Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes-Chapter 60: Local Town Arena

After finally purchasing the bakery’s necessities, a hefty bag of flour slung over one shoulder and a basket of fresh ingredients in his hand—Ivaim didn’t head straight back to the bakery.

The thought of warm ovens and rising bread could wait.

Instead, his steps veered toward the heart of the bustling marketplace, where a growing crowd could be seen to be forming itself.

Curious, Ivaim followed the murmur of voices and the rhythmic clang of steel meeting steel, his pace quickening.

He soon found himself at the edge of a lively gathering near the town square, where a crude but sturdy fighting arena stood.

The structure was little more than a circle of packed dirt, bordered by wooden posts strung with ropes to keep the spectators at bay. Despite its modest design, it pulsed with energy, drawing in merchants, townsfolk, and travelers alike.

Inside the ring, two combatants were locked in a fierce duel, their movements sharp and deliberate, each strike sending gasps through the crowd.

Vendors peddled roasted nuts and spiced drinks to onlookers, while children darted through the legs of adults to get a better view.

Ivaim lingered near the edge of the bustling crowd, adjusting the weight of the flour bag on his shoulder as his gaze settled on the combatants in the makeshift arena.

The scene buzzed with energy—cheers, gasps, and the occasional jeer rippling through the spectators like waves.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the two fighters, observing not just their techniques but the way they carried themselves.

Their movements told a story: one of raw power clashing against controlled ferocity.

The first fighter, a wiry man with quick reflexes, wielded a blade that danced with flames. Every swing of his sword left fiery arcs in the air, and when it collided with his opponent, the heat was palpable even from where Ivaim stood.

The fire was not a mere illusion—it hissed and roared, leaving scorch marks in the dirt where embers landed.

The second fighter was a towering figure with a body seemingly carved from stone. His skin glistened like polished granite, his movements slow but deliberate.

When the flaming blade struck him, sparks erupted on impact, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he pressed forward, his stone-like fist swinging in retaliation with the force of a battering ram. The ground trembled when his strikes landed, sending vibrations through the arena and into the soles of Ivaim’s boots.

Ivaim tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he watched the duel unfold. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he was witnessing.

’They’re Reality Walkers?’ he mused, shifting the bag of flour to his other shoulder

’Does that mean Reality Masters exist in this Fractured Reality? Or could this reality be referencing another power source entirely?’ Find more chapters on novelbuddy

’After all, from the past few days that I’ve been exploring and learning about Vallgorath, no mention of Reality Masters have been found...’

His thoughts swirled as the fight reached its crescendo. The fire-wielding fighter lunged forward, his blade erupting in a blazing inferno as he aimed for the stone fighter’s chest.

The attack was precise, targeting what appeared to be a crack in the hardened skin. But the stone fighter anticipated the move, sidestepping with surprising agility.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

His granite fist shot forward, catching the flame wielder in the ribs with a sickening crunch.

The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and groans as the flame wielder stumbled, clutching his side. The strike from the stone fighter had been brutal, leaving him gasping for breath.

But even as he staggered, the fire in his eyes burned as fiercely as the blade in his hand, refusing to go out.

The stone fighter smirked, his granite fists clenching as he stepped forward, his heavy footsteps crunching against the dirt. He swung again, his powerful arm cutting through the air like a sledgehammer.

This time, the flame wielder didn’t dodge. Instead, he ducked low and rolled to the side, his movements sharp despite his injury.

As he came out of the roll, his flaming sword flared to life, brighter and hotter than before. The crowd gasped as the flames surged, wrapping around the blade and extending outward like a whip of fire.

The heat was intense, even from where Ivaim stood.

The stone fighter turned, raising his arm to block, but the flame wielder was faster. With a quick step forward, he slashed the fiery blade across the stone fighter’s chest.

The heat didn’t just scorch—it melted. A crack appeared in the stone armor, glowing red from the searing blow.

The stone fighter roared in pain, his granite shell no longer impenetrable. He swung wildly, but his movements had slowed, weighed down by the heat and damage.

The flame wielder saw his chance. He darted in close, his sword blazing like a furnace. With one final strike, he drove the blade into the center of the crack, the flames exploding outward in a burst of heat and light.

The stone fighter froze, his hardened body crumbling at the edges as if the fire had found a way to the core. With a loud crash, he dropped to his knees, the stone shell breaking apart like shattered rock.

The crowd erupted again, this time in thunderous cheers for the victor. The flame wielder stood tall, his sword still burning, though his breaths came in ragged gasps.

He raised the blade in a tired salute, the fire dimming as he lowered it to his side.

Ivaim watched, intrigued. The fight wasn’t just about power; it was about knowing when and where to strike. The flame wielder had won not by brute force but by finding the weak spot and exploiting it.

"Interesting," Ivaim murmured to himself, adjusting the weight of the flour bag on his shoulder.

His gaze lingered on the flame-wielder for a moment longer as the man left the ring, greeted by a few enthusiastic pats on the back from the crowd.

With a faint smile, Ivaim turned and began weaving through the bustling marketplace, heading back toward the bakery.

Just as he was about to step out of the square, something caught his attention.

Near a wooden post where announcements were often pinned, a man stood on a small platform, calling out to the crowd.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a vest embroidered with the town’s crest, giving him an air of authority. In his hand, he held a rolled parchment, which he occasionally gestured toward for emphasis.

"Think you’ve got what it takes?" the man’s voice boomed over the chatter of the marketplace.

"We’re looking for fighters! The best of the best to represent our town in the Regionals Arena! Prove your strength here, and you’ll get the chance to compete on the big stage!"