CHAPTER 183: AAMIR ENTERS IN THE ARENA

Aamir stood in the middle of the beast’s fading remains, his breath heavy but steady. The acrid smell of burnt fur and earth lingered in the air. He glanced at the faint golden numbers flickering in the corner of his vision.

+2,000 EXP.

His brow furrowed. "Only... two thousand?" he muttered, flexing his fingers as if the answer might be hiding in his palms. "This thing was a Level 14 beast strong enough to wipe out an entire town. And yet..." His voice trailed off, the memory of his fight against the Bloodhound flashing in his mind. That battle had shot his level upward in a single leap.

He tilted his head slightly. "Hai, Luman," he called inside his mind. "I’m not feeling right about this. Why is it that when I defeat a beast like this, I’m only getting two or four thousand EXP, but when I took down the Bloodhound, I leveled up instantly?"

The calm, ever-neutral voice of Luman echoed in his mind.

[Host, to ensure your rapid growth does not harm you, the system has implemented an automatic limiter on your experience gain.]

Aamir blinked. "Wait... a limiter?"

[Correct. You currently receive only one-third of the original experience reward from your victories.]

The words hung in his mind, slow and deliberate.

Aamir’s eyes widened. "One-third?! So if I get two thousand EXP now... that means the real reward should have been—"

[Six thousand.]

He stared at the empty battlefield in disbelief. "And if I got four thousand... then the real was twelve thousand..." His tone hardened. "Luman, why would you hold back something so important? I’m literally fighting for my life here."

[Because quick growth can sometimes be more dangerous than no growth at all.] Luman’s voice carried a strange weight, as if it spoke from experience. [Without enough time for your body, mind, and abilities to adapt to your new power, your foundations will become unstable. An unstable foundation in a battle against higher-tier enemies means... certain death.]

Aamir lowered his gaze, silent for a moment. The metallic taste of truth lingered in his mouth. "So... you’re slowing me down so I don’t crash later?"

[Exactly, Host. Your journey is not just about reaching power. It’s about surviving long enough to use it.]

Aamir clenched his fists. A part of him still hated the thought of lost EXP, but deep down, he knew Luman wasn’t wrong.

"Fine," he sighed, a faint smirk creeping onto his lips. "But when the time comes... I expect you to remove that limiter. Because when I go all out, Luman... there won’t be anything left standing."

[Understood.]

The light breeze swept over the battlefield, carrying away the last traces of the beast’s presence. Somewhere in the distance, another roar echoed — a reminder that his path was far from over.

For the next day and a half, Aamir continued his relentless training. By day, he hunted blood beasts in the depths of the forest, each battle leaving his clothes more tattered and his body more bruised. By night, he slept under the shelter of towering trees, the cold wind whispering through the leaves.

The fights were grueling. These beasts were no ordinary monsters — they moved with feral cunning, their roars shaking the ground. Each strike Aamir delivered was met with counterattacks sharp enough to tear through steel. But he welcomed the challenge, if only to sharpen himself further.

By the end of the 1.5 days, Aamir sat with his back against a tree, his legs stretched out before him. His shirt was torn open across the chest, revealing a muscular build that glistened faintly under the afternoon sun. Scratches marked his skin, and the faint scent of beast blood still clung to him.

He let out a groan. "Man... this much practice and I still haven’t leveled up. Damn it, Luman, this is too much."

"It’s for your own good, host," Luman said, in that same tone mothers used when lecturing their children.

Aamir smirked. "Now you’re really talking like my mom."

"So... what’s the time right now?" Aamir asked, brushing dirt off his palms.

"The tournament will start soon," Luman replied.

Aamir’s eyes widened. "Oh crap! I forgot about that! Let’s hurry!" He bolted upright, ready to run.

"Host," Luman sighed, "you have the ability to teleport."

Aamir froze mid-step, blinking. "Oh... right. I forgot. Thanks, Luman."

"You’re welcome,"

the voice replied dryly.

Far away, in the heart of the Vampire Dominion, the royal capital — Crisys — was alive with excitement. The massive arena loomed like a colosseum from another age, its black stone walls adorned with crimson banners bearing the crest of the vampire king.

