The white light of the safe zone enveloped Lasron, soothing the swollen bite mark and the agonizing numbness caused by the Red Viper's venom. He lay there, panting, staring up at the dark purple artificial sky above, a sense of utter helplessness and exhaustion overwhelming his mind.
How many times had he dragged himself back here after encountering that venomous snake? He had lost count. Each failure meant the entire 70-minute arena progression would reset.
He would have to face the Rage Troll again, then the Black Bear, then the Long-Toothed Tiger - enemies he had shed so much blood and tears to temporarily overcome - just to get a few brief minutes against the Red Viper, only to fail again, and return to the starting point.
The next twenty days were an endless cycle of that repetition. Lasron was like a moth drawn to a flame, again and again. He gradually became inured to the Rage Troll's punches, accustomed to the Black Bear's pounces, and somewhat able to predict the Long-Toothed Tiger's movements.
Overcoming the first three monsters, though still perilous and demanding intense focus, was no longer the impossible challenge it had been in the initial days. But they still drained a significant amount of his strength and alertness before he had to face the true enemy of this stage: the Red Viper.
That red venomous snake was like a phantom. It was agile, cunning, and its strikes always aimed for vital spots. Lasron learned to observe its slightest movements: the way its scales would subtly ripple before it lunged, the almost imperceptible tilt of its head before launching a deadly strike from the flank, or the gentle flick of its tail on the sand, a warning sign before a powerful whip. He memorized its speed, attack range, and the brief pauses between each assault.
The Red Viper's venom remained its most fearsome weapon. The first few times he was bitten, Lasron felt his entire body paralyze almost instantly, his breathing becoming difficult, his consciousness fading.
He had to use every last ounce of strength to drag himself to the safe zone before completely passing out. But after dozens, hundreds of exposures to the venom, whether from glancing bites or severe envenomations, he began to feel a small but crucial change. His hidden "Resistance" stat seemed to be silently working, adapting to this specific toxin.
The paralysis was still there, but it no longer spread as quickly or as powerfully as before. The time he could maintain consciousness and motor function after being poisoned was also slightly longer, giving him a better chance to escape. And most importantly, when he returned to the safe zone, the recovery process from venom-induced injuries seemed a few degrees faster than before. It was a tiny glimmer of hope, proof that his extreme endurance was not entirely in vain.
Physical exhaustion could be recovered, but mental erosion was the most terrifying aspect. Twenty days of repeating a torturous process. Waking up in the safe zone, rushing into the arena, fighting the first three monsters, then facing the Red Viper, getting bitten, crawling back, recovering, and then continuing.
The solitude, the pain, the endless failure. Many times, Lasron just wanted to collapse, to give up, to sink into an eternal sleep to escape the suffering. But then, images of his humiliating slave days, the hatred for those who had trampled on his life, and even a vague yearning for the precious rewards awaiting him, would pull him back. He would grit his teeth, telling himself he couldn't die here, couldn't give up so meaninglessly.
Finally, on a day he couldn't number in that long stretch, after countless failures, Lasron figured out how to survive ten minutes with the Red Viper. He couldn't attack it, but he had completely grasped its rhythm. He moved incessantly, utilizing the entire vast expanse of the arena, always maintaining a safe but not too distant G-a-p to observe and react.
He was like a clumsy yet experienced dancer waltzing with death on a stage of blood and sand, every step, every lean calculated with meticulous precision down to the millisecond. A lunge from the snake, he dodged. A tail whip, he jumped. He was no longer panicked; instead, there was a chilling calmness, an absolute focus.
When the fourth "ding" sounded, signaling 40 minutes had passed in one successful attempt (after countless resets from the beginning), the Red Viper was still trying to find a way to reach Lasron, its strikes only grazing the air. Lasron panted, drenched in sweat, but he had done it. He had survived.
But joy hadn't even begun to arrive when Cage 5 creaked open.
From the darkness, a winged creature shot out like a black arrow. It was a giant bat, its wingspan easily three or four meters, obscuring a large patch of the artificial sky. Its entire body was covered in fur the color of dark, clotted blood, its large, round eyes also as crimson as two burning embers, and its wide-gaping maw revealed a set of white, sharp fangs. A Bloodbat.
Upon appearing, the Bloodbat didn't target Lasron immediately. It shrieked, a piercing sound like shattering glass, then dived straight down to attack the Red Viper, which was still preoccupied with trying to deal with Lasron.
The venomous snake raised its head, instinctively trying to lunge in a counterattack, but the Bloodbat was too agile and had the advantage of flight. It flapped its massive wings powerfully, creating swirling gusts of wind that disoriented the snake and prevented it from striking effectively. Then it swooped down, using its razor-sharp talons to tear relentlessly at the snake's scales.
But the most horrifying thing was yet to come. As the Bloodbat flapped its wings or shrieked during its attack, droplets of a bright red liquid, like blood, splattered from its mouth and perhaps from special glands on its body. These droplets, upon hitting the sand, let off a thin white smoke accompanied by a terrifying sizzling sound. Acidic blood!
The Red Viper, despite its potent venom, couldn't withstand this horrendous weapon. Its red scales quickly corroded, turning a dull black where the acidic blood touched, and desperate, pained hisses echoed. In just a few short minutes, the mighty venomous snake, the one that had tormented Lasron for over twenty days, lay motionless, its body smoking profusely, slowly melting away.
The Bloodbat shrieked a triumphant cry then turned towards Lasron, the only prey left in the arena. It dived towards him, its giant wings generating powerful gusts of wind. Lasron scrambled to dodge. But he couldn't avoid the droplets of acidic blood splattering from its wing flaps, or the streams of blood it deliberately spat towards him.
