A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

Chapter 109: Chapter 109: The Iron Ring

The Iron Ring operated out of a converted warehouse in the Docklands.

James and Finn paid at the door and took two seats above the ring, high enough to see the whole floor without being swallowed by the crowd. The place was packed shoulder to shoulder, loud in the way only Challenger crowds got loud, with people arguing over brackets, guild scouts watching from tinted booths along the upper level, and fighters moving in and out of the tunnels below.

The ring sat in the center of it all, sunk slightly below the stands and sealed behind reinforced glass and layered barrier tech. Every time a heavy strike landed in the earlier bouts, the barrier shimmered upward like disturbed water before fading back into place. Blood-cleaning drones moved along the floor between matches, quick and silent, while medics waited near both exits with the bored focus of people who expected someone to leave on a stretcher.

Above the ring, the bracket board shifted.

QUARTER-FINAL — BRACKET TWO

Two fighters left before the next break.

The announcer stepped to the center with the mic in hand, and the noise in the warehouse lowered by a few degrees.

”Ladies and gentlemen, quarter-final, bracket two!”

The crowd answered with a sharp rise of cheers.

”Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner, standing six feet tall and weighing ninety-two kilos, a D-rank Guardian with sixteen wins and two losses — Ronan Cleary!”

Ronan Cleary walked out of the left tunnel to a heavy cheer from one side of the arena. He was a big man in plated armor, with a full tower shield locked to his left arm and a war hammer hanging across his back. He did not raise his hands for the crowd. He did not need to. He moved with the settled weight of someone who had carried that shield through real floors and no longer cared whether strangers believed he could.

”And his opponent, fighting out of the red corner, standing five feet eleven and weighing eighty-five kilos, a D-rank Blade Fighter with fourteen wins and four losses — Dae-ho Lim!”

Lim came out fast.

He fed the crowd immediately, both hands raised as he walked, sword already drawn and cutting short bright arcs through the air. The gallery liked him for it. He smiled like he knew they would.

James watched the difference between them without leaning forward.

Ronan reached his corner and set his shield once against the floor.

Lim rolled his shoulders, spun his blade once, and kept moving even after the referee called both men to center.

The barrier shimmered as it sealed around them.

The bell rang.

Lim moved the moment the bell rang, his sword cutting down from the right in a long diagonal arc that tested both range and reaction. Cleary raised his tower shield and caught the strike cleanly. Metal rang across the arena, and the barrier behind him rippled once before settling.

The crowd answered immediately. Lim was quick, flashy, and easy to cheer for. He did not let the first block slow him down. His feet slid left, his blade came back around, and the second strike turned into a low cut aimed for Cleary’s thigh. Cleary lowered the shield just enough to catch it, then reset without taking a full step back.

Lim smiled and pressed harder.

His next combination came high, low, then high again, each strike sharp enough to force a weaker defender into panic. Cleary blocked the first with his shield, but the second scraped across the side of his armor before he fully turned it away. Sparks jumped from the plate, and the red side of the crowd surged to its feet as if the fight had already tilted.

Lim heard them and used it. He circled faster, sword flicking at Cleary’s shoulder, ribs, and knee, each attack forcing the Guardian to adjust his shield angle again and again. Cleary gave ground for the first time, one heavy step dragging across the ring floor. Another cut slipped past the edge of the shield and marked his upper arm, shallow but visible.

The crowd got louder.

To them, Lim looked like he had the fight. His sword was faster, his movement cleaner, and every attack gave them something to react to. Cleary looked slower by comparison, a big man hiding behind a shield while the Blade Fighter carved around him.

Lim raised his sword for half a second and let the noise hit him.

”You planning to use that thing,” he called, nodding at the hammer on Cleary’s back, ”or did you bring it for decoration?”

Laughter spread through the front rows.

Cleary did not answer. He kept his shield up and watched Lim through the narrow space above its rim.

