My System Is a Fallen God: I Level Up Endlessly

The sun was punishing, beating down on the jagged sandstone roofs of the Lawless Territories. Saile stepped out of the dark alleyway, leaving the five broken thugs groaning in the dirt behind him. He pulled his dark stealth cloak tighter against the swirling desert wind.

He was officially Level 45. He was operating in the Platinum Tier, a realm of physical power that allowed him to crush grown men without using a single drop of mana. But he knew it wasn’t enough.

The Holy Church was still hunting him. Pope Naissac had broadcasted his face across the entire central continent, branding him a Catastrophe-Class Heretic. A Platinum Tier body wouldn’t save him if an Immortal Saint decided to rip the sky open.

"Your physical vessel has improved," Naicul said in his mind, his ancient voice dry and echoing. "But your skills are pathetic. A C-Grade teleport and a D-Grade dash will not keep you alive against true Demigods."

"I know," Saile replied mentally, keeping his head down as he walked through the crowded street.

He needed pure gold to buy raw materials. He needed rare Skill Shards to forge higher-grade magic. Most importantly, he needed high-tier monster cores to upgrade the Calamity Fang again.

"Where do we find all that in a desert slum?" Saile asked.

Naicul chuckled. It was a cold, cruel sound that vibrated against Saile’s ribs.

"Look for the blood, kid. Where there is death, there is absolute wealth."

Saile spent the next hour walking through the filthy, unpaved streets of the city. He followed the roaring cheers and the heavy stench of sweat and cheap ale.

He finally arrived at a massive, circular crater carved directly into the center of the city. A set of jagged stone stairs led deep underground. Two massive men wearing spiked iron armor guarded the entrance, holding heavy greataxes stained with dried blood.

Saile slipped past them without a word, descending into the heavy shadows to leave the burning desert sun behind.

The air down here was thick, metallic, and hard to breathe. The underground cavern was gigantic, illuminated by dozens of floating magical torches that cast long, flickering shadows against the stone walls.

In the absolute center of the room sat a massive fighting pit surrounded by high iron fences. The floor of the pit was permanently stained dark red.

Thousands of people were screaming from the crude stone bleachers. They waved fistfuls of gold coins, placing bets while two heavily armored gladiators tore each other apart in the sand. Magic flashed, blood sprayed, and the crowd went completely feral.

"The Underground Blood Arena," Naicul mused with dark approval. "How wonderfully

primitive."

Saile ignored the fight and walked straight toward a rusted iron desk near the preparation gates. A fat man with a greasy beard and a mechanical, whirring eye sat behind it, scribbling aggressively in a leather ledger.

"What do you want, rat?" the clerk grunted, not even looking up. "The viewing stands are completely full. Buy a standing ticket or get out of my face."

"I don’t want to watch," Saile said flatly. "I want to register to fight."

The clerk finally stopped writing. He looked up, his mechanical eye spinning loudly as it scanned Saile’s skinny frame hidden beneath the dirty black cloak.

The man burst into a harsh, wheezing laugh, exposing a row of rotting yellow teeth.

"You?" the clerk mocked, wiping spit from his chin. "You wouldn’t last five seconds against a desert rat, let alone a pit champion. Go home to your mother, kid, before someone breaks your neck by accident."

Saile didn’t flinch. He reached into his High-Tier Storage Ring and pulled out a heavy velvet pouch of gold coins. He dropped it directly onto the iron desk.

Clang.

"I said, I want to fight," Saile repeated. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

The clerk’s good eye widened greedily at the sight of the gold. He snatched the pouch and stuffed it quickly into his greasy coat pocket.

"Your funeral, kid," the clerk muttered with a shrug. He pushed a large, clear crystal orb across the desk. "Put your hand on the testing stone. We need to log your Talent grade so the bookmakers can set the betting odds."

This was the crucial moment. Saile took a slow, deep breath, centering his mind.

He remembered the painful, ancient breathing technique he had used to hide from the Executor in Valerius. He forcibly restricted his mana core, pushing the violent, chaotic energy of the Endless Devourer deep down into his soul.

"Keep it buried," Naicul warned quietly. "If these mud-born insects sense even a fraction of my aura, this entire city will panic and you will blow your cover."

Saile reached out with a pale hand and pressed his bare palm flat against the cold surface of the crystal.

For a second, nothing happened. The orb remained completely dull. Then, it flickered with a pathetic, muddy gray light.

A small golden system screen projected slightly above the crystal for the clerk to read.

[Registration Complete.]

[Talent: F-Rank - Null]

The clerk stared at the glowing golden text. He blinked twice, entirely sure his mechanical eye was malfunctioning.

Then, he threw his head back and roared with uncontrollable laughter.

"F-Rank? A Null?" the clerk wheezed, slamming his heavy fist against the iron desk. "You don’t even have a basic elemental affinity! You are literally walking

trash!"

