Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Michael felt a lot of eyes on him.

The moment he stepped into the street in full gear, people looked.

Even without recognition, even without a name, something about his presence demanded attention.

His pale face and fair neck, exposed just enough beneath his collar, gleamed in the morning light.

He looked too beautiful to be a fighter.

Yet something primal beneath his skin warned the instincts of those who saw him:

This one is dangerous.

Michael blurred once—his body vanishing in a streak of speed, displacing air and silence in his wake.

When he reappeared, it was behind one of the side walls of the arena, just before a guarded entrance.

The guards at the door immediately reacted but stopped when Michael raised both his arms.

Their hearts beating like it wanted to come out of their chest.

They only reacted when Michael threw his number tag at one of them.

They stepped aside. He was expected.

Inside the tunnel, the air grew colder. Less sunlight reached this far back.

Michael walked with slow, sure steps.

He entered a large chamber—wide, circular, with worn combat marks on the walls. A waiting area for the finalists. Or whatever name the officials wanted to give it.

He wasn’t the first to arrive.

A few other figures were already there—leaning on walls, sitting on crates, stretching, whispering to each other in low tones.

He recognized them from yesterday.

The quiet brawler who’d slammed his opponent into the ground with iron fists.

The lean spear-wielder who moved like water and had never spoken a word.

Even Uga was there, slouched near the wall like a dozing bear in winter, arms folded, head nodding slightly.

They looked up when Michael entered.

None of them spoke.

But every single one watched.

He nodded once in return and found an empty bench to sit on.

Then frowned.

Renn wasn’t there.

Michael scanned the chamber again just to be sure—but no. Not a glimpse of brown hair, or that casually sarcastic scowl.

Maybe he’s running late, Michael thought. Or maybe—

He didn’t finish that thought.

His mind drifted elsewhere.

Today wasn’t going to be simple.

He could feel it.

Yesterday, nobles who weren’t present during the earlier stages had appeared. Not many, but enough to raise questions.

If more had been held back for today…

Michael closed his eyes.

He was ready.

*

In a modest room tucked behind one of the many inns crowding the southern edge of the capital, Renn Noah sat still on his bed.

His back straight.

His hands firm.

His eyes… locked on the wooden sword resting across his knees.

The same sword that had never left his side since he was five.

The blade looked dull. Ordinary. Slightly chipped at the edge from overuse. Yet somehow, in the light filtering through the curtains, it gleamed with something… more.

Renn didn’t know what.

But it was his.

And soon, that blade would either elevate him—or see him fall.

His fingers tightened slightly on the hilt. “This is it,” he muttered under his breath. “The final trial.”

In a few hours, he’d be on that arena stage again.

This time with the world watching.

And he wasn’t just fighting for a title or some prize. No.

He was fighting for something that had haunted the Noah name for generations.

Status.

Legacy.

Reputation.

He was a Noah—and that meant something.

Noah’s were nobles, yes. But the lowest kind. A dusty, backwater title handed out centuries ago to an ancestor.

They were barons. The least of the least.

And every generation, they tried—desperately—to claw their way up. To rise higher. To be seen.

To be counted among the true nobles. The kind whose names earned respect in court, whose words meant something beyond the family lands.

Renn had inherited that dream.

He hadn’t asked for it.

But it was there. Quiet. Constant. Like pressure in his chest.

And this competition? This was his chance.

If he won—if he truly won—he wouldn’t just earn a title higher than his father.

He’d become a Viscount.

A step away from true nobility. Real nobility.

And then… there was her.

The Duke’s daughter.

Renn didn’t care about her.

But if marrying her would pull the Noahs higher? If it would plant their bloodline into the heart of the capital’s elite?

Then yes. He wanted her.

Renn closed his eyes and exhaled.

But then another image flickered into his mind.

Michael.

And Uga.

Those two.

Those two.

One moved like the wind. The other struck like thunder. And both of them… weren’t even trying yet.

Renn had seen it.

Michael hadn’t even unsheathed a blade.

Uga hadn’t gotten serious.

And that scared him.

He wasn’t the strongest here.

But…

He was the one with something to prove.

Renn opened his eyes and slowly rose, strapping the wooden sword to his waist.

“I won’t lose,” he whispered. “I can’t lose.”

He stood there a moment longer, steadying his breath.

Then, without looking back, he stepped out of the room—into the day that might define the rest of his life.

Grand Mage Lian Office.

The old mage behind the desk had a frown on his face.

The first in the last few days.

He turned to look at his personal attendant who stood on the other side of the table.

“How many do you think they are?”

“At least thirty, my lord.”

“Their strength?”

“I’m not sure but, I heard someone came from the empire.”

“Duke Evermoon didn’t say anything.”

“I can’t tell, my lord. But seeing as he accommodated all of them for days, it’s telling something, my Lord.”

“That bastard!”

Mage Lian gritted his strength.

In a way, he was sorting of overreacting if one considered he had no business in the duke’s personal business.

Unfortunately, this business just happened to be his lifeline.

“Wasn’t the competition because of that?”

At the very beginning, Mage Lian was at ease and didn’t even bother with keeping up with the details of the competition.

With his understanding of Michael, he just couldn’t see the youth losing.

Unfortunately, things seem to be going another route.

“Follow me. Let’s pay a certain duke competition a