"Aaaaah!"
A few drops of acidic blood hit Lasron's arm and shoulder. The searing, agonizing pain was far worse than being burned by fire in Zone 1. His flesh felt like it was dissolving instantly, small holes beginning to appear, white smoke rising from them. His tattered clothes were also instantly corroded, turning to ash. He hastily retreated to the safe zone, the horrific pain nearly making him pass out, the image of his flesh being eaten away haunting his mind.
Once again lying in the white light of the recovery zone, Lasron watched the acid burns on his body slowly heal. The Resistance stat once again demonstrably kicked in. Though still excruciatingly painful, he could feel his body trying to fight against the acid's corrosion. The recovery process for acid-induced injuries was much faster than he thought it would be, considering their severity. This was good news, but also a stark reminder of the Bloodbat's danger.
In the following days, Lasron entered a new, challenging loop: overcoming the Rage Troll, Black Bear, Long-Toothed Tiger, and Red Viper, only to face the Bloodbat and its deadly acidic blood.
He learned to dodge its aerial dives, its acid-rain-creating wing flaps. He realized the Bloodbat often flew in a specific pattern before attacking, and it seemed to dislike being too close to the ground. He also discovered that after spewing a large amount of acidic blood, it needed a short period to "recover," which were rare opportunities for him to breathe, to calculate his next move.
Frequent exposure to the acidic blood also caused his Resistance stat to adapt better. The burns were no longer as deep as the first time, and the searing pain had somewhat lessened. He still had to retreat to the safe zone many times, but the duration he could withstand the Bloodbat grew longer.
Finally, after countless efforts, countless times his flesh had been corroded and then regenerated, Lasron survived ten minutes with the Bloodbat. The fifth "ding" sounded, signaling 50 minutes had passed. The Bloodbat was still circling above, occasionally spitting down streams of acidic blood, trying to attack him.
And then, Cage 6 opened. The iron door creaked slowly, as if heralding an even more terrifying horror.
From the deep darkness of the cage, a ghastly, drawn-out howl echoed throughout the arena. The sound wasn't loud, but it seemed to pierce straight through Lasron's eardrums, into his very mind, making his ears ring and his head spin for a moment. A colossal black shadow, taller even than the Rage Troll, burst out with terrifying speed, appearing in the middle of the arena in the blink of an eye.
It was a Werewolf. Its entire body was covered in a coat of jet-black fur, thick and as tough as fine steel wires. Muscles rippled beneath that fur, displaying terrifying latent power. The claws on both its hands and feet were longer and sharper than even the Black Bear's, glinting with a deadly black sheen. Its eyes were as red as burning coals, and its wide maw, full of white, razor-sharp fangs, was snarling, revealing a primal ferocity and bloodlust.
Upon appearing, the Werewolf paid no attention to the Bloodbat flying above. Its sole target was Lasron. With a single bound, it crossed a distance of over ten meters, appearing right in front of him. Lasron panicked, instinctively trying to retreat, but it was too late. Its speed was too fast, faster than anything he had ever faced.
A swing of the Werewolf's arm, its sharp claws tearing through the air. Lasron only felt an icy gust, then an unimaginable pain shot up from both his arms. He looked down. Both his arms, from the shoulders down, had been cleanly severed, flying off onto the sand, blood gushing out like two fountains.
"Ah... AAAAAA!"
Lasron let out a bloodcurdling scream, his voice lost in agony and utter horror, then collapsed. He tried to use his legs to push his body towards the safe zone, but the Werewolf was too fast. It caught up to him in just two strides. It bent down, its fang-filled maw close to Lasron's face, its hot breath, carrying the stench of blood, washing over him.
Just then, the Werewolf threw its head back, puffed out its chest, and let out a long howl. The sound wasn't like a normal howl for intimidation; it carried a strange ultrasonic frequency, a powerful, invisible sound wave that spread throughout the arena.
Lasron felt as if an enormous invisible hammer had struck his head; everything spun, his consciousness almost completely shutting down. His ears rang, and blood began to trickle from his nose. The Bloodbat, flying high above, was also severely affected by the howl; it faltered, then fell to the ground like a dry leaf, convulsing repeatedly.
Lasron lay there, helpless, his entire body in excruciating pain, his arms gone, his consciousness fading. He had absolutely no chance against this Werewolf. Its strength, speed, and even its special ability were far superior to anything he could imagine.
Once again, he awoke in the safe zone, his body miraculously recovered, his arms regrown as if they had never been severed. But the despair was growing, like a colossal shadow engulfing his soul. The Werewolf was too strong. What was he supposed to do? How could he survive such a monster?
However, Lasron vaguely realized something after several gruesome deaths at the Werewolf's hands. Although its ultrasonic howl was terrifying, thanks to his Resistance stat, which had been tempered by countless other types of damage, he didn't seem to be completely paralyzed or knocked unconscious immediately like the Bloodbat.
He still had a faint flicker of consciousness, however hazy, and the time it took for him to recover from the stunned state seemed slightly shorter than the first time. His resistance was continuing to develop, trying to adapt to new types of damage, new challenges.
But would that be enough to help him survive? Facing the Werewolf, and then the final monster in Cage 7, the level 35 Crimson Daemon whose name he only knew through the system.
Lasron felt as if he were standing before an insurmountable steel wall, a bottomless abyss. Fatigue and the urge to give up once again invaded his mind, stronger than ever, almost wanting to completely submerge him.