Several heavily scarred mercenaries waiting nearby heard the commotion. They pointed at Saile and joined in the cruel, echoing laughter.

"Hey, look at the fresh meat!" a man with a missing ear yelled. "I call dibs on his boots when the beasts chew off his legs!"

Saile just stared at the clerk with a blank, cold expression. Let them laugh. The louder they laughed, the more gold they would eagerly bet against him.

"What is your alias, kid?" the clerk asked, wiping a tear of amusement from his eye. "Everyone fights under a fake name here to protect their pathetic reputations."

Saile thought for a brief moment. He needed something simple and entirely forgettable.

"Ghost," Saile answered softly.

The clerk snorted in derision and wrote the name down on a filthy piece of parchment.

"Alright, Ghost. You’re in the very next bracket," the clerk said, pointing a fat finger toward a dark tunnel leading into the pit. "Go to the betting window, register your wager, and wait with the other dead men."

Saile turned and walked away from the desk. He approached a caged window built into the stone wall. A heavily armed bookmaker sat behind the iron bars, counting stacks of dirty coins.

"Place your bets," the bookmaker grunted.

Saile reached into his storage ring again. He pulled out every single piece of gold he had looted from the S-Rank noble Neros and the Gold-Rank Executor. He slid a massive fortune through the slot.

"I bet all of it," Saile said quietly. "On Ghost."

The bookmaker looked at the ridiculous pile of gold, then looked at the skinny boy in the cloak. He laughed, happily accepting the easiest money he had ever made.

Saile walked away from the window and entered the damp, blood-stained waiting

room. The iron gate slammed shut behind him with a heavy, final clang.

The room smelled strongly of vomit and fear. A giant, bare-chested gladiator covered in tribal tattoos stepped directly into Saile’s path.

"You’re in my spot, little rat," the giant rumbled, flexing muscles the size of boulders. "Move before I crush your skull."

Saile didn’t even look up. He casually sidestepped the giant and leaned back against the cold stone wall, completely ignoring the threat.

"Are you deaf?" the gladiator roared, raising a massive fist.

A female fighter holding a pair of serrated daggers grabbed the giant’s arm.

"Leave the trash alone, brute," the woman sneered. "He’s just here to feed the beasts. Focus on the actual competition."

The giant spat on the floor near Saile’s boots and walked away to sharpen his heavy axe.

Saile simply closed his eyes, visualizing the kinetic flow of mana in his limbs. He didn’t care about these minor characters. They were just stepping stones to reach Avery.

He listened closely to the loud echoes coming from the announcer’s booth above.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" a magically amplified voice boomed through the cavern.

"We have a fresh piece of meat for the grinder! Place your bets on the newcomer

known as... Ghost!"

A massive board of glowing magical numbers hovered above the fighting pit,

openly displaying the betting odds to the roaring crowd.

Saile looked through the iron bars and smiled coldly.

The odds were set at an astronomical 500 to 1 against him. The entire arena was betting their life savings that the F-Rank trash would die in the very first round.

It was absolutely perfect. By the end of this match, he would be the richest man in the Lawless Territories.

"They are eager to throw away their wealth," Naicul purred, sensing Saile’s dark amusement. "Let us show them the true gap between heaven and earth."

The crowd roared deafeningly as the heavy iron gates on the opposite side of the arena slowly ground open. Dust billowed out from the dark tunnel.

"For his first match," the announcer screamed, his voice whipping the spectators

into a violent frenzy. "Ghost will face the terror of the deep sands! The undefeated monster of the lower brackets... The Iron-Scaled Basilisk!"

A terrifying roar shook the stone foundations of the arena.

A massive, six-legged reptilian beast crawled out of the darkness. It was the size of a carriage, covered entirely in thick, metallic gray scales that deflected standard magic like fragile glass.

The beast snapped its heavy jaws, dripping highly corrosive green acid onto the sand. The ground hissed, melting instantly upon contact with the deadly fluid.

[Target: Iron-Scaled Basilisk (Level 38)]

[Talent: B-Rank - Acid Spit]

The crowd cheered wildly, chanting for a quick, brutal execution. They fully expected the giant monster to bite the skinny F-Rank boy entirely in half.

The gate in front of Saile slowly rattled open. It exposed him to the blinding magical lights and the deafening screams of the bloodthirsty crowd.

"Showtime," Naicul whispered.

Saile stepped out onto the blood-stained sand. He didn’t draw his sword. He didn’t activate his magic skills.

He just cracked his knuckles, a terrifying, predatory smile finally creeping across his face beneath the dark hood.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the terrifying density of his Platinum-Tier muscles. The beast roared again, charging forward with ground-shaking force.

Saile didn’t step back. He lowered his stance, fully prepared to shatter the monster’s unbreakable armor with nothing but his bare hands.

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