WorldCrafter - Building My Underground Kingdom-Chapter 171 - Victor!

171: Victor!

171: Victor!

Every cut bled steam.

Every step Ben took drove Kharvek closer to the edge.

The crowd was dead silent now.

Kharvek’s chest heaved.

His armor was failing.

Cracks splintered down his arms, across his ribs, through the crest burned into his throat.

Ben circled him slowly, flicking blood off his blades.

“This is your best?” he asked coldly.

“No other move?”

“You insect,” Kharvek growled, stumbling.

“I was holding back…”

Ben’s gaze narrowed.

“Then stop.”

Kharvek roared, not with rage, but desperation.

He slammed his fists together.

The Molten Seal on his back erupted, breaking apart like shattering chains.

The ground beneath him glowed, then split open.

From the cracks, a glowing, liquid heart surged upward, pulsing with unnatural heat and molten mana.

Ben’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s, ”

“You leave me no choice.” Kharvek grinned, blood trickling from his lips.

He reached out and shoved it into his chest.

The arena exploded in light.

Obsidian wings tore from Kharvek’s back, sharp and smoking.

His body expanded again, this time unnaturally, his limbs warping into weapons, his spine lined with glowing runes that bled magma.

His voice echoed with distortion, no longer fully his.

“I am Kharvek, Krahal-Zir’s city-lord!” he bellowed.

“You will not take this city from me!”

Ben’s boots skidded across molten stone, heels carving twin grooves through the scorched floor.

The pressure was suffocating, every time he blinked, it felt like a mountain pressed closer.

Kharvek strength reach a new level.

Each step the twisted giant took left glowing craters in the arena, the relic inside him pulsing with every heartbeat.

“Still standing, rat?” he snarled, lava dripping from the edges of his jagged wings.

“You should’ve knelt when I gave you the chance.”

Ben didn’t answer.

The heat was intense enough to boil the blood beneath his skin, and the mana in the air writhed like a beast.

‘Tch, if I use my real strength this much is nothing.’

Then Kharvek moved.

BOOM.

In an instant, he blurred forward, wings spread wide like blades.

A molten fist the size of a boulder came screaming down toward Ben’s head.

Ben rolled aside, barely, heat searing his skin as the blow shattered the stone behind him.

He came up with a slash, one dagger aimed at the exposed ribs.

CLANG!

His blade struck armor and rebounded, skidding across the obsidian plating now harder than grimslate.

Ben cursed, twisting mid-air as a wing whipped around like a scythe.

CRASH!

Ben was sent flying across the arena, skidding through a broken section of the ring, smoke trailing from his jacket.

He coughed, blood on his lips.

The veins in his arms throbbed, resisting the external heat flooding his body.

Kharvek stalked forward, each step a declaration of his dominance.

His voice thundered through the stands.

“This is your challenger!?

This is the chamption they whisper about?

Pathetic!”

The crowd didn’t cheer.

They situation were to tense.

Ben slowly rose, dragging one dagger across the ground.

His eyes locked onto Kharvek’s warped, towering form.

The dagger vibrated in his hand Ben’s gaze sharpened.

“I don’t care what relic you fused into your spine,” he muttered.

“I’ve already faced worse.”

Kharvek howled , both fists raised.

A meteor of living flame.

Ben moved.

He sidestepped the first strike, ducked under the second, then slid between Kharvek’s legs.

His dagger ignited, flame bursting along the obsidian-forged blade.

BOOM!

Ben stabbed the dagger deep into Kharvek’s ankle.

The flame-triggered enchantment activated instantly,

CRACK!

A surge of compressed mana exploded from within the wound, throwing Kharvek off balance for the first time.

The warlord staggered with a guttural roar, smoke blasting from the cracks across his leg.

Ben didn’t stop.

He sprinted up the collapsing obsidian wing, flames trailing his steps like a comet.

“Let’s test your limit.”

He leapt, spinning mid-air, and drove his second dagger straight toward the core pulsing in Kharvek’s chest.

Ben’s body spun like a flame-tipped spear, momentum twisting behind the dagger in his hand.

Kharvek roared, arms snapping up in a desperate cross-guard.

But it was too late.

CRACK!

The obsidian dagger struck the molten seal on Kharvek’s chest, not piercing it, but detonating.

BOOM!

A shockwave erupted, blasting molten bone and slag into the sky.

The core flared bright white, like a sun dying in a scream.

Kharvek’s entire upper body snapped backward, a howl of pain echoing through the colosseum.

Ben landed hard, sliding backward on the blackened stone, one knee down, flames rippling from his shoulders like wings.

His hands burned, skin blistered, but his eyes never wavered.

“Get up,” he growled.

Kharvek did Barely.

The behemoth staggered to his feet, arms limp, molten blood trailing from his chest in rivers.

Half his face was missing, burned away in the blast.

Still, he stumbled forward.

“You… don’t win… this…” he slurred, voice gurgling with heat and defiance.

Ben walked toward him, slow and cold.

“I’m not here to win.” He stopped just in front of Kharvek, dagger still glowing in hand.

“I’m here to end you.”

STAB!!!!

BOOM!

A column of flame surged up like a geyser, engulfing the warlord in searing white light.

The relic cracked.

Shattered.

The seal burst apart in a fountain of molten shards and burning mana.

When the fire died, nothing remained of Kharvek but scorched ash and warped metal.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then the announcer’s voice boomed across the colosseum, laced with ceremonial magic, trembling with awe.

“The Rite is concluded!”

“Victor: Tzarek!”

“By flame and bone, by blood and strength, he is now the rightful Lord of the Flame-Branded City!”

The runes on the arena floor pulsed.

The projectied warriors knelt.

And then the crowd erupted.

“TZAREK!

TZAREK!

TZAREK!”

Cheers rolled like thunder through the colosseum.

Stone seats shook beneath the stomping of feet, and the roar of thousands rose like a living wave.

The city had seen many duels, but few like this.

In the noble boxes, expressions twisted.

Some faces were tight with fury, lips thin and bitter.

The old noble faction hate this change of power.

For all their love of tradition, the Nephirid respected one thing above all: victory.

That didn’t mean they welcomed change.

In truth, these power shifts were rare.

This is all because the pool of true talented warriors had dwindled.