The Beast Arena had grown over the centuries, expanding to a size equivalent to more than a dozen football fields, and divided into several distinct zones.
It was one of the largest buildings in the capital, capable of accommodating over a hundred thousand spectators at once.
Admission prices ranged from a few silver coins to hundreds of gold coins, with two completely different entryways.
One was lavishly adorned in gold and jade, accessible only to nobles and wealthy merchants, complete with luxurious private viewing boxes. The other was the commoners' entrance—well-kept, but far more modest by comparison.
"What a marvelous place…"
Orsaga followed behind his attendant with a faint smile, leisurely strolling down the corridor.
The sinful aura in the air made him feel deeply at ease.
The female butler walking behind him caught his remark and responded with a polite smile, "If it pleases you, we can come often."
To her, this grand venue—frequented by nobles and adorned with extravagance—was a perfect place for her master to mingle with high society. Visiting more often certainly couldn't hurt.
Watching the passersby, each one steeped in varying degrees of sin and resentment, Orsaga nodded and said, "We'll see. Still, this place really is full of life. It reminds me of home."
But Orsaga wasn't the only one observing others—he himself was drawing attention as well.
With a flawless physique and otherworldly features—vivid red hair the color of fresh blood and striking golden-red eyes—he attracted stares wherever he went.
While red hair wasn't exactly rare, no one had seen it this pure, as if dyed with blood itself. His eyes, with their golden irises rimmed in crimson, were both beautiful and unnerving, carrying a majestic, penetrating gaze that seemed capable of peering into one's soul.
His aristocratic attire and natural bearing only further marked him as someone extraordinary. Numerous noble ladies and young socialites cast curious, even desirous, glances his way. Had it not been for the formal setting, he would've already received more than a few bold invitations.
Not that he cared in the slightest.
Orsaga could have disguised himself to appear more human if he wanted, but the thought never crossed his mind. Why should he care about what others thought?
The only reason he was using a humanoid form at all was to "blend in" for convenience.
Before long, the two female attendants guiding the way stopped before a pair of massive double doors, elaborately carved with motifs from Mardain's native myths and legends. They each pushed a door open with practiced grace and stepped aside to let Orsaga and his entourage through.
The room was spacious and extravagantly furnished, complete with every conceivable amenity. A massive balcony offered a commanding view of the arena and the sea of spectators below.
At that moment, a team of beautiful maids entered, carrying trays piled with fruits and wine. They arranged everything with synchronized precision.
The lead maid gave a quick glance at the butler and the two accompanying maids before flashing Orsaga a flirtatious smile. She straightened her ample chest and said suggestively, "My lord, if you have any other needs, please don't hesitate to tell us. We'll do our best to satisfy you."
Her meaning couldn't have been clearer.
The butler and the two maids frowned slightly but dared not show open displeasure—after all, their master's preferences were none of their business.
Orsaga, however, wasn't interested in the maid's innuendo. He simply waved them away with a calm gesture and sat down, signaling for them to leave. He had no desire to be served.
Though the maid was clearly unwilling to give up so easily, she didn't dare press her luck and left with a smile.
Gazing out over the bustling crowd from the balcony, Orsaga felt a strange sense of familiarity. He picked up an unfamiliar fruit and bit into it, then asked the three women beside him, "Have you ever watched one of these shows before?"
The butler, unsure why he asked but answering anyway, said, "Only a few times, and always from the common seating area. This is our first time in a high-class private suite."
The two maids gave similar answers.
Orsaga nodded and turned his attention fully to the arena.
After some time, his eyes lit up. He tapped the armrest of his chair thoughtfully, finally understanding the source of his earlier feeling of familiarity. Then he extended a slender finger, drew out a droplet of blood from his body, and flicked it casually into the arena.
It vanished instantly, sinking into the ground without leaving the slightest trace, like a drop of water dissolving into the ocean.
Far beneath the center of the arena, dozens of meters underground, a group of black-robed figures worked by candlelight. Using blood as ink, they were painstakingly painting a massive magical formation.
The array bore an uncanny resemblance to the one used to summon Orsaga in the past, though this version was far more refined. It wasn't the all-inclusive "gift bundle" setup used for summoning Orsaga, but something far more precise and controlled.
None of the black-robed figures noticed as a single droplet of blood silently seeped from the polished marble ceiling and landed on the formation's central node. It merged seamlessly into the array, disappearing without a trace.
