Gon's Harem System
Chapter 200: new opponent

Chapter 200: new opponent

The boy stirred.

One moment he was a crumpled heap on the sand, still groaning, still blinking sluggishly at the sky, and the next, he was upright, pushing himself to his feet with a sharp breath and a wild glint in his eye.

Blood stained the front of his tunic where the Crimson Pulse had struck, but it didn’t slow him. If anything, it made him more reckless.

He snarled and bolted forward again, sand exploding beneath his feet as he launched himself at Gon with renewed fury, the pain seemingly forgotten or suppressed beneath sheer rage.

Gon didn’t flinch.

His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his blade, knuckles whitening as the leather, bound grip bit into his palm.

A slow breath slipped past his lips, quiet as falling snow, measured, deliberate, and utterly controlled.

The world seemed to narrow around him, the thrum of battle fading to a distant echo as his focus honed to a single, razor-sharp edge.

He raised his sword, Mana surged through his veins like a second heartbeat, igniting his limbs with electric heat, wrapping around his muscles like coiled lightning, and he whispered, "Phantom Slash."

The mana surged through him like silk catching the wind, smooth and sharp all at once.

The blade shimmered, then split, refracting into a dozen glowing afterimages.

Slashes danced through the air like flickering ghosts, sweeping toward the oncoming boy from every angle, each one a perfect imitation of the real thing.

The boy skidded to a sudden halt, boots scraping against the stone with a harsh hiss that echoed in the charged silence.

His body tensed, shoulders rising ever so slightly, as the momentum of his sprint died in a flurry of loose gravel and dust.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to pause, just long enough for a flicker of confusion to ripple across his face like a shadow chased by flame.

His eyes darted frantically, scanning the shifting battlefield before him. Illusions flickered in and out of sight like ghosts caught between moments, each one a phantom echo of movement and threat.

They danced at the edges of his vision, shimmering with faint auras of mana, too real to ignore, too deceptive to trust. His gaze jumped from one mirage to the next, pupils narrowing, mind racing to trace the patterns hidden within the chaos.

Too many.

Gon’s real strike came swift and low, cutting through the air, slipping beneath the boy’s guard before he could react.

The blade sliced into his side with a clean, slicing crack, and the boy staggered back, eyes wide with realization just a heartbeat too late.

He gasped, choking on the pain as blood welled fresh across his ribs. Then came the cough, wet and sharp, spraying red across the sand.

He crumpled to one knee, one arm clutching the wound, the other bracing him as he fought to stay upright.

Gon didn’t pause.

He stepped forward, ready to end it. Sword raised, body tense, breath held.

But the arena had other plans.

The ground shifted with a sudden lurch, a deep grinding sound echoing beneath them like the grumble of some ancient beast waking from slumber.

The sand trembled violently. Cracks spread like veins through the arena floor, and then, without warning, it changed.

Stone plates lifted and fell, spinning and sliding.

Some areas of the arena dropped several feet, others slanted steeply, forming treacherous angles.

The once flat battlefield became a landscape of traps, uneven, unpredictable, dangerous.

One foot slipped from under Gon.

He cursed under his breath, stumbling to the edge of a newly formed slope.

The ground beneath him was slick, unnaturally smooth. He flailed, scrambling for purchase as his boots skidded against the incline.

For one terrifying second, he felt himself falling, tilting toward the edge of the ring.

But then, just barely, his hand caught on a jagged stone ridge. Fingers scraped raw, he clung to it, muscles screaming as he hauled himself back up.

He lay there for a moment, panting, the stone warm beneath his palms, sweat stinging his eyes. He looked around.

The pink-haired boy was gone.

Vanished.

No sound. No movement. Only the lingering crimson stains where he’d knelt moments ago.

Gon’s brows furrowed, heart thumping loud in his ears.

He stood slowly, sword still gripped tight, eyes sweeping the warped battlefield for any sign of movement. The crowd had fallen into a hushed roar, tension climbing in waves.

And then, he felt it.

Movement. Behind him.

He spun around, faster than thought, instincts firing. His sword came up just in time to block the strike, a blade colliding with his own in a clash of steel and mana, sparks bursting between them.

His attacker didn’t say a word, but Gon knew that face.

It was the boy from earlier, the one who’d cornered him near the palace courtyard, the one who’d promised to avenge someone named Dina.

His eyes burned with a quiet fury, his movements crisp and precise, more controlled than the pink-haired madman’s had ever been.

Gon threw himself backward, pushing off the newly-slanted ground to put space between them.

His boots slid slightly as he moved, but he stayed upright, landing in a crouch several feet away.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Gon muttered under his breath, brushing dust from his tunic and flicking sweat from his brow.

He glanced at the boy across from him, expression blank, breathing even, sword lowered but ready.

Gon exhaled sharply, irritation bubbling up like a pot left unattended. "Great," he said dryly. "I trade one weirdo for another."

His words didn’t seem to faze the other boy. He simply stared back, gaze unwavering, as if measuring Gon, weighing him in silence.

The ring around them continued to shift subtly, small tremors shivering beneath their feet as the arena adjusted itself again, every moment growing more hostile, more unpredictable.

Gon took another step back, calculating angles and footholds, watching the edges of the ring and noting the dangerous inclines that could send either of them tumbling if they weren’t careful.

There wasn’t just one fight to win anymore, there was balance, terrain, magic, timing.

He rolled his shoulders, the weight of the sword familiar in his grip, and narrowed his eyes.

So be it.

He hadn’t come this far to be thrown off by tricks or vengeance.

And if this new opponent wanted a fight, he’d get one.