Lim came in again, this time cutting toward Cleary’s neck before pulling the strike short and driving a thrust toward the gap below his ribs. For a breath, it looked clean. The front rows leaned forward, already expecting the blade to land.

Cleary turned his shield at the last moment. The sword slid along the outer curve instead of punching through, and Lim’s wrist carried too far forward before he could recover. Cleary still did not counter. He simply let Lim pull back.

James watched from above without speaking. The crowd booed the missed chance, but he was no longer watching Lim’s sword. He was watching Cleary’s feet.

Lim reset his stance. His breathing had changed now, still controlled but heavier than before. Sweat ran down the side of his face, and the smile had thinned. He circled left again, using the same half-step he had used twice already to get around the edge of the shield.

This time, Cleary moved first.

It was only one step, but the timing killed Lim’s attack before it properly started. The tower shield drove into Lim’s leading shoulder with a short, heavy impact that turned his balance left. Lim tried to spin out of it, but his foot was already wrong and his sword arm opened for one breath too long.

Cleary’s hammer came off his back in one smooth draw.

The swing was not wide or showy. It came low to high, controlled and brutal, and the flat face of the hammer caught Lim beneath the jaw.

The sound cracked through the arena.

The barrier above the ring flashed white as Lim left his feet. His sword slipped from his hand as he flew backward and slammed into the barrier wall. The shimmer spread out behind him in three bright rings before his body dropped to the floor and rolled once.

For a moment, the entire warehouse held its breath.

Then the crowd exploded.

The announcer’s voice tore through the noise. ”Dae-ho Lim is down! Lim is down after a clean hammer counter from Ronan Cleary!”

Lim’s hand slapped against the ring floor. He tried to rise, fingers trembling against the glassy surface as he forced one knee beneath him. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and his sword lay several meters away. The red side started chanting his name, trying to drag him up with noise alone.

Cleary did not move toward him. He stood where he had finished the swing, shield raised and hammer lowered, waiting for the referee instead of chasing a finish that had already been decided.

Lim pushed again. His elbow shook, held for half a second, then gave out.

The referee stepped in and raised his hand.

”The winner, by knockout, Ronan Cleary!”

The blue side erupted. Cleary lowered his shield, but he did not raise his hammer for the crowd. He walked across the ring instead and stopped in front of Lim, who was still blinking hard and holding his jaw like he had not fully returned to himself yet.

Cleary offered a hand.

The crowd noise shifted. Lim stared at the hand for a second, pride and pain both visible on his face, then took it. Cleary pulled him up without yanking and held him steady until his legs stopped swaying. Only then did he let go and step back.

James kept watching.

Below, the blood-cleaning drone glided across the ring, wiping away the mark Lim’s mouth had left on the floor. Cleary turned toward the tunnel with his hammer resting against one shoulder and his shield still locked to his arm. He did not look up at the stands. He did not wait for the crowd to love him. He disappeared through the tunnel like the match had been another floor cleared and nothing more.

Finn glanced at James.

James was already standing.

They started toward the stairs without needing to discuss it.

Before they reached the aisle, the announcer’s voice cut through the arena again.

”Ladies and gentlemen, remain seated. Our next exhibition bout is an A-rank special match.”

The crowd changed instantly. People who had been leaving stopped in the aisles. The guild scouts behind the tinted glass leaned closer to the windows. Even the medics near the exits turned toward the ring as the barrier brightened and recalibrated.

”Introducing first,” the announcer called, ”an A-rank Mage Fist fighter known for close-range spell reinforcement and impact casting.”

The left tunnel opened, and a man stepped out with bare hands wrapped in black combat tape, blue-white mana crawling over his knuckles.

”And facing him,” the announcer continued, ”an A-rank Sword Fighter with twenty-three official arena wins.”

The right tunnel opened.

James stopped walking.

Finn stopped beside him.

Neither of them returned to their seats, but neither of them left.