The scent of blood had become a sweet perfume for him. His skin, slick with sweat and gore, shimmered under the harsh lights of the arena. Each heartbeat felt like a war drum, and every scream was a twisted lullaby. The thunderous rush in his veins drowned out everything except for the anticipation of the next kill.
The man stormed through the chaos like a force of nature, a blend of muscle and madness. A spear grazed his side he laughed it off. A blade nicked his thigh he let out a roar. Pain was a familiar language to him, one that whispered secrets of life and victory.
Another challenger stepped up a lean guy wielding a chain whip, quick as lightning. For a brief moment, Esteban found himself grinning wider. This was something new. The chain lashed out, wrapping around the handle of his hammer. "You think you can just take my girl?" he growled, yanking hard on the chain. The guy lost his balance and stumbled forward.
The man twisted around, pivoted, and smashed his forehead right into the man's nose. Blood gushed out. Teeth went flying. He didn't even let the guy hit the ground. With a powerful two-handed swing, Esteban crushed his chest like it was a crumpled tin can. "Twenty-eight!" he roared, raising the hammer high into the air. "Who's next? Come on! This can't be all of you!"
But the silence was creeping in. Too quiet. He turned slowly, his boots squelching in the puddles of gore. Smoke wafted through the wreckage of the battlefield. Dismembered bodies lay scattered around, burn marks blackening the ground, and twisted limbs contorted in unnatural angles. Then he spotted movement a flicker just a limping figure dragging itself toward a crumbling wall.
The man grin reappeared. "Oh-ho… don't run now, cabrón. You've come this far. Let's finish this like true warriors." He took his sweet time, dragging the hammer across the ground, letting the sound of steel scraping against stone resonate like a grim death knell.
The last fighter a young man with a shattered leg, blood streaming from his scalp turned to face him, eyes wide with terror. "P-please… I—I give up dude don't kill me…" The man tilted his head, the smile slipping away. "No way did you just say you give up?"
He lifted the hammer, resting it casually on his shoulder. "Where do you think you are, amigo? This isn't some schoolyard brawl." He approached the man, crouching low to meet his gaze directly. "You're going to die here, just like all the others." The man attempted to crawl away. But he was too slow. In a flash, Esteban swung the hammer down from above in a powerful, bone-crushing arc.
The man's body crumpled like a marionette with its strings severed. Blood sprayed everywhere. The arena fell into a heavy silence. Smoke curled lazily in the air. Ash settled softly on the ground. The man stood there for a moment, feeling the heavy silence wrap around him. No more challengers. No more cries.
He lifted the hammer slowly blood trickling from the handle down to his elbow and then, with a sudden burst of energy, he thrust it into the air, releasing a primal scream that reverberated through the shattered colosseum. Then he did something that would be forever etched in the memories of every spectator every camera feed, every viewer tuning in from around Luxnir or other places.
He dropped to one knee, driving the hammer into the ground beside him like a flag marking his victory, and raised his bloodied arms in a dramatic pose one hand reaching for the sky, the other clutching his chest like a triumphant god claiming the souls of the fallen.
The blood-soaked air swirled around him. His grin was fierce. His eyes were wild. "Esteban Aguilar," he bellowed, his voice booming, veins throbbing with the thrill of battle. "Remember the name. Remember what it took to get here. And know this..."
He locked eyes with one of the arena cameras. "I'm just getting started." The feed froze on that moment Esteban's wild stance amidst a pile of bodies, like a war-god splattered in blood. Blood steaming off his skin. His hammer lodged in the earth like a testament to chaos. "Ladies and gentlemen… we might have just seen the rise of a new champion... or perhaps a monster." "Esteban Aguilar. Twenty-nine confirmed kills. And counting."
The camera zoomed in on Esteban Aguilar arms raised in a blood-soaked victory, his breath visible in the chilly air. The image wobbled slightly, heatwaves dancing through the smoke as the ground shook from a distant explosion. "Esteban Aguilar," the announcer's voice resonated again, now deeper. "King of Carnage… and he's still hungry for more." The camera held on the grim scene of bodies strewn around him twisted limbs, shattered armor, and blood staining every bit of stone and sand.
