The number drops to 72 meaning over 300 people have died in this fight. Bodies and pools of blood flood the ring, the fans are shouting with the brutality that they are witnessing. The host Aspen Reid standing at a podium that is flying around the ring as the camera follows her is stunned as the number dropped very fast then usual.
"What a shocking turn of events folks! Only 72 contestants remain out of 500. We are nearing the climax of this brutal tournament!" Aspen yelled to the mic trying her best to keep the crowd on their feet.
In a lavish, dimly lit chamber high above the arena, a figure sits in a throne-like chair behind a wall of glass, far from the screams and blood. They swirl a glass of deep crimson wine, watching the arena below through a holographic display or enchanted mirror. A thin smile creeps across their face.
"And so, the pawn falls." Their fingers tap slowly against the armrest. "Let's see who dances next…" holding a glass of whiskey while watching the event unfold in front of them.
With a wet crack, the man's hammer crushed another skull, sending bone and brain matter flying across his armored boots. His thick, savage breath steamed in the chilly air, reminding him that he was still alive and that nobody else was. Like a predator hunting in a field of dying prey, his bloodshot, gleaming eyes danced across the battlefield.
He lifted the hammer as though it weighed nothing and yelled, "HAH!" "Nineteen is that number!"
His smile was savage, his lips cracked, his gums bloodied, and his teeth red with the blood of another. Here, there were only metal and meat and the sound of people pleading for forgiveness no clean deaths.
Names didn't matter to him. Never had.
A body twitched somewhere behind him. Ahead, somewhere, a young fighter lay face-down in the sand, a knife stuck between his ribs. Still. Quiet. Probably dead. He didn't know the boy and frankly, he didn't care. "Only seventy-two left?" he muttered to himself, licking his lips as if he'd just heard the sweetest news about dessert. "Good. Fewer bodies to swing through."
Suddenly, another fighter charged at him from the left a tall woman wielding twin axes, desperation burning in her eyes. She didn't scream or waste time with taunts. She came in hard and low, spinning like a whirlwind of steel. The hammer met her mid-swing. The clang of steel echoed through the air, followed by a shower of sparks. Then came the sickening sound of bones snapping.
Her right axe flew from her grasp, her arm twisted and broken from the wrist down. She staggered, agony etched across her face. He advanced, boots kicking up sand, and swung the hammer down onto her collarbone. A dull crunch resonated. A muffled scream escaped her lips. She collapsed. He didn't hesitate. He brought his foot down on her throat once, twice until the sounds faded away. "Twenty."
Blood pooled into the sand around him, dark and warm, sticking to his boots like thick syrup. The air was heavy with smoke, sweat, and dread. Distant screams ebbed and flowed, mingling with the wet thud of weapons striking flesh. The Crimson Crucible had transformed from a tournament into a slaughterhouse. No cheers echoed here, not within the ring only the stench of death and the grim reality that one wrong move could turn you into mere background.
Another figure darted through the fog smaller, quicker. A dagger whizzed past his face, slicing his cheek. "Cute," he muttered, wiping the blood off his hand.
Just then, he caught sight of a small figure leaping toward him young, probably a teenager, their face half-hidden by soot, twin blades gripped tightly. The fighter was quick. He felt the sharp sting of one blade graze his ribs before he managed to catch them mid-air by the throat. "You're fast," he grunted, lifting them effortlessly off the ground with one hand.
The kid's feet kicked out, blades slashing wildly, desperately trying to stab anything within reach. "Too bad." With a swift motion, he hurled them headfirst into a jagged stone pillar. The sickening crack of skull meeting rock drowned out the kid's scream.
He exhaled slowly. Another breath. Another life snuffed out. "Twenty-one."
The battlefield shifted again. Nearby, two fighters were so engrossed in their duel that they didn't notice him approaching. He didn't run or sneak; he strode right into the heart of their clash, hammer raised like the hand of a vengeful god. One of them turned just a moment too late.
The hammer crushed his chest. Ribs splintered like dry twigs. The man's feet left the ground.
The other fighter tried to retreat, stumbling backward in panic.
"Nope," the hammer-wielder grinned, closing the gap.
He seized the poor bastard's arm and yanked him forward into a brutal headbutt. Blood erupted from the man's nose. Before he could even fall, the berserker grabbed his head with both hands and twisted hard. A pop. A drop. A lifeless body. "Twenty-three," he whispered.
Now, his body was streaked with red, more blood than skin. His muscles ached, but the smile on his face never wavered. This was his calling. Not for glory. Not for honor. Just pure chaos. This was where he thrived—where the weak cried, and the strong crushed.
Somewhere behind him, a scream sliced through the air, followed by the sound of a blade dragging across flesh. He didn't flinch. Instead, he swung his hammer to rest across his shoulders and turned slowly, scanning the battlefield.
Still too many left.
Not enough blood.
He stepped over corpses limbs twitching, eyes still blinking. One man was trying to crawl away, his spine severed. From the mist ahead, four fighters emerged two archers, a swordsman, and a women conjuring flames between her hands. He chuckled. "Finally… a real challenge."
The women launched a fireball. It roared through the air toward him, the heat distorting the air in its wake. He rolled under it, moving faster than anyone his size had a right to, then sprang up and took off running. An archer released an arrow. It thudded into his shoulder, but he didn't falter. The pain only fueled his determination.
He crashed into them like a boulder.
The first archer fell instantly, ribs shattered beneath the force of his tackle. The second tried to escape, but his hammer found its mark on their spine.
The swordsman came in swinging. Steel clashed against steel, but he had the upper hand. Their blade skidded off his hammer. His elbow struck their jaw. Bone cracked. They crumpled to the ground, either unconscious or worse.
The women attempted to flee.
Bad move.
He hurled the hammer.
It soared through the air, spinning like a deadly comet, and struck her back. The sound was like a boulder crashing down on a wooden crate. She didn't rise again.
"Twenty-seven," he murmured.
His breath came in heavy gasps now not from fatigue, but from exhilaration.
Somewhere, Aspen with her announcer voice echoed again:
"Only sixty-seven contestants remain!"
He tasted blood on his lips and rolled his neck.
"Sixty-seven…" he whispered. "Let's make it zero."
With that, he retrieved his hammer still warm with blood and vanished into the smoke, where the screams never ceased.