This Life, I Will Be the Protagonist
Chapter 762 - 762: 762: Divine Game: Card Swap 11

Three days after selling the magic items, Lightchaser sold off Fat Goose.

True to her word, she handed the Candlebeast over to a seemingly ordinary couple who ran a tailor shop.

But she'd already marked Fat Goose—no matter where he went, at the end of every month, Lightchaser would come to collect 300 portions of magic food from him.

After pocketing the gold, she set off again with the little Oak Owl by her side.

The outline of the town slowly faded behind them.

Suddenly, Lightchaser spoke. "You must have grown up in comfort."

Rita, struggling to keep up while flying at full speed, blinked in confusion, not understanding where that came from.

"Because you trust far too easily. You've filled your head with rosy expectations and self-serving fantasies about me."

"You admire my strength. You want me to teach you. But you also want to rely on me. Tell me I'm wrong."

"A person like that isn't qualified to be my student."

As she spoke, Lightchaser watched the Oak Owl's expression with interest.

At first, Rita looked shocked, embarrassed, her face burning red. But by the time Lightchaser finished, her face changed completely—her features softening in surprise.

She stared at herself, genuinely confused, eyes clear, tone honest. "I… I thought I was still in the stage of earning back my freedom by working for you. If I got a few lessons along the way, that'd be a bonus."

How did we skip ahead to being your student?

Her thoughts were written all over her face.

Lightchaser: …

She irritably grabbed the Oak Owl by the back of her collar and lifted her up, growling, "Let's see what your choice has actually earned you."

For the next three days, Lightchaser taught Rita how to use a dagger. She only taught her three moves: Bone Rip, Backstab, and Throat Slash.

On the fourth day, she brought Rita to a low-tier underground fighting pit and tossed her the same dagger she'd been training with.

Holding a pouch in one hand, she said, "There's 1,000 gold in here. For every match, I'll bet 50 gold on you to win."

"The moment it runs out, I'm leaving."

"If you can make me 5,000, then you'll officially be my student."

"Too bad, kid. You don't get to change your mind."

Inside the pit, a fight was already underway.

The two combatants were so torn apart it was hard to tell what species they were anymore.

All around them, spectators screamed, shouted, cursed.

Rita had to shout to be heard. "Isn't this… a bit much?"

Lightchaser burst out laughing. "You're right. I've been too soft. I'm raising the bet to 100 gold per fight."

Then, like she was tossing out a stray animal, she yanked Rita up and flung her at the staff without another glance.

...

Bang.

Rita hit the ground, skidding across the dirt and leaving a smear of blood behind.

She slammed into the arena floor hard. One eye was gone—ripped out by a savage opponent. Her baby teeth, already falling out, had mostly been knocked loose. Eating had become a challenge.

Her long, dark hair had been hacked into a ragged, uneven bob. The cuts were clean, but clearly done with frustration—probably her own, just to keep it out of her way.

This was her 21st day in the pit. She'd lost 26 times, won 92.

Every win had ended with her opponent's death.

Because Lightchaser had only taught her three moves. Two of them were designed to disable opponents quickly. The third was to finish them off.

The contrast between her innocent face and her brutal techniques created a shocking effect—one the audience loved.

This was how she survived. Maybe because her matches drew more and more spectators, by the third day, the pit had started giving her treatment after each round.

She hadn't used the two magic marks on her hand. Before entering the pit, Lightchaser had wiped them away with special ink. Rita hadn't understood why at first.

Until she saw another pit fighter, just like her, get dragged away immediately after using a hidden magic tool.

That's when she realized—those abilities couldn't be used. Not if she wanted to live.

Sleepless Tonight and Nebula Bubble both created obvious magical signatures. There was no way to hide them.

Rita was honestly surprised at how quickly she'd adapted.

No vomiting after her first kill. No tears, no nightmares.

There was no time for that.

After that first kill, she'd been too busy trembling from nearly getting decapitated.

After every kill, she had to rush to rest and heal—before the next opponent arrived.

There was no room for guilt.

Because every moment of hesitation, every second of mercy, came back to bite her.

Not in the long run. In ten seconds or less.

Not just consequences—retribution.

Pain and open wounds had a way of teaching quick lessons.

"Get up, bird freak!"

"Useless! Why did I even bet on you!"

"Rip her apart! That trash doesn't deserve a quick death!"

The audience roared. Those who bet on her to win cursed her weakness. Those who bet against her cursed her survival.

This was her everyday reality.

At first, she'd cry from all the hate.

Now? The shadow looming above her leapt—an orc, his hulking form ready to crush.

Rita, still playing dead, suddenly rolled sideways, shot up into the air, and dodged the stomp.

She launched herself behind him mid-flight. Her dagger plunged into the back of his neck. Both hands clenched the hilt as she drove it down, wings flaring at full force.

She dove hard, compensating for her lack of strength with speed and momentum.

The blade dragged down his spine. Every time it met bone, her wrists twitched just enough to steer around it—cutting clean, tight to the bone, splitting muscle and sinew wide open.

A massive wound tore down his back.

Bone Rip.

A perfect Bone Rip—one that nearly split the orc in two.

Boom.

The orc, three times her size, crashed to the ground.

All that remained in the arena was a panting little Oak Owl, soaked in blood.

The crowd erupted—cheers, howls, curses.

Under their attention, Rita wiped the blood from her face and slicked her matted hair back. She raised her deformed arms high and pointed to the stands, shouting in her shrill, childish voice:

"Louder! Who's barking like a mutt? Come on, tell me—who's the real trash here? Who's the failure now?!"

By her fourth day, she'd stopped crying. She'd learned trash talk.

Her progress in insults kept pace with her growth in combat experience.

If Scarlett saw what she'd become, she'd probably lock herself in the kitchen and cry for a week.

Food and drinks rained down from the stands. Rita didn't even glance at them as she flew out of the arena.

Back when she first arrived, she would've scrambled to grab those scraps to eat.

But now that her fights drew a crowd, the pit provided food and healing potions.

Only this time, she waited in her tiny room for a long while—and nothing came.

Just when she thought she might be left to die alone, a shadow fell over her.

A familiar one.

She looked down at the floor. Saw pointed ears in the silhouette.

She froze.

Then snapped her head up—

Lightchaser.

The elf smiled and asked, "So? Do you hate me now?"