Inside, thousands of spectators filled the seats, their voices a thunderous roar of anticipation. The preparations for the tournament were complete. Servants rushed about, ensuring refreshments reached the nobles in their elevated boxes, while warriors from different factions stood in waiting, their armor gleaming under the arena’s enchanted lights.

But despite the vibrant energy, there was tension in the air — and at the center of it was King Zalmic himself. Sitting on his obsidian throne at the royal balcony, his expression was one of concealed worry. His red eyes scanned the arena floor before shifting to one of the vampire lords standing beside him.

"Did you get any intel about Aamir? Where he is?" Zalmic asked, his tone clipped.

The vampire lord shook his head. "No, sire."

Zalmic exhaled slowly, gripping the armrest of his throne. "Lord Aamir... please arrive on time. The tournament is about to begin."

Meanwhile, back in the forest, Aamir activated his teleportation ability. The air around him shimmered with black and purple energy, swirling into a vortex. In an instant, the forest vanished.

The arena floor bustled with last-minute preparations when a towering figure stepped beside Zalmic. He was a werewolf — and not just any werewolf. His frame was more muscular than most, broad shoulders carrying the weight of dominance. His facial hair had grown into a short, rough beard, and upon his head sat a crown similar to Zalmic’s, though forged from silver and wolfbone. His presence radiated authority and challenge.

"What’s wrong, Zalmic?" the werewolf king asked, his voice a low rumble. "Where is your friend? Did he flee in fear?"

Zalmic’s eyes narrowed. "Please mind your language, Lord Seemus. He is my guest, just like you."

"Guest or not," Seemus said, folding his arms, "if he’s too afraid to show up, then your champion’s worth is nothing but a story to entertain children."

Before Zalmic could retort, a sudden hiss filled the air behind him. A swirl of black smoke rose from the ground, twisting into a purple-black, clouded portal. The energy pulsed with a faint thunder, drawing every eye in the arena toward it.

From the depths of that vortex stepped Aamir, his tattered shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, dust and battle marks still fresh on his skin. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if he had just walked in from a morning stroll rather than a brutal training session.

His eyes locked onto the werewolf king immediately. "Don’t worry, king of dogs,"

Aamir said, his voice carrying across the arena. "I’m not one of those guys who runs from a fight."

Gasps rippled through the audience. The insult to a werewolf king was bold — reckless, even. But the smirk playing at the corner of Aamir’s lips showed he knew exactly what he was doing.

Seemus’ golden eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within them. "Careful, boy... your tongue might write a check your strength can’t cash."

Aamir tilted his head, the smirk widening. "Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?"

Gasps rippled through the arena as the black smoke cleared, revealing Aamir stepping out of the swirling purple-black portal. His torn clothes and faint scratches only added to the dangerous aura he carried. The beast-shaped insignia on his chest glimmered faintly, a symbol of the Beastkin tribes.

Some vampires in the stands leaned forward in excitement, while others exchanged doubtful glances.

"So that’s him? The so-called King of Beasts?" a pale, crimson-eyed noblewoman whispered to her companion.

"Hmph... looks more like a tired gladiator than a champion," the other replied, fanning himself lazily.

On the other side, in the section reserved for werewolf spectators, a few warriors chuckled.

"This is the one? He doesn’t even smell like a threat," one broad-shouldered werewolf scoffed.

"Don’t underestimate him," another replied with a sharp grin. "If a Beastkin claims the title of King, he either has strength... or the madness to fake it."

Farther up in the crowd, merchants and commonfolk whispered excitedly.

"If he’s representing the Beastkin, maybe this tournament will be worth the ticket price," one muttered.

"Or maybe we’ll watch him get crushed. Either way, it’s worth every coin," his friend replied with a laugh.

A group of young vampire guards near the entrance were buzzing with energy.

"I heard he tore through a Bloodhound beast alone," one said.

"That’s impossible! Only the elite squads can do that without losing people," another argued.

Meanwhile, Lord Seemus smirked from his side of the platform, clearly enjoying the tension. The two kings—one of vampires, one of werewolves—stood like shadow and steel, their gazes occasionally shifting toward Aamir. Now, the so-called King of Beasts stood as the unpredictable element between them.

The announcers’ voices boomed, signaling that the tournament was minutes from starting.

The air grew heavier with each heartbeat. This was no longer just a contest—it was a stage where pride, politics, and predator instincts would clash.