The deafening sound of the crowd echoed throughout the arena, a place shaped by blood, sweat, and screams of despair. In the center of the stone circle, the ground was marked by the scars of past battles — stains of blood that could never be erased, even by the fiercest storms.
The arena, called **The Abyss**, was not just a stage for combat. It was an altar for those who worshiped violence, a celebration of human brutality. And on this night, the crowd didn't just want a fight. They wanted carnage. They wanted **Madman**.
Standing in the dark locker room, **Madman** wrapped bandages around his fists with a terrifying precision. Each knot was a promise of pain, every movement a reminder of his reputation. His cold, empty gaze reflected in the blade of the knife spinning in his right hand, an object that seemed like an extension of his body.
Madman was not just a man. He was a dark legend, a living myth who fed on fear. For him, the tournament was more than a game — it was a hunting ground, and he was the predator.
"It's time," announced one of the organizers, a short, nervous man who barely dared to look directly at Madman.
Without saying a word, Madman stood up and walked toward the gate that led to the arena. Every step seemed to echo in the hearts of those present. The air felt heavier, as if the very atmosphere recognized the danger that was about to be unleashed.
When the gates opened, the crowd erupted in screams and applause. They didn't love him. They feared him. But fear was enough to fuel the frenzy.
Madman lifted his head, staring into the mass of faces twisted by excitement. He flashed a crooked smile, a smile that promised destruction.
"Today," he murmured to himself, "today the arena will drink more blood."
On the other side of the arena, his opponent was already positioned. A muscular man, covered in scars and wielding a hammer so large it seemed inhuman. But Madman didn't care about size, nor strength. He knew that everyone bled the same way.
The referee stepped into the center and raised his hand, signaling that the fight would begin soon. The silence that fell over the arena was almost as deafening as the earlier screams.
"May the gods have mercy," the referee shouted, "because Madman will not!"
The gong rang, and Madman advanced.
The gong sounded, but what echoed through the arena was something more primal: the sound of chaos about to be unleashed. Madman moved forward, but not like an ordinary fighter. His movements were predatory, silent, with calculated steps. His eyes, two empty slits, fixed on the opponent, who swung the hammer as if trying to ward off a beast.
The crowd held its breath as Madman circled the man, like a lion closing in on its prey. The opponent, whose name would be forgotten before dawn, yelled and struck first. The hammer came down with brutal force, cracking the stone floor where Madman had been just moments before.
He dodged with inhuman grace, closing in on the man, the knife glinting in his hand. But Madman did not rush the strike. He enjoyed savoring the fight, feeding off the fear growing in the eyes of his victims.
"You think you can kill me, big guy?" Madman whispered, his voice low, almost a beastly growl. "I am the end of men like you."
The opponent tried again, swinging the hammer in a wide arc, but Madman was too close. He slid beneath the blow, lifting the knife and carving a cruel arc across the man's arm. Blood spurted, and the crowd erupted in screams of excitement and horror.
"More blood! More pain!" the crowd roared, feeding on the violence like hungry dogs.
Madman stepped back, admiring his work as the giant tried to stem the flow of blood. He knew the pain was beginning to erode the man's confidence. It was always like this. They were big, strong, full of bravado. Until the moment they realized Madman was not just a man. He was a monster who lived to destroy.
"Is this all you have?" Madman taunted, tilting his head like a curious predator. "I expected more."
The man roared, rage overcoming fear, and charged with all his might. But Madman had already won. He dodged again, fast as lightning, and with a single precise move, he drove the knife into the side of the man's neck.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost tangible. The knife slid out, and the giant's body collapsed like a felled tree. Blood spilled across the ground, soaking the stones already stained red.
Madman raised his eyes to the crowd, his lips curling into a smile that was anything but human. He held the bloodied knife aloft, letting the audience see his work.
"You wanted a show," he shouted, his voice echoing through the arena. "Then enjoy. I'm only just getting started."
The crowd erupted in frantic applause, euphoric shouts of approval. They were in a trance, fascinated by the violence only Madman could provide.
As the body of the fallen opponent was dragged away, Madman returned to the center of the arena, wiping the blood from the knife with his fist. He didn't look at the gates that opened again, announcing the next challenger. He didn't need to. It didn't matter who came. In the end, they all fell.
