The ground shakes. Not the usual tremor of heavy hooves—no. This is different.
[ I can feel trouble coming. ]
"You're not the only one, Senpai."
It's as if five hearts beat from a single lung.
The Mowajitz I cut down still lies in the dust, jaw agape, its shattered eye dangling from my blade. But its brothers… are they screaming?
A long, piercing sound—one of those noises that slice through bone like a saw.
The crowd falls silent all at once. Hundreds of throats held, suffocated. Even the noble up there stops smiling for a brief instant.
And that's when the symphony begins.
Five throats, five breaths, one single shared howl. Antlers strike the ground in rhythm, hooves pound the sand like a war drum. The air grows heavy, saturated with unstable mana, to the point that the protective runes vibrate and cast shards of uncertain light.
Spectators stumble back—some drop to their knees, others laugh nervously, still clinging to the idea of a show. But even they sense this isn't a game anymore.
They advance. Together. Not like disordered beasts. Like a battalion. Their eyes gleam with the same sickly glow, their pustules swell in unison. Their rage is shared, their pain fused.
I tighten my grip on the blade.
And then I realize one thing: sure, I killed one, but I gained nothing.
I awakened their collective hatred.
[ Alert: behavior modification. Coordination increased by 245%. Imminent massacre risk. ]
"Thanks for the info, Senpai… but trust me, I already felt it."
Before me, five beasts move forward as one. And in their eyes, it's no longer just hunger.
It's vengeance.
[ Suggestion: strategic retreat. You lack the raw power to eliminate all five specimens simultaneously. ]
"Thanks, Captain Obvious. Wanna also remind me that standing in front of a truck going 200 km/h hurts?"
[ Correction: yes. It hurts very much. ]
I sigh. The five horrors stare at me, synchronized like some demonic boy band.
Each step rattles my already fractured ribs. Reaching Linie is impossible, trapped behind them, unconscious like Princess Peach in a gore edition.
"So… what now?"
[ Searching for solutions: total trust in your human allies. ]
I snort. "Oh yeah, great idea! The team leader who dreams of carving me up, and the pervy pyromaniac with Stormtrooper aim while drunk. Perfect squad! Let's call them The Trashcan Avengers."
[ Alternative counterproposal? ]
I grin. Not the nice grin. The kind that says I just had a stupid idea crazy enough to work.
"You know Gladiator?"
[ Analysis: unknown term. Please define. ]
I dodge a hoof strike that pulverizes the ground and chuckle. "It's an old movie from my world. A guy thrown into an arena. He survives not just by cutting people down… but by making the crowd fall in love with him. He becomes the show. Result: even the emperor can't kill him without being booed."
[ Observation: you compare this tournament to… a bloody play. ]
"Bingo, Sherlock.exe! If I become their star, their bloody waifu, their arena best girl… the Baron can't just say 'thanks, goodbye' and toss me with the trash."
[ Statistically, depending on a hysterical crowd is unstable. ]
"Unstable?! We're surrounded by mutant deer that look like Pokémon glitched on acid! EVERYTHING is unstable!"
[…I must admit… this logic appeals to me.]
I stare at the monsters, the sand, the blue blood dripping from my mouth. The crowd sees it, and instead of screaming "monster," they erupt in cheers.
Probably out of ignorance about Oni.
I laugh—a nervous, almost too-high laugh. "Alright then… If it's a movie they want… I'll give them the director's cut. Uncensored. With guts and free popcorn."
The five Mowajitz march in rhythm again. Their howl shreds my eardrums, but I'm already not listening. Plan engaged.
"Come on, you little cervid glitches… time to shine."
One of them leaps, faster than the rest. Its antlers glow, dripping acid. I don't dodge. No. I run straight at it.
[ Alert: suicidal trajectory detected. ]
"Relax, Senpai. This is what we call fan service."
I slide under its torso. The blade pierces the throat, bursts out in a geyser. I wrench the sword in an arc, sawing up to the jaw's base. The head hangs by a tendon. It staggers. I climb, pry the jaw apart barehanded, dig my claws into the palate.
Crack. The jaw splits in two. It collapses.
Silence. Then the explosion. The stands erupt.
The Baron rises, arms wide: "Ladies and gentlemen… what an entrance! That, I call a death… divinely spectacular."
The crowd roars louder. Me? I'm panting, face smeared in blue. I don't raise the blade yet: I point at the next one.
The leader tries to seize the moment: a clean charge, good angle. A side Mowajitz slams him with a shoulder, sending him bouncing against the runes like a toy.
The Baron comments, velvet tone: "That's what we call missing one's calling… he should've stayed a farmer."
