The jet of fire dies out. Smell of burnt hair, bile, hot stone.
The pervert puffs up his chest, throws a pathetic salute at the stands.
"Pull a stunt like that again and I'll make you swallow your own fingers," I say.
[ Noted. Want me to carve that on his tombstone, or on a billboard? ]
"Senpai, your sense of humor really is getting better every day!"
[ Naturally. I have to stop you from destroying everything, after all. ]
"Not sure how to take that, but it's not the priority."
The leader sniffs, raises his weapon, falls into step at my shoulder. He's figured out the choreography: me in front, him as bumper, the pyromaniac as background noise. Works for half a second.
Then the surviving Mowajitz line up. Same angle. Same breath. Same impulse.
[ Ah. They've just leveled up from "mad cows" to "military unit." You're going to love this. ]
"Then we improvise."
I dart right—the leader follows—and I grab the pyromaniac's collar mid-stride, hurling him left. He yelps, stumbles, rolls, exactly where I wanted: the outermost beast adjusts its path… and breaks the sync. A gap.
"Chief!"
He nods, dives, takes the hit. His arm vibrates like a bowstring—but holds. I slip under his elbow, slide, slice the knee tendon of the Mowajitz, and climb along its flank. Blood gushes, the beast half-collapses. I take the chance to drive my blade into the base of its skull, twist, and spiral upward.
The Baron laughs outright: "Look at that spiral! Like a corkscrew. Serve us a vintage Elroe!"
The crowd roars, drunk on its own echo.
[ Note for later: patent that technique. Working name: "The Bloody Corkscrew." ]
"Shut up, Senpai."
I shift—show my blue face to the crowd for just a second—then go back in. Two steps, feint, sudden stop: the beast on the left bites empty air. The leader slips in with a clean thrust, sliding into the gap, almost elegant. The Mowajitz counters with a slam of its antlers—boom—knocks him staggering. He doesn't fall. Good.
The pervert drags himself up behind me, coated in sand and shame. "You sacrificed me!"
"Not yet," I reply. "But I'm considering it."
[ You should add that to your New Year's resolutions: "less sarcasm, more well-placed human sacrifices." ]
"Senpai, are you harboring ill intentions toward humanity, by chance?"
[ Heavens, no! ]
He spits, raises his hands, coughs out a short flame cone—for once—that lasts just long enough to bleach the beast's eye. Perfect. I stab into the blinded pupil, pull out blind, and with a heel-kick, slam its head into the sand. The leader gets it, leaps, drives, presses. Crack.
The Baron, crisp as a verdict: "There. When you stop aiming at the public, magic actually becomes useful. Take note."
Laughter. Boos for the pyromaniac. He still soaks it in, loudmouthed.
[ Congratulations. For once, the idiot served a purpose. Let's give him a cardboard badge. ]
"You're getting stranger by the day, Senpai…"
The runes howl. The stands vibrate. For a moment, the world feels too close.
[ Breathe. You're turning a bloodbath into a rock concert. Collapse now, and they'll eat you alive. Not just the monsters. ]
"I know."
The last beast still standing steps back, long breath, jaw cracking: calculating. And it chooses… the leader.
I cut across its path, too late. Impact. The makeshift shield bends, the leader's arm bends with it. A vile crack. He drops to one knee, bites his pain—chews it, keeps it.
[ Respect, I admit. At least he knows how to shut up when it hurts. You should take notes. ]
I slip into his place, cross blades, block with half a sword, and bite with my claws at the nerve under its ear. It whips, flings me against a glyph post. Stars. Green.
"You're kidding me." I spit blue, push myself up.
[ Nope. I'm just a voice in your head. Humor is my only hobby. ]
"Great, now I'll sound schizophrenic…"
The beast comes again. No time left. So I play dirty: I shove the pervert forward.
— "Hey!"
Too late. The blow grazes him, sends him tumbling into the beast's flank line; enough to stall it half a second. Just enough.
I slip under its throat, drive the sword into its tongue—yes, the tongue—and rip upward to the palate. Schlrk.
It chokes on its own flesh. I wrench, tear, scream.
One breath's silence. Then the stands erupt. People crash against the rails, some on their knees like in church. A pagan mass.
The Baron reclines with feline grace: "My good people… I begin to believe this stranger has not come to learn. She has come to teach."
[ Correction: she came to jump on anything that moves and tear it apart. But that didn't sound as good. ]
I run. The leader tries to follow—limping. The pervert coughs and curses me, but sparks still drip from his fingers. Let him try. I'll kill him later.
Two steps. Three. I finally see the pale blot of her cheek against the stone.
"Linie—"
The last Mowajitz cuts again. This time sideways, silent, calculated. It's learned my feints. Sticks to my hip, low antlers, acidic breath.
I pivot late—too late for the blade—just in time with my forearm. Antlers scrape, burn, split.
I scream without sound. It crackles. Nerves flare. I slam my forehead into its, skull to skull, and jam my thumb into its eye. Crude, simple, human.
The beast jerks back, raw stimulus. I dive under its guard, reclaim my hilt, and carve. Not elegant. Not pretty. Enough.
[ Beautiful. Officially: you've invented the "Advanced Ocular Gouge." If the arena survives, we're printing manuals. ]
It stumbles, collapses trembling, wheezing like a sick forge.
The world comes back as noise. Screams. Whistles. Stomping feet. My name? No. Not yet.
"No one knows it anyway, I didn't put it on the registration…"
I kneel. My blue fingers brush the child's cheek. Her breath is there—weak, steady.
"Don't move, okay? I'm here."
