Steven laid there in the grinding discomfort of his injuries, especially with the sword buried deep in his gut. He tried to pull it out, yet it did not budge. Or more appropriately put, trying to pull it out hurt like hell, to the point that it made him decide it was better left there than torn free.

Only by the rotten miracle of him being a Marked was he still barely clinging to life, his breath shallow and uneven.

{Ding}

{Congratulations, You have killed a Marked Human}

{You can now copy a Skill}

Steven weakly stared at the notifications hovering before his eyes, the glowing text blurring at the edges of his vision.

{Skills present: Iron Strength, Divine Healing, Fates}

{Choose the skill you would like to copy}

Steven paled further at the skills he saw taken from Drake’s corpse. He had three skills, which came as a big surprise to Steven. This alone plainly covered the reason why the arrogant, honourable fatso had always looked so healthy and untouched, never bearing a single scar on his face despite the sheer number of fights he had gone through.

But what skill to pick was the real problem now.

He had seen both Iron Strength and Fates firsthand, their effects burned vividly into his memory, but he did not have much experience with Divine Healing.

His gaze drifted around weakly while he reminisced, weighing what choice would truly be best for him.

’The obvious choice is Divine Healing... but even with a five-times increase, would it be able to save me from blood loss even if it closes the wound?’

Steven already had his physique stat enhanced, and that had done nothing to help him now with his severe injuries and steady bleeding. His eyes, unfocused and trembling, fell onto his wrist as the main question arose within him.

’What would be the end of my fate here?’

That was the question that gnawed at his mind like a festering disease, refusing to be silenced. He preferred to glimpse his future, his death, rather than continue suffering in blind hope that the Divine Healing skill might show pity and spare him from impending doom.

No. He hated uncertainty. He always had. Especially the kind this realm thrived on.

{You have chosen the skill Fates}

{Talent has taken effect}

{Fates x5}

{Skill name has been changed}

{Skill: Fateless}

{Description: Failed}

{Skill: Failed}

{Your current skill is too advanced for the Realm of Entry. Finish the Realm to be able to use the Skill Fateless}

Steven tried to muster a frown, but all that escaped him was a sickened grunt as he could barely feel the muscles on his face anymore.

’Damned luck.’

He sighed, leaning back slightly before groaning in pain. It was time to give up, and Steven knew it. He was going to die here bleeding out slowly, while his sponsor might as well enjoy the spectacle from wherever they watched.

He closed his eye and thought back to the words Drake had said to him during their fight. How he had mentioned Steven having nothing to fight for. It made him wonder; why was he so interested in returning to the human world in the first place?

And then—

Clang!

Steven’s eye weakly opened as he heard distant huffing and the uneven rhythm of hurried footsteps approaching him. He forced his head to turn and caught sight of Scribe, the scrawny old man rushing toward him in a panic.

"Holy shit! How are you still alive?" Scribe spoke quickly as he reached Steven’s side, kneeling down beside him while his eyes darted over the gruesome wounds.

"How—" Steven managed to mutter, his breath weak and broken.

Scribe immediately understood what Steven was asking and replied without hesitation, "He let me go, saying he didn’t need to kill a peasant," Scribe laughed breathlessly. "Pretty lucky, aren’t I?"

Steven’s expression tensed faintly before he parted his lips again and muttered, "Take me... up."

Scribe nodded, not asking for any explanation. He knew Steven well enough by now not to question his decisions. Immediately, he hoisted Steven up, throwing one of Steven’s arms over his shoulder and taking his full weight onto himself.

Then he began making his way out of the cubicle and into a new passageway Steven could barely make out, his vision swimming as his head swayed weakly. The crushing pressure of sleep gnawed relentlessly at his mind.

Still, mentally, he noted their path as they ascended the spiral stairs. Each step made Scribe’s breath hitch sharply, his body visibly trembling under the strain. He was giving it everything he had to carry both himself and Steven upward.

After a long, harrowing climb, they finally reached an opened metal door, where blinding white sunlight poured in like a flood.

Steven’s eye widened as he and Scribe neared the exit of the Colosseum. With all his heart, he hoped... no, he prayed that this was it. His way out. His escape from the Fated Colosseum. His return to the human world.

And then... they crossed.

Thump!

Thump!

Thud!

Steven came crashing down onto his knees as Scribe abruptly released his weight and pulled back all at once. His knees struck the cold ground painfully.

Steven’s face twisted into weary horror as his gaze lifted. In the distance stood the massive structure of the Colosseum, its colossal form barely hidden behind a thin veil of fog.

He had been wrong. They all had been.

Escaping the Colosseum was not the way out. It never was. It was never an escape back to the human world.

The realization plunged his heart into absolute despair.

He wanted to scream, out of pain, regret, and fury... But he no longer had the strength. His time was almost up. He would die in this wretched realm, alongside the remnants of the cohort.

"Was originally thinking I’d end you back there, but it must be fate that you survived."

That voice... it was Scribe’s.

Steven slowly craned his neck to look at him. Scribe stood opposite, wearing a smug grin as he licked his lips with unsettling intent.

Behind him loomed the towering figure of the horrid King Beast. But it looked different now, not as mighty nor as vicious as it had been inside the Colosseum. Its form was shriveled, skin clinging tightly to exposed bone. Half of its face was gone, and one leg was missing from Steven’s earlier attacks.

Yet despite its ruin, Steven couldn’t put his finger on why it looked this way.

What mattered more was that Scribe casually walked up to the ruthless Disaster and patted it on the side as if it were nothing more than a loyal dog.

"You— bastard..." Steven muttered weakly, venom lacing his fading voice.

Scribe only grinned wider at the insult. "I was originally going to let you go, but thanks to whatever spell you placed on my companion here, I’m afraid you’ll have to die," he said lightly. "It’s been quite nice knowing you, Rat."