out of The Pit, shoulders straight, expression calm. Beside the video, bold text displayed:

Dhenzer O. Madrigal

Number 5021 (1), 4th Year

(1 = First-time 4th Year student, not a repeater)

The host leaned toward the camera, her neon-green eyes narrowing playfully. "Not a repeater... that was a pretty play for our pretty boy." She giggled, flashing a mischievous grin. But just as quickly, her smile dropped, voice sharpening with practiced excitement.

"Well, no time to linger! Let's keep the heat rolling. Who's ready for the next match?"

Her voice rose over the speakers, and the battles resumed in rapid succession. Names and numbers flashed on the screen, fighters came and went, blood and sweat marking the concrete floor below. Time blurred as the duels passed until finally, the screen locked on two new contenders.

Number 5048 vs Number 5006.

The camera zoomed in, showing the weary yet determined face of the next student stepping out of the Pit. His name appeared in crisp letters at the bottom corner:

Ethan Asher G. Guevara Number 5048 (2), 4th Year

The host chuckled softly, her voice carrying a teasing edge. "Ah, a repeater. Well, that's nothing new..."

Ethan rejoined his friends after the match, his movements calm but weighted. He pulled a small towel from his pocket and wiped the thin streak of blood trailing down his chin. Without a word, he shrugged off his uniform blazer dark fabric stained with splashes of his opponent's blood folding it neatly beside him.

From the bench, Nicolas shifted in his wheelchair, glancing nervously at the host's lingering commentary overhead. "Doesn't that girl ever run out of things to say?" he muttered, voice trembling with unease. "What if she says something about me next?"

Ethan gave him a faint, reassuring smile, while Gabriel just smirked, shaking his head at Nicolas's worry.