"Shit, shit, shit! That damned bastard!"
I muttered under my breath, weaving between panicked bodies and random blades like I was playing some messed-up game of tag in hell. I just needed some breathing room. Even a second. Anything to keep me alive a little longer.
The ground's slick under my boots — blood everywhere, thick and dark, soaking into the dirt until the whole arena smells like rusted coins and rotting meat. Bodies drop around me like flies, and I try not to look at their faces.
Saying I'm not scared? Yeah, that'd be the lie of the century. I'm terrified. But fear's a luxury I can't afford right now.
Most of the real psychos — the kind with a body count you can't count on one hand — are busy hacking each other apart or throwing themselves at the actual nightmare in here: the Ogre.
Me? I'm trying to live long enough to maybe see tomorrow.
I'm mid-step when instinct screams at me — duck. My knees bend without thinking, and something sharp cuts the air right above my head.
"Oh… it's a child," a voice rasps.
I glance up and see him. A man completely wrapped in bandages, like some mummy cosplay gone wrong, only one bloodshot eye peeking out. His head tilts in this slow, twitchy way, and his lips pull into a smile I'd like to unsee.
"Don't worry, come here, I won't hurt you… I'll just make you scream before you die! Hahahahaha!"
Oh. Fantastic. My very own serial killer.
Before I can even swear properly, a booming voice echoes around us:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Looks like we've got an interesting matchup here! On one side, a young boy! On the other, a notorious serial killer from the rural outskirts! Place your bets!"
The crowd roars like a pack of starved hyenas.
'Fuck,' I think. And I mean fuck.
But anger's useless here. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and bump my fists together, more to psych myself up than anything.
"Ooohhh… a fist fighter, eh?" The mummy freak chuckles. "Too bad you're up against me! And I've got my… blade whip! Blood Drinker!"
He twirls it — spikes along a rope, ending in a jagged blade that swings like a meteor hammer.
I snort. "Fancy name. Too bad it looks cheaper than its reputation."
His eye twitches. "Grr!!! How dare you!"
He lashes out, and the air whistles as the whip slices past me. I dodge, barely. My heart's pounding so fast it feels like it might just burst through my ribs, but my brain's still working — I've seen how these things work on YouTube reels. Big range, unpredictable swings, but predictable pattern.
He goes for another strike, and this time I step inside the arc. My fist flies.
BAM! Right in the jaw.
He staggers back, and I don't let him breathe.
Weave! His blade whizzes past my ear.
BAM! Left hook to the ribs.
BAM! Uppercut to his chin.
He growls, trying to keep distance, but I'm in his face like a bad smell. Every time that whip tries to swing, I'm too close for it to matter.
The crowd starts chanting — half for him, half for me — like they can smell the blood in the water.
He swings wild, desperate now. I duck under it and slam a fist into his gut, hard enough to hear him choke.
"C'mon, old man," I taunt, "I thought you wanted to hear me scream."
That gets him mad. The whip coils in his hand, then shoots out toward my head — but I tilt just enough that it brushes my hair instead of taking my skull off. My own punch lands right after, this time to his temple.
Blood seeps through the bandages. His good eye blinks, dazed.
The announcer's voice rises over the chaos: "Ooooh! The kid's pushing back! Look at that footwork, folks! He's dancing around the Blood Drinker like it's nothing!"
I grin — even though my lungs are burning — because for once, the crowd's on my side.
I feint left, then dart right, slipping under his arm and aiming for the one spot I've been watching since this started: his eye.
My knuckles slam into it.
He screams. A high, ugly sound. The whip clatters to the ground, and I can't tell if the cheer I hear is from the crowd or from my own adrenaline.
I grab him by the collar, yank him down, and drive my knee into his face. Once. Twice. Three times. The bandages soak red, and his body goes limp.
Silence falls for a moment. Then the crowd erupts like the walls are gonna collapse.
"Winner! The boy!" the announcer shouts.
I stand there, chest heaving, staring down at the body. My hands are trembling — from exhaustion or from the fact that I'm still alive, I'm not sure.
I spit on the ground, wipe my bloody knuckles on my shirt, and mutter under my breath, "Next."
The battle was far from over. I barely caught my breath before snatching up the dead bastard's weapon—the Blood Drinker. That spiked rope wrapped around my arm like a twisted extension of my own bones, cold metal spikes digging into my skin. Pain shot up my wrist where the bandage tore, but fuck it. I thickened the wrap another two inches — enough to keep this monster strapped tight and deadly. This whip wasn't just a weapon now; it was a bloody promise.
But what I didn't know was I'd just put myself on someone's damn radar.
---
Meanwhile, high above the madness, a woman lounged in the VIP box. Her eyes were sharp, unblinking, untouched by the chaos below. The cheers, the screams, the smell of blood and sweat—it was background noise to her.
A man in a crisp suit approached, clearing his throat like he wanted to break her focus. "Does something pique your interest, miss?"
She didn't look at him. Instead, she sipped her wine slowly, savoring the rich taste like it was a secret only she understood. "Perhaps," she said softly. "I see something... interesting." Her gaze locked onto a small corner of the arena, where a lone kid fought like a cornered beast.
The suited man's smile was tight, knowing. "He's a long shot."
"Long shots tend to be the most entertaining," she murmured, swirling the crimson liquid in her glass.
---
Back in the pit, a new threat exploded toward me—some kind of wolf-like beast, its fur matted with blood, a gleaming sword protruding grotesquely from its side. It snarled, eyes wild and burning with pain and fury.
"Fuck!" I cursed, adrenaline surging through my veins. "Bastards won't let me catch a break!" The rage bubbling inside me wasn't just about the fight — it was survival, pure and simple. "Come at me, bitch!"
The beast lunged, jaws snapping inches from my arm. I rolled to the side, barely avoiding a slash from a rusted blade some random fighter swung wildly behind me. Pain stung my ribs, but I didn't care. I had a job to do.
The Blood Drinker was heavy now, an extension of my anger and desperation. I twirled it, spikes catching the dim light, spinning it like a morning star. The spikes scraped against stone and flesh, a deadly dance.
The beast charged again, slower this time, its injury slowing it down but making it more unpredictable—wild swings, desperate bites, teeth snapping in rage.
I dodged a swipe of its claws and countered with a savage swing of the whip. The spikes slammed into its wounded side with a sickening crunch.
The beast howled, staggering, the sword clattering to the ground. Blood sprayed where the spikes ripped through muscle and sinew.
The crowd's roar went deafening—half cheering, half screaming, all bloodlust.
"Keep moving!" I muttered, heart pounding like war drums.
The beast turned, eyes blazing with fury, and charged again.
This time, I caught the whip, yanking it hard as it wrapped tighter around its leg. The beast crashed to the ground with a thunderous roar, struggling against the spiked noose.
I didn't hesitate. I spun, drove the blade end into its throat with everything I had. The beast shuddered, its growl dying in a gurgle.
Silence fell for a moment before the crowd exploded again, their bloodlust renewed.
I stood there, panting, every muscle screaming in protest. My arm throbbed where the spikes bit deep, but it was worth it.
I spat blood from my mouth, wiped sweat from my brow, and muttered, "Bring it on."
---
Back in the VIP box, the woman's eyes gleamed with a dark, knowing light. "Interesting indeed," she whispered. "That boy's going to be more trouble than we thought."
The suited man chuckled nervously. "Do you think he'll survive the night?"
She smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. "I'm counting on it."