The next challenger, a strange and menacing man, was no ordinary warrior. He wore an iron mask, and his muscles were like rocks carved by a lifetime of war. The black cloak he wore billowed in the wind as he walked to the center of the arena. His presence, imposing, caused a momentary silence among the spectators. They were still in shock from the death of the previous opponent, but the sight of the masked man gave new breath to the crowd, eager for more destruction.
Madman looked at him with disdain, an expression of pure indifference. He had seen men like that before. Fighters who thought brute strength would save them, but for Madman, strength was just another ingredient for sacrifice.
"You're next," Madman said, his voice unshaken, a whisper laden with death.
The masked man advanced, a large blade in his hand, its cold gleam cutting through the darkness of the arena. Madman did not move. He simply observed the movement, studying each stance, each gesture. The smell of sweat and blood was already thick in the air.
With a roar, the challenger struck down with the blade, aiming for Madman's head. The blow was so swift that the blade seemed like a lightning bolt about to tear through flesh. But Madman, with his almost supernatural skill, dodged in a fluid motion. The blade cut through the air with the fury of a storm but did not find flesh.
Madman advanced, his eyes glowing like beasts on the hunt. He spun his body, delivering a sweeping kick to the masked man. The impact made the ground of the arena vibrate with the weight of the fallen body. The challenger rolled, attempting to rise quickly, but Madman did not give him that chance. With a savage move, he leaped over him, his hands firmly gripping the knife, which glinted in the air like a cruel star.
He drove it directly into the man's shoulder, and the man screamed, the sound of pain tearing through the silence of the arena. But Madman didn't care about the screams. He wanted more. He wanted to see fear in his victim's eyes.
With the knife still embedded in the shoulder of the challenger, Madman pulled him close, forcing him to kneel. The man, sweating and gasping, desperately tried to pull the knife from his body, but blood gushed, flowing over his skin, turning the arena into an even more macabre scene.
"You're strong, but your strength won't save you here," Madman whispered in a deep tone before pulling the knife upward, tearing through flesh, muscle, and tendons with a dirty and merciless movement.
The masked man screamed, his face contorted in agony, but the scream was drowned out by the cruel laugh Madman released. He knew what happened when a man reached this point: fear took over, the fight turned into a desperate attempt to survive, and the body began to fail.
But Madman didn't want that man to die immediately. He wanted more. He wanted to prolong the agony. The body was only beginning to succumb to shock, and Madman knew that pain was a form of power. He quickly stepped back and grabbed the war hammer dropped by one of the previous opponents, a heavy and brutal weapon.
Without hesitation, Madman swung the hammer above his head with lethal precision. The sound of impact was horrific as the hammer came down and crushed the man's knee. A dry snap, like wood breaking, was heard throughout the arena. The man fell face-first to the ground, unable to move, and black blood began to pool around him.
The crowd screamed, some in ecstasy, others just in pure pleasure from witnessing the suffering. Madman looked at them, his face impassive, and then, with a swift movement, he lifted the man by his hair, forcing him to look at the faces in the stands.
"This is your fate," Madman whispered. "You all share the same end."
With a feline agility, Madman drove the hammer directly into the challenger's head. The sound was deep and macabre, and the man's skull exploded on impact, scattering pieces of bone, blood, and chunks of flesh across the arena.
The body fell lifeless, the inorganic mass of flesh and bone now a monument to Madman's brutality.
The arena was silent for a moment, but soon the crowd erupted in an explosion of shouts, applause, and gore. The smell of blood dominated the air as Madman stood over the body of his enemy, the heavy hammer in his hand.
He was not satisfied, but he knew the game would never end. There were always more fighters, more meat for the slaughter. Always more deaths to be caused.
"More," he murmured, looking toward the next gate of the arena, where a new challenger was preparing.
The arena still trembled with the echoes of the screams, but Madman no longer heard them. The crowd, with their hungry eyes and mouths wide open in excitement, was just a distant blur to him. The blood, hot and sticky, covered his hands and face, and he felt the pulse of life fleeing from the victims he dragged into the abyss of death. It was an eternal cycle, and he was above it. He was the center of it all, the conductor of a symphony of destruction.