'Hm?'
'What was that?'
Only one robed figure sensed something flash across the edge of his vision. He turned his head instinctively—but saw nothing—and quickly returned to his work.
The runes had to be drawn flawlessly. Even the smallest mistake could trigger catastrophic consequences.
That was a burden he simply couldn't afford.
---
"Welcome to the Beast Arena! Today's challenger is a warrior from the yaman Tribe—a man of captain knight-level strength who committed over a dozen murders across the principality before being captured after a six-month manhunt. His name is The Butcher—Otock!"
"And his opponent is a savage and brutal high-level magical beast from the Wild Forest of Chek—the arcane Lion! Faster than a warhorse, armored in impenetrable scales, and capable of biting through steel as thick as three fingers—without the help of a hundred elite soldiers and specialized tools, capturing it would've been impossible!"
"Today, these two—will fight to the death!"
---
On the balcony above, Orsaga sipped his wine with contentment, watching the flamboyant announcer in the arena's center as he hyped up the crowd. The speech was little more than empty bluster, but given that someone was doing free labor underground on his behalf, Orsaga remained in a good mood.
He casually motioned to the two maids beside him. "Massage me. One on the shoulders, one on the legs."
Meanwhile, the announcer finally stopped rambling and exited the stage, leaving the combatants to make their entrances.
From the left gate emerged a towering man with a fierce glare—Otock. He stood over two meters tall, wielding a long-handled battle axe and a round shield. His armor resembled the standard Mardain design, only scaled up to match his massive frame.
From the right gate came a beast—a massive creature that resembled an oversized African lion. Its muscular form was built for speed and power. With a tail that stretched over seven meters long, and even on all fours, its shoulders were more than two meters high. Jet-black scales reflected the sunlight, giving it the appearance of a ruthless apex predator.
Upon entering the arena, the beast immediately let out a deafening roar at the stands, baring its fangs and glaring as though it could leap up at any moment and tear the spectators apart.
The crowd instinctively shrank back, many recoiling like startled geese, their arrogance vanished in an instant.
But when it failed to gain traction against the arena walls after a few failed attempts to jump up, the audience quickly regained their nerve—resuming their jeers and even tossing garbage into the pit.
The Arcane Lion snarled furiously in response, baring its fangs in challenge.
What the spectators didn't realize was that if the arena walls weren't regularly polished and coated with special grease, that monster could absolutely leap into the stands and tear them apart like a fragile doll.
Fully matured arcane Lions could easily jump seven or eight meters high. With a few quick wall kicks, it could scale those twenty-meter walls in seconds.
After a brief display of futile rage, the lion finally turned its gaze toward Otock.
It didn't want to fight this small human. Instinct told it that this man was dangerous—another predator. He wasn't like the helpless prey in the stands. This one could fight back.
Yet despite its caution, the lion's hunger was unbearable. The arena staff had even doused Otock and his armor in beast-attractant powder, and the smell was driving the lion wild.
"Damn it…"
Otock stared down the beast as killing intent surged in its eyes.
He didn't move recklessly. Instead, he adopted a stance designed specifically for defending against charging beasts. He knew full well how terrifying Arcane Lions were—not only were they monstrously strong, but they possessed intelligence roughly on par with a human child. A single mistake could mean instant death.
Fortunately, he had armor and weapons. Facing such a beast barehanded would've been suicide. Even so, his odds were maybe thirty or forty percent at best.
When humans faced enemies that surpassed them in size, speed, and power, they had to rely on their wits. Brute force wasn't the answer.
But trapped in an open arena with no cover or tools, brains would only get him so far.
Though in his heart, he was already cursing every ancestor of the arena staff…
Strictly speaking, though, he did owe them something.
If they hadn't pulled him out of prison for this, he'd be long dead. A condemned man like him had no chance otherwise. Here, at least, he had a sliver of hope.
The rule was simple: survive thirty matches in the Beast Arena, and all crimes would be pardoned.
Even the king had officially endorsed that rule.
Granted, the arena had been around for centuries, and fewer than ten people had ever survived all thirty battles.
But a chance was a chance…
And Otock clung to that hope.
He vowed that if he ever walked out of this place alive, he'd personally twist off the head of whoever ran this hellhole—as thanks.
_____
I know it's a bit late, but I still want to do this properly.
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