The Nightmare Arena was no place for the sane. A crucible of agony and terror, shaped not by stone and sky, but by the unresolved guilt of a thousand forgotten warriors. And Renji? He stood at its center, scarred, bloodied, but not broken.
The world around him was alive—black sand that whispered the names of the damned, obsidian skies where faceless gods howled without mouths, and endless screams echoing from a thousand dimensions.
Renji fell to his knees, his body shaking. His arms bore the nightmare sigils—living marks glowing red and pulsating with strange power.
He had bled, raged, roared, and cried. Faced illusions of Seraphina's betrayal. Fought a twisted reflection of Zach. Slayed a child-shaped entity whispering, "You let us die…" over and over. Each trial worse than the last.
But he never surrendered.
In the end, the Nightmare System acknowledged him—not as its slave, but as its Sovereign.
