MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

The battlefield of survival had ended, but its haunting echoes lingered in the air.

Across various planets, champions had fought with ferocious resolve against unrelenting waves of monstrous foes.

Blood cascaded like rivers, staining the landscapes of foreign worlds.

Screams of pain, defiance, and despair reverberated as limbs were torn asunder, lives extinguished in the blink of an eye.

The unprepared perished swiftly, their treasures unable to activate in time.

Those who lacked the strength to endure relied on their life saving artifacts, burning fortunes they had painstakingly accumulated to escape the carnage.

The unlucky, however, found their bodies ripped apart, their artifacts useless in the face of overwhelming odds.

Flesh mangled, organs exposed, and entrails scattered; such grim fates reminded everyone of the fragility of their mortality.

And yet, amidst this infernal chaos, a few displayed unimaginable resilience.

Champions endured wounds that would kill lesser beings, clutching desperately to life as they waited for salvation.

Each passing second stretched into eternity, their minds fixated on the timer that ticked down inexorably to the 24 hour mark.

For the injured and battered, those final moments felt like an unending torment, each breath a Herculean effort.

Finally, the timer struck zero.

Across every battlefield, the participants vanished, their forms swallowed by radiant light as the mechanisms of the tournament transported them away.

Planets once painted with blood and destruction fell into silence.

The arena of champions was a stark contrast to the battlegrounds from which the fighters emerged.

As they materialized in the colossal space, the collective scene was both awe inspiring and harrowing.

Many were broken shells of their former selves, bodies battered, limbs absent, and spirits extinguished.

Corpses lay scattered among the living, some mere torsos or remnants of flesh ravaged by monstrous claws and teeth.

The stench of death clung to them, a reminder of the price they had paid to survive.

A few champions fainted upon arrival, their bodies collapsing under the weight of their injuries.

Some who could heal rushed to their aid, though for some, even the most potent of treatments arrived too late.

Others remained unconscious, their chests heaving shallowly as their strength ebbed away.

Yet, amidst this sea of carnage and suffering, a handful of individuals stood untouched.

These beings bore not even the slightest signs of struggle; their garments remained pristine, unmarred by the filth of combat.

Not even a speck of dust dared to sully their perfection.

Their unscathed appearances marked them as forces to be reckoned with, figures whose power transcended comprehension.

They drew the wary gazes of the injured, a mixture of admiration, jealousy, and fear swirling in their hearts.

As silence threatened to envelop the arena, the Overseer materialized without warning.

His presence was suffocating, his aura palpable, though no physical detail of his form could be discerned.

"Congratulations"

He intoned, his voice resonating with malevolent amusement.

"You have survived this trial, proving yourselves worthy of continuing to the next stage"

His words carried no warmth, only the cold detachment of someone who relished their suffering.

His gaze, invisible yet piercing, seemed to linger on the injured, savoring their misery.

Then, as if to twist the knife further, his lips curled into a sinister smile.

"You have 30 hours to recuperate. Use this time wisely, for the final stage of the tournament awaits"

With those words, he vanished, leaving behind an oppressive silence.

The champions glanced at one another uneasily, some tending to their wounds, others standing in silent contemplation of the trial they had endured.

Among the figures, Anthony stood quietly, his sharp gaze surveying the scene before him.

His demeanor was unruffled, his posture relaxed as if the preceding battle had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

He observed the wounded sprawled across the arena, their agony etched into their faces.

The thick odor of blood and sweat filled his nostrils, yet it did little to disturb his tranquil expression.

He noted the unscathed champions, whose auras radiated an intimidating confidence.

They drew his attention momentarily, though his interest quickly waned.

His gaze lingered on the corpses scattered across the floor, their lifeless forms a grim testament to the tournament's ruthlessness.

As Anthony reflected, a familiar figure approached him.

It was Lucian, his steps deliberate, his presence exuding an air of purpose.

His voice broke the silence, steady and direct.

"How was your battle?"

Anthony turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

After a brief pause, he responded in a monotone voice, his words laced with indifference of a single word.

"Boring"

Lucian raised an eyebrow but said nothing further.

He appeared to have expected the answer, though Anthony's nonchalant tone seemed to amuse him.

Without another word, Anthony extended a hand and made a small motion.

As if summoned by an unseen force, the same cottage appeared once more.

The structure materialized seamlessly, its presence as enigmatic as the man who had conjured it.

Lucian observed the cottage briefly, then followed Anthony as he began to walk toward it.

Their steps were calm, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the universe.

Behind them, another figure trailed in silence.

Aaaninja, his eyes perpetually closed, moved with quiet grace.

His presence was subdued yet commanding, the faintest hint of a smile gracing his lips.

He said nothing, his demeanor enigmatic as he followed Anthony and Lucian into the cottage.

The door closed behind them, shutting out the chaos of the arena.

Inside, the three figures disappeared into the tranquility of the space, leaving the others to their own devices.

This time, however, the three did not retire to their respective rooms.

Instead, they convened in a shared space, united in their intent to discuss the upcoming tournament.

The air outside hung heavy with uncertainty, the champions grappling with their wounds, their fears, and the looming challenge that awaited them.

Despite the immense pressure, they could do nothing but harden their resolve.

The fate of their planet rested heavily on their shoulders, and every decision they made carried the weight of survival itself.
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In silence, they each retrieved healing potions from their space rings, knowing recovery was essential.

The elixirs worked swiftly, soothing their pain and mending their injuries. With renewed strength, they refocused.

The countdown had begun, thirty hours until the tournament would determine their future.