Boisterous laughter. The leader spits red, rises limping, glares at me. I ignore him.
The pervert behind me chants too fast. His fireball splits, goes astray, almost sets part of the stands ablaze. The runes hiss, holding.
"…Do that again and I'll roast you myself," I growl without looking.
He grins. The Baron: "Ah, the magic of amateurs. Like a failed firework: dangerous, but spectacular!"
The crowd applauds the blunder. Best toxic audience of the year.
An extra—one of the survivors still hanging around—thinks he's clever: stabs a Mowajitz's flank and shouts victory too early. The beast pivots, impales him through the hip, yanks him from the ground, and shakes him until he dies like a snuffed torch.
[ Update: remaining human participants — 3. ]
"Macabre bookkeeping validated."
[ I can also provide graphs. ]
"No."
The four left regroup. Their howl shifts: shorter, sharper. They're learning.
[ Coordination model adjusted. Synchronization increased. ]
"Then we'll dance faster."
I angle toward the crowd: left profile, blue blood in the light, arm raised. They scream. I pivot, stab into a knee, slice upward to the groin, pull out just as it charges to spray the gush in a cone at the front rows. Some recoil laughing, others cover themselves screaming "More!"
The Baron, delighted: "Front row… shower included. This arena thinks of everything."
The leader returns, scowl like a frying pan. "We take it together!"
"You mean we take it at me. You cover."
He swears, but obeys. His blade deflects a hoof. Mine severs the opposite tendon: snap. The beast crumples. I slide under, slice the nerve bundle at the skull base. It trembles, falls. Not dead. Enough.
[ Recommendation: immediate execution. ]
"Later. It'll serve as a stepping stone."
The pervert chooses this moment to "shine": a spray of flame sweeping a Mowajitz back… and nearly singing my hair.
I turn my head in slow motion. "One more centimeter and I'll rip your tongue out."
"I'm helping," he replies, oily smile.
The Baron, honeyed voice: "You can feel… chemistry. Very flammable chemistry."
The monsters press harder. The crowd steps back, crushed against the barriers. Hands stretch toward me, as if I'm an idol. It twists my stomach and feeds me at once.
[ Warning: overstimulation. ]
"Let me surf it."
I leap onto the crumpled Mowajitz, use it as a springboard, land on another's back, and slam its head into the sand by wrenching its antlers back. It thrashes, I jam my sword into its socket and twist like opening a jar. Pop. It gives, greenish froth, convulsions.
The crowd: WAAAAA.
The Baron: "Note the wrist! Surgical precision. Our butcher would make an excellent dentist."
The leader spots an opening, goes for the throat. The surviving Mowajitz pivots and slams him. The leader rolls again. I'm starting to think he's practicing barrel rolls.
[ The leader's accumulated damage is critical. ]
"Hold on, main extra, the act isn't over yet."
The pervert slides to my flank, too close. His breath reeks of fear and rancid grease. "We could… come to an agreement, you and me."
"We agree: you're bait."
He laughs, convinced I'm joking. Bad read.
A Mowajitz charges low. I duck, grab the pyromaniac's wrist, yank him a quarter-step forward—just enough for the beast to strike where he was. He screams, falls, scrapes himself raw.
The Baron: "Almost heroic. Almost."
[ The path to Linie is indeed blocked. Estimated distance: 18 meters. ]
"I know."
[ I propose a solution: either reduce the numbers further, or provoke a crowd diversion. ]
"The crowd… mmh. Not yet. I want them to scream for me, not against me."
I dash along the left flank, tracing a line of blood for eyes to follow. It works: the shouts swivel with my path. I stab into a shoulder, rip upward, tear loose a chunk that slaps the sand. I hurl it toward the stands.
The Baron: "A free souvenir! The arena is generous today."
Hands snatch it. Hands snatch. Sick world.
The leader stands, wavering, but his eyes have changed: no hatred, a recognition he despises. He knows without me, he'd already be in the sand.
He mutters, too low for the crowd: "After…"
"After, you live if I decide."
He swallows it down.
The three Mowajitz still mobile form a triangle. Bad news: they're starting to lock blind spots.
"Then let's make a window."
I keep the sword low, open my free hand: flames. Not the big fire, not here. A dry puff, short, just enough to fake a major strike. The crowd screams MAGIC!, the beasts react to the light instead of the blade, a reflex blink.
I pivot, sweep the sword at ground level, slice a hamstring. The Mowajitz collapses onto its knees, crushing sand.
I leap, stomp its skull down—stepping stone number two. Line almost clear.
[ We are now 12 meters from Linie. ]
"I'm coming, Linie."