Guards stir, pretend to approach—a single gesture, and they freeze. Not mine. The Baron's. Two fingers raised, a cutting smile. He controls the tempo to the last breath.
I rise slowly. My arms smoking. My blade dripping.
I turn toward him, toward his gilded balcony, and lift the sword to his box. A clear challenge.
The stands hold their breath.
He smiles, smooth, voice dipped in honey:
"People of Velen… when death dances like this, we fall silent. Then we applaud."
The roar breaks, massive, to the sky. It floods me, drowns me, wants to carry me. To own me.
I throw my head back, spit a blue spray across the sand. Stretch my arms, claim the stage.
[ Congratulations. You've officially gone from "freakshow monster" to "bloody rockstar." Next step: world tour. ]
"Engrave it. Now."
I walk over still-warm bodies, altar table improvised. Lift the blade high, point it to the unseen stars. The crowd gropes for words, finds none, invents them.
"THE—"
A voice.
"THE WOLF!" Another.
"THE WOLF! THE WOLF!" A thousand others.
I stay still. Let it ripen. One voice adds, carried by the glow on my blue skin:
"OF AZOTH!"
One beat. Two. Then the wave hits.
"THE WOLF OF AZOTH! THE WOLF OF AZOTH!"
It thunders. It circles. It tattoos the air. It baptizes me. Hands slam, throats tear, feet pound, and the name becomes true because they say it.
The Baron barely bows. A breath of laughter. A cup raised.
"My good people… remember. Blood dries. A name… endures."
I lower the blade just enough to point at the crowd. I don't smile. I bare teeth.
"Fine then. Remember well."
Linie breathes. The arena still trembles. The leader kneels, surviving, the pyromaniac stews in spite.
Above, the Baron has noted everything. He won't speak. Not yet. Not his style. He prefers debts over secrets.
[ Evening recap: you breathe, you shine, and a horde of drunk hysterics just baptized you. Congratulations, Wolf. ]
"Great… now I'm a carnivorous mascot."
I sling the sword over my shoulder, stride toward the child, and cross through the roar of a city that has just, unknowingly, chosen its first legend.
The crowd keeps on, possessed, unstoppable:
"THE WOLF OF AZOTH! THE WOLF OF AZOTH! THE WOLF OF AZOTH!"
The crowd was no longer a crowd.
It was a tide. A beast of a thousand throats screaming with one lung: "The Wolf of Azoth!"
I stood tall, cup in hand, and savored the din like others savor fine wine.
At my left, the Lord of Velen—sweating, waddling under robes too tight—dabbed his forehead.
"M-my Lord… it's… it's incredible. I've never seen such fervor."
I smiled faintly, eyes never leaving the bloodstained arena.
"No, my dear. You've simply never seen such an opportunity."
The fat man squirmed, uneasy.
"This stranger… who is she, damn it? Where did she come from? We have no record, no tax paid, nothing in our ledgers…"
"Precisely," I replied. My voice meant to soothe, but each syllable cut. "Mystery is worth more than gold."
The Lord swallowed hard.
"You think she's… human?"
I drank a sip, savored the liquid.
"Human? Demon? Monster? What does it matter? To the people, she is the Wolf of Azoth. And you, you should be pleased: your miserable arena just birthed a myth."
He nodded without understanding. Sweat trickled down his temples.
"B-but… if she rebels? If she strikes the guard?"
I set my cup down, and for the first time, I turned my eyes on him. He looked away instantly.
"Then we do as always," I said calmly. "We turn her corpse into spectacle. But until then…"
I gestured at the clamor, the crowd hammering the rails, children chanting her name.
"…we let her grow."
The Lord froze, muttered almost to himself:
"The Wolf of Azoth…"
I smiled again. Not joy. Not pride. Only the cold satisfaction of watching a piece fit perfectly into the chessboard.
A discreet scrape shivered the air behind us. Not a guard's tread. No. Measured, calm, almost studied.
I didn't need to turn to know who approached.
"Father," a clear, overly polite voice said.
The Lord of Velen jolted, wiping his greasy lips with a sleeve.
"Son! W-what are you doing here? I ordered you to stay in your chambers!"
The young man barely bowed. His gray eyes slid toward the arena where the Wolf of Azoth still stood, sword smoking, hailed by the mob.
"I came to see the disaster with my own eyes."
The word cracked like a whip. The old Lord flushed.
"Disaster?! Look! The crowd! The money pouring into our coffers! It's a triumph!"
The son curved a cold smile.
"Triumph? Father… don't you hear? It isn't your name they cry. Not our family's. They scream for a stranger you know nothing about. And that delights you?"
The Lord stammered, tongue tied, eyes darting like a child caught in guilt.
"Young man… it seems you grasp better than your father the power of a name."
He finally looked at me, and in his eyes I saw a gleam of cold intelligence, almost unsettling.
"I understand, Lord Baron, that this Wolf of Azoth can become a weapon. More fearsome than all our guard… or more dangerous than all our enemies."
The sweating Lord tried a protest:
"She's just a gladiator! A wild brat! We can control her, can't we, Lord Baron?"
I let silence hang, savoring the panic in his eyes.
"Control? No. But steer, perhaps. And if we don't… others will."
The Lord's son nodded slowly.
"Then we must choose. Either break her quickly… or use her before she devours us."
I raised my cup, amused.
"Now here's a boy who thinks like a chess player. Shame his father's just a dice-cheat merchant."
The young man flashed a glacial grin.
"Believe me, Baron, I share that regret daily."
Silence settled, just long enough for the roar of the mob to fill the box.