The underground fight ring reeked of sweat, blood, and the deafening chants of the audience.
The numerous bulbs illuminating the hidden slaughterhouse were almost blinding—each one lighting up as a fighter stepped into the ring.
Although illegal, the sport was likely not going anywhere; officials came to indulge their fantasies there.
And as he stepped out into the middle of a sandy circle, looking around at the seats filled to the brim, he clenched his teeth.
"What were they up to?"
Especially since Grier had asked him to take his sword into the ring…
"You never know what might happen, so better be safe," the slimy old man had grinned.
He wasn't the only one in the ring; there were ten others—making it eleven in total—and they all wielded weapons.
Six of them were top fighters who had never been beaten; the other three were average.
Leaving him and… the girl he was looking at. He swallowed. He'd never seen her before in the ring; in fact, she looked too slender to be there. And didn't she know that leaving her blue hair all over the place was foolish?
When the other fighters saw him, they roared in laughter.
"Is this a joke?"
"Maybe Grier's so tired of him, he wants him dead."
"Too bad he has a kid. You know, Grier's wife runs a nice little brothel for beautiful girls."
"You think that's the plan?"
So crude, yet so loud—but it was hard to mind them when his eyes were on the Councillor.
Councillors were the second tier of government, and each of them ruled a sector of the world.
His jewelry was pure gold, and he was clad in a purple and white robe that reeked of wealth. He stared down at the ring with scrutiny, his hand propping his cheek as if in boredom.
"Ha, how much ya think the ring on his nose cost?"
"A hundred Ashenails… at least," said Voss, hurling his axe over his shoulder effortlessly. "I'll be telling you how bright they glitter in your graves."
The others either laughed in agreement or cursed with disdain.
Voss—his axe weighing pounds on his burly shoulders—was the strongest in the ring.
Except… for Raya.
She stepped beside him, her pink hair styled in a Mohawk, an iron-toothed grin widening on her face as she latched her arrow holder to her hips. She made up for her lithe frame with her speed, which left little time for her opponents to react.
Voss scoffed; he'd keep her for the end and take his time plucking her fucking teeth off.
They wanted pain—he'd give them pain. Voss's grip tightened on the handle as he closed in on her, stopping next to her so she had no leverage. No distance
The sliding noise snapped them out of their thoughts. At the round edge of the ring, a circular glass panel slid out quietly, enclosing the fighters completely.
"A glass cage—this has never happened before."
"So, a fight-to-death spar? Delicious."
"For 150 Ashenails, I could change my dentals."
Belial grimaced. He hadn't signed up for a death match—Grier had said it was suffering. He couldn't die; he had Kael's competition to attend.
But someone beat him to it.
"I'm not doing no death match!" yelled an angry Matt—known for his cunning. "Open the glass—I'm out!"
He moved to the end of the glass where Grier was already waiting.
"Grier, I got a grandmum to take care of."
But Belial was more interested in the glass. Usually, for a death match, metal cages were the deal—but this… He knocked on the thick barricade and quickly withdrew his hand—it burned… the glass burned.
What the fuck was going on?!
"My apologies, Matt…" Grier said, pulling back from the borders, "but I wouldn't touch that glass if I were you."
"Grier!" Matt roared angrily, slamming his fist against the glass.
The glass seemed to glitch, and then he pulled back his hand, staring at it with widened, shaky pupils. He let out a blood-curdling scream.
Only a smoky wrist remained—the flesh a delicious brown that smelled wonderful.
"Fuck you, Grier! Grier!" Matt screamed again, his weapon dropping to the floor.
The glass barrier emitted a sickly violet light, its surface flickering like static on a dead channel.
Belial's burned fingertips throbbed—mana. This wasn't ordinary glass; it reeked of celestial tech, the kind Heaven's grunts used to incinerate demonic trespassers.
A small grin crawled across the Councillor's lips—and as soon as it appeared, it disappeared. Belial wondered if he was seeing things.
*Of course Grier would sell us out as lab rats.*
Shit! It really was a death match.
Raya chuckled at the sight of a whimpering Matt, his head tilted backward. Belial wasn't sure how to announce that something bigger was at play.
Something so big… like the mana that wasn't coming from the glass.
And the strange girl with the flowing blue hair? Why was she looking directly at him, brows furrowed as though he'd suddenly grown horns?
A beep caught their attention, and they looked up at a large screen with a big white number 5 plastered on it, followed by a smaller display reading "Are you ready?"
Belial had a feeling it didn't really care whether they were ready or not. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
The number changed.
FOUR
"Come on, Matt, you can do this!" Grier taunted.
"Fucker!" Matt roared.
THREE
The crowd was now in a frenzy, banging against their own barriers—their thirst for blood so palpable it was almost physical.
TWO
Belial swallowed, his eyes darting between the fighters who had begun to spread out from each other.
The mana was becoming heavier…
ONE… GOODLUCK.
Voss's axe scraped against the floor, ready to pounce…
But from the corner of the room, the sliding of glass caught their ears, and they all turned toward it.
There was an opening in the glass barricade, but it didn't lead to the outside; instead, it was shrouded in darkness—occasionally gleaming with a red light.
Then a long, low growl emanated from the shadows.
The arena went quiet.
Until someone dared to ask, "Did… did… you hear that?"
The blade deepened, vibrating the glass like a seismic tremor. Then appeared a red, round gleam—one that suddenly split into two orbs, orbs that seemed angry, hungry.
Then more of them… a lot more of them…
Tall, hulking shapes lurched forward, claws scraping the sand. They screeched, their sound deafening, and in their chests a light pulsed.
Ashspawns…
Belial's blood went cold. This wasn't one of the usual husks from the wasteland—this seemed almost engineered, with numerous rows of teeth, jaws in a serrated maw dripping with saliva that, right before their eyes, melted the sand into glass.
The crowd roared with cheer, once again banging against the metal barriers. In short, the arena had just become a true asylum, the yearn for blood so thick it was physical.
The Councillor leaned forward, his boredom replaced by a small grin.
Two fighters cursed as they fell back slowly; although news of ashspawn invasions were whispered, no one in Neal City had ever come across one.
Some even regarded it as a myth.
But here they were—about eight at once—no longer the lumpy things he had made jams of when he found Kael.
Fuck! Fuck!
"Grier!!" Matt yelled, limping toward the glass with a bleeding stomp. "Grier, you fucking piece of shit! I got a grandmum!"
Unfortunately, his scream had attracted an ashspawn, and it slowly began to stomp its way toward him.
"Grier, please… fucking please…"
The ashspawn increased its pace, and catching up with Matt, swept him with its hand—sending him flying against the glass enclosure.
The sizzling of his still-scorched body dropping to the floor sent a chill through the room as Matt's dead, frightened red eyes fixed on the far end.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!"
And something strange happened as soon as Matt dropped—the enclosure closed in, becoming smaller, pushing them close to the ashspawns.
Okay… Belial sighed, his fist tightening harder around the hilt of his sword. Rule number one: there was no escape…
Of course, twenty-five fucking Ashenails weren't just going to come easy… what was he? stupid?
The creatures had begun to close in.
With only ten percent of his mana left, he was as good as dead as Matt—if not worse.
"What the *hell* is that?!" Raya hissed, nocking an arrow.
"Our funeral," Voss muttered, hefting his axe.
And there the monsters lunged.