Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

The match was over—but the aftershocks of it rippled across the arena.

For a long moment, no one moved.

The noble section—previously so smug, so full of snickering confidence—had gone silent.

Even the ones who had laughed the loudest earlier now sat stiffly, eyes trained on Uga as if trying to make sense of what they’d just seen.

Uga, for his part, didn’t bask in the attention.

He gave a slight wave to the crowd, muttered something about lunch, and ambled off the platform like nothing happened.

Michael leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable.

Callen Dureth’s number tag was taken without ceremony. There was no argument. He didn’t even get up. Assistants carried him off the field, groaning and red-faced—not from pain, but humiliation.

A noble had fallen.

And not just fallen—he’d been embarrassed.

By a commoner.

Michael’s eyes slowly scanned the arena.

Fifty-seven nobles had entered.

Ten had passed.

All of them had only fought weak commoners.

If Uga hadn’t been there, it would’ve been eleven.

On the other hand, only five commoners made it through. Five. Excluding Uga.

All were older.

Men who had real combat experience, most likely adventurers, or hunters.

And more importantly—they were all already at the Intermediate Rank.

Michael lowered his gaze and did the math.

178 participants in total. With 35 matches held so far, 70 people had already fought—16 advanced, 54 eliminated.

Ten nobles.

Five commoners.

One Uga.

That left 108 participants, which meant 54 matches remained.

He tapped his leg once. That was a lot. The officials would want to wrap things up before evening.

The audience was quieter now. Uga’s performance had shaken assumptions. Suddenly, the line between noble and commoner looked thinner than before.

But the structure remained.

There had been 57 nobles in total.

One was eliminated—Callen Dureth.

Ten had already advanced.

So, 46 nobles remained.

And odds were, most of them would face commoners next. The trend was predictable now.

Michael glanced at Renn, who still looked annoyed but a bit better.

He closed his eyes for a second.

Fifty-four matches.

108 people.

His turn was coming.

He just hoped it was soon.

For some reason.

He started craving potatoes.

The matches rolled on.

Noble versus commoner.

Commoner versus commoner.

A rare noble defeat here and there—but not many.

Still, they were happening.

Slowly.

After Uga’s match, the tension in the arena seemed to deepen. The officials didn’t pause; the next names were called without delay. But the spectators leaned forward now, eyes sharper, no longer lulled into the certainty that bloodlines alone guaranteed victory.

Michael noticed it immediately.

Some of the commoners weren’t the clueless fodder from earlier.

They fought like people used to bleeding.

In three matches—just three—Michael watched nobles lose.

None of the defeats were as brutal as Callen’s, but each still sent ripples through the crowd.

One noble was forced to yield after dislocating a shoulder.

Another was knocked out cold by a backhand strike from a brawler wielding iron knuckles.

The third had to be carried off unconscious, a well-placed elbow ending the fight in seconds.

Still… three out of dozens wasn’t much.

But it was enough to shake the illusion.

And while the ratio remained heavily skewed—nobles winning by sheer advantage in equipment and technique—the cracks had started to show.

Steel was steel. Flesh was flesh. Talent didn’t always wear a crest.

More fights passed.

Another noble fell. This time to a spear-wielding man whose eyes looked too tired to care about pride. He fought like it was his last shot at something—and maybe it was.

He advanced.

His number tag wasn’t taken.

Michael tracked the numbers again in his mind.

At this point, 45 matches had been completed. Ninety participants had fought.

Twenty had advanced—now including three commoners who’d taken down nobles.

That made 8 more wins since Uga’s match.

He did the quick math.

178 total.

90 fought.

88 left.

44 matches to go.

It was getting close.

The crowd was more restless now. The sun had shifted slightly, casting longer shadows along the edge of the arena.

Michael caught the officials whisper to one another, likely calculating how quickly they needed to push things along.

Then—

“Next pairing,” the blue-robed woman called, voice calm and sharp, as always.

“Renn Noah.”

Michael’s eyes snapped open.

Beside him, Renn blinked.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he let out a soft exhale and stood.

“Well,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “Guess it’s my turn to be a disappointment.”

He rolled his shoulders once, glanced briefly at Michael—and smiled.

And then he walked off toward the stage.

From their high platform overlooking the arena, the two blue-robed officials watched the proceedings with practiced calm.

The middle-aged man’s arms were folded behind his back. The woman sat beside him, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed but gaze razor-sharp.

Yesterday, three names had stood out to them since the first trial.

Uga.

Renn.

And Mic.

Each for different reasons.

Uga’s strength had been… unconventional.

The officials had already labeled him as a problem—or a valuable asset, depending on how things unfolded. He was unpredictable.

Then there was Renn.

His presence had been quiet. Modest. But his swordsmanship? Remarkably polished. Unlike the others, his techniques were fluid.

Compared to Uga and Michael, however, he was the weakest of the three. Not in talent—but in overall presence. He wasn’t terrifying. He didn’t exude that oppressive weight. But his power had still earned him a place on their watch list.

Then came Mic.

He was the one they still hadn’t figured out.

The moment he’d walked through the first trial like a phantom—they’d both taken note. The ease with which he dismantled the wolves, the calm with which he incapacitated another participant without a flicker of strain—it had been too clean.

The man had quietly pulled out a thin notebook from his inner robe. It was filled with annotations.

> “Level uncertain. At least Advanced Stage. Possible Grand Tier.”

“Appearance: Late teens. Suspicious.”

Between the three, they believed Renn would be the easiest to read. Uga would be the hardest to predict. But Mic…

Michael was the one who made them uncomfortable.

As Renn stepped onto the platform, both officials watched—not with expectation, but with interest.

Of the three, he might be the least frightening.

But sometimes, it was the ones without an aura who cut the deepest.

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