Everything came to a standstill. The sounds faded away. The camera pulled back, soaring above Esteban's chaotic scene of violence… and gradually swept across the battlefield, gliding over the distant haze…Until it finally rested on a moment of silence on a swirling pocket of smoke where death danced with an eerie elegance.
Blood sprayed in all directions, and everyone's gaze turned toward the chaos even Esteban couldn't tear his eyes away from the figure stealing his spotlight. They all watched a girl reveling in the carnage, darting between bodies with twin daggers that shimmered with fresh crimson. Every move she made was intentional no wasted energy, no second-guessing. Unlike Esteban's loud and chaotic flailing, her actions were precise. Graceful. Lethal.
While Esteban crushed skulls and howled at the sky, she delivered death in the quiet moments between heartbeats. Her name, known to few, was murmured in underground betting circles as "Velvet" not for any gentleness, but for the way her kills felt soft and seamless. Effortless. Almost beautiful.
She crouched low behind the lifeless body of a spearman, her breath steady and calm. Not far off, two fighters were locked in a fierce struggle, each trying to overpower the other with sheer brute force. Fools. She bided her time. One fighter parried, while the other overextended himself. That was her cue. A flash in the smoke low and swift.
Her left dagger sliced cleanly through the tendons behind one man's knee, and he crumpled to the ground with a scream. Before the second fighter could even react, her right blade found its mark at his throat. A whisper of steel, followed by a hiss of blood. Two lives taken. No effort at all. "Sixty-five remaining," the distant announcer's voice echoed through hidden speakers.
Velvet stepped over the bodies, her boots expertly avoiding the pooling blood. Names didn't matter to her. Only patterns did. Every fighter had a rhythm. Learn it, disrupt it, and they would fall. As she glided through the smoke, her eyes caught something unusual a young fighter sprawled in the mud, chest still, face obscured by a cracked mask.
No aura.
No breath.
No twitch.
She crouched next to him, her twin blades still at the ready, prepared to strike if this was some kind of trick. But the blood… it pooled too slowly, as if gravity was reluctant to take him. Her fingers grazed the edge of the knife lodged in his ribs. "…Dead already?" she murmured. There was something unsettling about the stillness. It felt too staged, like a predator pretending to be lifeless. She stood up again. "Hm. Not my problem."
And just like that, she disappeared again, melting into the shadows and swirling smoke. Yet, beneath it all, a nagging feeling of unease took root in her stomach sharp and chilling. A sudden shout shattered the stillness. Three fighters emerged from the swirling smoke, moving in perfect sync like a well-oiled machine. Time to sharpen the blades. One brandished a long spear, while the other two circled around with their short swords at the ready.
A squad. They were on the hunt for survivors. Clever. She smirked beneath her mask.
The spear-wielder spotted her first. "Target!" he shouted, and the others quickly flanked her. But Velvet didn't flee. Instead, she crouched low, spinning her daggers effortlessly between her fingers. The spear lunged forward like a striking snake.
She slipped beneath it, slicing upward in a swift arc. Metal screamed as she deflected the blade and twisted around the shaft. Before the fighter could react, her foot connected with his knee hard. A sickening pop. A scream. He crumpled to the ground. The other two charged in.
She intercepted the first strike with the flat of her dagger, countering with a flick of her wrist that severed a tendon. The sword fell from his grip, and he staggered back, clutching his injured hand. Too late. Velvet spun, launching off his chest, and drove her dagger deep into his spine. The third fighter hesitated. That one moment of doubt was all she needed.
Dropping to one knee, she kicked a loose stone at his face. As he flinched, she hurled a dagger piercing through the gap in his armor and straight into his neck. He gurgled and collapsed. For a brief moment, she stood still, catching her breath. "Sixty-two contestants remaining," echoed the distant announcement. She retrieved her dagger, wiped it clean on a fallen cloak, and adjusted the strap on her shoulder harness. Each kill was precise. Every movement was honed to perfection. There was no blood on her face, no chaos just pure efficiency.