The next challenger did not approach with the same fervor. He was older, his graying hair and body marked by time, but his eyes burned with a flame Madman recognized well: that of someone forged in pain and battle. He carried a long sword, its blade sharp, and his stance was solid, relentless.
The man, unlike the others, did not seem intimidated. He looked directly at Madman, and something in his pupils traced a line of challenge. Like an old wolf, he knew the end was near, but he was not willing to succumb without a fight. He knew what awaited him there, but he seemed willing to pay the price.
"You have courage," Madman remarked with a twisted smile, his tone slightly admiring, but no less cruel.
The old man did not respond, but his hands were firm on the hilt of the sword. He breathed with a calm, an inner strength that Madman rarely saw in his enemies. He was, in a way, different.
When the gong sounded, the sound reverberating through the bones of the arena, the man advanced with surprising speed for his age, his sword cutting through the air in a straight line, aiming for Madman's head. Madman simply smiled, leaning his body back with a lightness almost ethereal. The blade passed mere millimeters from his face, and the crowd shuddered at the proximity of the blow.
But Madman was already in motion. He spun with supernatural agility, his movements fluid like a predator on the hunt. He advanced with speed, and before the old man could react, Madman drove the knife into his side, the metal piercing the flesh with bloody precision. The man screamed, the rough sound of pain and surprise, but he did not fall.
He pulled away, his body bent by the pain, but his eyes remained steady, defiant. He knew the fight would not end like this.
"Do you still want to fight?" Madman asked, the eyes of a monster reflecting the fragile humanity of the adversary.
Without hesitation, the old man struck again, his sword now in an arc of forged iron, visibly stronger, more desperate. Madman simply laughed, dodging the blow with ease. But that was what he wanted. He wanted the old man to exhaust himself, for his fury to be drained until there was nothing left but a battered body, ready to be consumed.
And that is exactly what happened.
The old man, with each movement growing more tired, began to show signs of weakness. His breathing became heavier, the blood pouring from his side wound already starting to form a red river where he passed. But he did not stop. He would not stop until the last drop of his strength was drained.
Madman, seeing his chance, moved closer with lethal speed. In one fluid motion, he disarmed the old man, making the sword fall to the ground with a metallic sound that cut through the tension of the arena.
The man tried to fight, but his hands were weak, his eyes blurry from the pain. Madman watched, almost with amusement, at what remained of the warrior. His body, weakened by pain and exhaustion, bent toward death, with no real resistance.
"Do you still think you can fight me?" Madman asked, his voice now dark, almost a whisper.
The old man tried to rise, but could barely lift his body. Madman crouched beside him, the knife in his hands, still stained with the blood of his previous victims. He placed the blade on the man's neck, his eyes fixed on the adversary's face.
"I am not like the others," the old man murmured with difficulty, his mouth bloody. "I am the end of many, but... but..."
"But you are the end of yourself," Madman finished, merciless. "All of you are."
With a quick and decisive motion, Madman slit the old man's throat, the blade sliding smoothly through the flesh and veins. The sound of death was a cruel whisper, and the man fell, his life draining like a red river spreading across the arena. The body dropped lifeless to the ground, but Madman's gaze remained impassive.
The crowd, as always, erupted in a frenzy. The screams were wild, almost animalistic. The adrenaline coursed through the veins of everyone present, as if the spilled blood fed an insatiable hunger.
Madman stood up and raised the bloodstained blade, his lifeless eyes now shining with an even more terrifying coldness. He knew nothing else mattered. Death was his constant companion, and he was its master. He wanted more. Always more.
The arena was soaked in blood, but the fight would never stop. The next challenger would come, and Madman would be ready. Because he knew: as long as there was flesh, he would always be standing, ready to crush, tear, and consume. He was the personification of the end, and all who entered there were merely the fuel for his empire of pain.
"Who else?" Madman shouted to the gates, his voice echoing through the arena like a thunderous omen. "Who else dares to challenge the abyss?"
The next to enter the arena did not have the courage nor the strength of the old man. But Madman already knew that everyone became the same before him. All, without exception, would be destroyed.