Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Michael followed his line of thought.

Even the best commoners so far were in their early twenties. And yet, most weren't even at the Intermediate Rank. That was telling.

Those who had reached that level either had backing—be it as adventurers, hunters, or the sons of wealthy folk—or they were one in a thousand, clawing their way up from sheer talent and survival instinct.

But the rest?

They were brave.

But bravery without bite was just noise.

Still, that wasn't to say there were no interesting figures among them.

Michael's eyes drifted to the next participant stepping onto the stage—a massive youth with a bear-like body and an oddly soft, young-looking face.

He moved with a kind of lazy strength, each step slow but steady, as if nothing could shake him.

The size of his arms alone made several heads turn.

Michael recognized him immediately.

Uga.

He learned the name just now from the official.

Yesterday, this youth had faced five intermediate-ranked wolves and not only survived—but handled them with something that almost bordered on amusement.

Even though he hadn't gotten serious, none of the beasts could gain an advantage.

Michael had watched the whole thing with interest.

The boy hadn't shown off.

Hadn't bluffed.

He just moved when he had.

Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.

He couldn't use [Detect] from this distance, but his instincts told him one thing.

Uga probably wasn't just at the Intermediate Rank. He was likely in the Advanced Stage.

The youth himself didn't even look like he belonged here—with his baby face, unruly curls, and thick, oversized hands.

Yet it all looked… harmonious.

As if nature itself had decided, Yes. This is what strength wrapped in a smile looks like.

"Is that…" Renn leaned in, staring. "That's the guy from yesterday, right?"

Michael nodded once.

"He's not normal," Renn muttered. "Not at all."

Michael agreed.

Finally, a genuine threat.

Not a noble.

Just a quiet beast, hidden in plain sight.

The moment Uga stepped onto the platform, the atmosphere in the arena shifted slightly.

Not out of fear.

But confusion.

The youth's massive figure, mismatched with his almost cherubic face, was hard to take seriously at first glance. He wore no armor. No visible weapon. His thick limbs hung lazily at his sides.

The noble he faced—a tall, lean boy clad in blue-lacquered armor with a silver crescent crest on his chest—eyed him with immediate disdain.

The noble's name was Callen Dureth. A rising scion of House Dureth, a minor noble family known more for their ambition than their influence. And he was clearly not amused.

The moment the signal to begin sounded, Callen didn't attack.

Instead, he raised his voice—confident, mocking, and just loud enough for the entire arena to hear.

Today, everything could be heard.

Some sort of amplification magic was in play. It hadn't been there yesterday. Likely something embedded into the arena's structure—or cast from one of the officials. Either way, anything said on stage was now being projected clearly for all in attendance.

Callen grinned, clearly aware of this.

"Are you serious?" he scoffed, gesturing openly at Uga. "Is this a joke?"

No response.

"Did you forget your gear? Or is that a strategy?" Callen chuckled and leaned on his sword. "Hoping to confuse me with that… bear face of yours?"

Laughter from the noble side followed. A few scattered chuckles from others. Uga didn't seem to mind.

"I mean, look at you," Callen continued. "You're not even holding a weapon. Do you think this is a livestock pulling contest? Or did you mistake this place for the stables?"

More laughter.

Uga tilted his head slightly.

Then he opened his mouth.

"Uga… has hands," he said in a low, slow voice. "Uga not need weapon for stick boy."

The arena paused.

"…Did he just say—?" Renn blinked.

Uga nodded sagely to himself, then added, "Stick boy mouth very big. Brain very small."

A few gasps and stifled snorts broke out.

Michael's eyelid twitched.

That was… an unexpected retort.

Callen's grin faltered, then sharpened. "You think you're funny?"

"Uga not think," Uga said, tapping his head. "Uga know."

Callen's lips thinned. He drew his sword in one fluid motion and lunged forward.

Fast.

Precise.

Well-trained.

The strike was aimed at Uga's shoulder—not to kill, but to humiliate.

It didn't land.

Uga tilted to the side. Not stepped. Not retreated. Just tilted, as though the wind had nudged him slightly. The sword passed an inch from his arm.

Callen's brows rose.

He followed up. Another slash, low this time.

Uga shifted the other way. Effortless. As if Callen's blade was a lazy breeze and he was merely swaying through a dream.

The crowd began to murmur.

Callen's face tightened. He picked up speed.

Three strikes.

Four.

Six.

All clean. All sharp.

None connected.

Uga didn't look serious. In fact, he looked… distracted. Like he was thinking about breakfast.

Then Uga stopped moving.

Callen froze mid-swing, panting slightly, sweat starting to bead at his temple.

Uga raised a hand.

"Stick boy… should go sit."

Callen scowled. "What—?"

"Uga scared," the giant youth said with utter sincerity, "Uga hit too hard. Stick boy body look… fragile."

Gasps echoed across the arena.

Even the commoner side went silent.

Then came a snort from somewhere. Then another. A ripple of suppressed laughter spread—though no one dared laugh too loud.

Except Renn.

He choked.

Michael's eyes twitched again, and this time… he smiled.

The noble sneered, "You think this is funny, you overgrown ox?"

Uga blinked slowly. "Yes."

Then, without a shift in posture, Uga moved.

One step.

One palm.

It was… gentle. A tap, really—flat and open against Callen's chest.

But the result was anything but gentle.

Boom.

Callen flew.

Not stumbled.

Flew.

His armored body was lifted clean off the ground, soaring backward like a sack of flour tossed from a wagon. He landed with a violent thud on the arena floor, skidding for several feet before finally stopping near the stage's edge, his limbs spread like a discarded puppet.

Silence.

Then a collective gasp broke over the crowd like a wave.

Uga scratched the back of his head.

"Uga warned," he muttered. "Uga has strong hand."

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, almost lazily, Uga turned to the blue-robed officials. "Uga win now?"

The woman didn't blink. She raised her hand. "Winner—Uga."