The pervert cuts across my trajectory, on purpose, eyes gleaming with something I don't like. "We're a team, right?"
I stare without blinking. "You're still breathing because I need noise. Keep them busy."
He puffs his chest like a rooster. "Watch me."
[ Probability of his failure and death: 89%. ]
"I know. That's why it's you."
He raises his hands, mana chasm, screams a needlessly dramatic word, unleashes a wide flame that forces two Mowajitz back… and nearly scorches the stands. The runes sizzle, crack, hold. The crowd laughs, then boos, then laughs again.
The Baron: "And here's our firework! Don't worry, brave souls: if everything burns, we'll offer refreshments."
I take advantage. Sprint.
The leader—miracle—covers me with a solid parry that deflects a hoof. I slide at his shoulder, stab, rip, keep going.
"Again."
A Mowajitz blocks, head low. No angle. So I cheat: drop the sword, grab its antlers, sink my teeth into the hot membrane between bone plates. It screams, thrashes, I rip a piece free, spit green and blue.
The crowd becomes an ocean. I feel the wave in my ribs.
The Baron exhales, delighted: "What an appetite."
[ Remark: predatory behavior… satisfying. ]
"You're getting creepy, Senpai."
[…I do my best.]
I flick the sword up with my foot, bring it back in one motion, and slice the base of the neck. Not dead, but cut. It staggers, head lowered, offers me a window.
"Now."
I lunge, and that's when laughter bursts from the noble stands. The Baron, caressing voice: "Ladies and gentlemen… let's see if our stranger is as good a sprinter as a killer. Place your bets?"
Bets rain in with shouts. Numbers fly. Hands rise. Every cheer drives me, every wager insults me.
Two steps. Three. Four.
A Mowajitz cuts across, sideways. I slip on blood, not planned, footing gone—catch, roll, rise.
The leader yells something behind—inaudible.
The pervert laughs. Always comfortable when I fall.
No time to kill him now.
[ I advise eliminating at least one more specimen to stabilize trajectory. ]
"Then let's do it fast."
I feint flight—back turned, arm loose—the beast bites. As soon as it charges, I plant the blade, spin around its antlers, use its speed against it, carve all along the neck to the shoulder. The spray slams the barrier; hiss, steam, cries of joy. The Mowajitz staggers, crashes down.
"Enough."
I rise atop the still-warm corpse, lift the sword, show the blade, show my face, show the blue. The roars surge like a tide.
The Baron, actor's voice: "People of Velen, tell me: do you want her to continue?!"
The clamor is a slap. A drug. A promise.
[ Your idea seems to bear fruit. ]
"Yeah. I hear it."
I point at the sand before me. "Let me through," I snarl at the beasts, as if they understood.
Of course they don't. But the crowd does.
And the crowd pushes. The front rows crush together, guards panic, runes hiss. Human pressure shifts a Mowajitz's attack angle by a quarter-step. Enough for my next stride.
I exhale, and Senpai exhales with me.
"I'm coming, Linie. One more."
The leader drags himself to my side, face wrecked but lucid. "One more minute. I'll buy it."
"Then pay in blood."
He nods. For once, we speak the same language.
I offer my left: the Mowajitz takes it, slams into his makeshift shield. Violent impact. He bends but doesn't break. He buys my seconds.
I slash diagonally, cut. The shoulder pops, the bone wing dangles. The beast collapses to its knees.
The Baron, almost tender: "What a duo… Like two old friends."
The crowd laughs. The leader spits and curses. Me? I vault over the kneeling Mowajitz's shoulder and land in the strip of sand leading… straight to the steps where the small silhouette lies.
"I—"
Something snaps behind. The pervert's decided to shine again: a tongue of flame sweeps my strip of sand. A wall of heat. I must break line or end roasted.
I stop dead, pivot, bite my lip. The metallic taste of blue rises in my throat.
"You just signed your death warrant," I whisper, very calm.
He shrugs, arms spread, greasy grin: "Show, isn't it?"
The Baron chuckles softly: "An unappreciated artist, we have here."
[ Troublesome! I advise ignoring the provocation. ]
"I know. After."
I pull my foot back, step away. The remaining Mowajitz shake their heads, reevaluate, shift angles.
The crowd doesn't weaken. It screams, demands, whistles, begs. I could almost hold that tide with my hands.
I raise the sword, breathe, and turn to them—not the beasts, them.
"You want blood?" I shout.
Answer: thunder.
"Then keep your eyes open."
I throw myself back into the melee, blade low, claws ready, carnivorous grin carved on my lips. The show goes on. And I haven't said my last word yet.