In his viewing box, Zarakhim could no longer bear the spectacle. What was meant to be his triumph was becoming a humiliating massacre. He was the one who had sought out Zarekh, taunted him, and issued this challenge, certain of his victory. Now, his wager was turning into a monumental joke. All the money spent, the time wasted tracking this creature... He had no choice left.
With a sharp gesture, he snapped his fingers. A trembling servant approached and handed him a box of dark wood, carved with unsettling runes. Zarakhim opened it with a feverish greed. Inside, resting on a cushion of black velvet, was a small skull, too fine to be human, pierced with several holes like a primitive flute. Tribal symbols, the color of blood, were etched into the yellowed bone.
He grabbed it, brought it to his lips, and blew.
No audible sound came out for the crowd. But Barrock heard it. A piercing, high-frequency wave that stabbed through his skull like an ice dagger. His bloodshot eyes dilated, then filled with a scarlet, inhuman glow. All traces of fatigue, pain, or consciousness seemed to evaporate. A roar that was no longer animalistic, a pure emanation of deranged fury, tore from his lungs.
Brannok heard it too. It wasn't a whistle, but an insidious, primal voice that resonated deep within his mind. A single word, echoing: "KILL. KILL. KILL." He understood instantly. The fight had just shifted. He was no longer facing a beast, but a cyclone of flesh and rage.
Barrock charged. It was no longer an attack; it was a landslide. He slammed into Brannok head-on before the young gladiator could regain his balance. The impact sent Brannok flying like a ragdoll. He sailed several meters and hit the stone wall of the arena with a sickening thud.
Before Brannok could even slide to the ground, Barrock was already on him. He grabbed his leg with an iron grip and, in an unbelievable motion, lifted him. He began to swing him violently, like a child with a cloth doll. Brannok's body smashed against the stone floor, then another wall, sending up clouds of dust and chips of rock.
The crowd, first stunned, exploded. The screams redoubled, a mix of horror and wild excitement at this sudden reversal.
Zarekh, who had been jubilant moments before, rose to his feet, his face ashen. "What's happening? What did he do?" he screamed, helpless. Everything had been going perfectly, and now... hope was crumbling. He saw Zarakhim in his box, the skull whistle still in hand, gloating with malevolent joy. That artifact, bought for a fortune from the shamans of Barrock's savage tribe, was worth every coin.
After "playing" with him, Barrock lifted Brannok one last time and, with a monumental slap, struck him in the side. The blow, of obscene power, sent Brannok flying to the other end of the arena. He landed in a motionless heap, limbs askew, his copper armor dented and bloodied.
Silence fell like a guillotine. Then, a murmur ran through the crowd. It was over. The Bestiarus was dead. Zarekh slumped into his seat, his face in his hands. It was ruin.
Zarakhim burst into triumphant laughter, brandishing the skull whistle towards the sky.
That's when he saw it.
A movement. Faint, almost imperceptible.
Then another.
In the heap of flesh and metal, Brannok stirred. With agonizing slowness, he pushed himself off the ground with trembling arms. He rose, one knee after the other, every movement seeming to cost him unimaginable pain. Blood flowed from a gash on his forehead, obscuring the vision in one eye. One of his ribs was likely broken, twisting his torso.
But he stood.
And when he lifted his head to stare at Barrock, his eyes were no longer those of a gladiator, or even a hunter.
It was the gaze of a predator that has been hunted, wounded, and has nothing left to lose. A thirst for the hunt, primal and absolute, burned there with a cold fire. The whistle had awakened the beast in Barrock.
But it had just awakened something far worse in Brannok.