A voice boomed across the world.
Not from one city, not from one arena—
but through every screen, every speaker, every broadcast tower tuned into the event humanity had waited half a decade for.
"And finally… after five years of silence…"
Cameras cut to a colossal stone arena carved beneath the glowing red sky.
Thunder rumbled. The Blood Moon hung low, heavy like a heartbeat.
"…the Blood Moon Tournament returns."
Crowds roared, a tidal wave of sound that shook the metal gates.
From every continent, billions watched.
Some prayed.
Some trembled.
Some simply hungered.
"And once again, a special thanks to the Drifters—because without their neutrality, no tournament could ever bring all four factions together."
The holographic board above the arena flickered, shifting from names to statistics as the announcer's voice thundered again.
"This year's Blood Moon Tournament hosts a total of fifty contenders… divided across the four great factions."
Numbers appeared, glowing red under the lunar light.
⸻
ENFORCERS — 15
Lawkeepers of the new world. Trained, disciplined, armed with iron will and government support.
SENTINELS — 12
Heroes by creed or choice. Protectors, guardians, idealists… and sometimes hypocrites dressed as saints.
PREDATORS — 5
Feared by all. Ruthless. Unbound by law or conscience.
Every year, fewer dare enter—and fewer still survive.
DRIFTERS — 18
Mercenaries, bounty hunters, vagabonds, assassins.
Unpredictable. Untamed.
More Drifters registered this year than ever before.
⸻
The announcer continued:
"Each of them enters the arena with its own strategy and its own purpose."
Crowds roared.
Screens flashed with faction colors.
The Blood Moon pulsed above them like an omen.
A deep horn blared through the arena.
"All participants—enter the grounds."
Fifty gates slid open around the circular colosseum, metal grinding against stone.
Dust lifted as figures stepped onto the battlefield, each silhouette framed by the red glow of the Blood Moon.
All fifty contenders now stood inside the arena—scattered shadows beneath the crimson glow.
The crowd settled, anticipation thick in the air.
A sharp chime echoed.
FWOOOM.
A massive hologram burst to life above the colosseum, rotating slowly like a celestial wheel.
Rows of data, names, faces, and statistics shimmered across the light.
The announcer's voice cut through the silence:
"Before the first trial begins, we present this year's predicted Top Ten—ranked by global vote, tournament analysts, and combat statistics."
A buzz spread through the stands.
This was the list everyone waited for.
A list that shaped reputations…
…predictions…
…and sometimes even destinies.
The hologram locked into place.
⸻
Duma stood among the fifty fighters, arms crossed, dust settling around his feet.
He lifted an eyebrow at the glowing screen and exhaled through his nose.
"Heh… they like to shine, don't they?"
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—
not admiration, not bitterness.
Just… understanding.
Because he knew those three very well.
⸻
9th Place — ZAME
Zame — The Blood Shark
Rank A – Predator
Win Probability: 10%
Uneasy whispers spread.
"That's the shark."
"I can't believe they let him enter."
"A danger to everyone."
Zame didn't react.
He just leaned back on one foot, almost amused.
⸻
6th Place — KONGU
Kongu — The Steel Gorilla
Rank A – Enforcer
Win Probability: 15%
A wave of approval rippled through the stands.
"The Enforcer prodigy."
"A rising powerhouse."
Kongu didn't react.
Only his fingers curled slightly.
⸻
4th Place — GAJA
Gaja — The Mighty Elephant
Rank A – Sentinel
Win Probability: 20%
Thunderous cheers erupted.
"The Guardian!"
"A true hero!"
Gaja bowed his head, eyes steady and humble.
⸻
The hologram pulsed red.
The entire arena went silent.
Even Duma's smirk faded.
The announcer's voice dropped one octave:
"And the number one predicted contender…"
The screen exploded with crimson light.
⸻
1st Place — ARBOKH
Arbokh — Venom King
Mythic Rank – Drifter
Win Probability: 41%
A towering, serpent-eyed warrior filled the sky — his holographic image looming above the arena, eyes burning through the crimson light.
Duma's expression finally shifted—
a tiny flicker of caution.
"…Huh."
⸻
The hologram dimmed, but the echo of Arbokh's name still vibrated across the arena.
Every fighter felt it—the shift in the air, the tightening of fate.
A voice broke the silence.
A Drifter standing near Duma let out a shaky breath:
"Th–there's only five in the entire world…"
"…and one of them is here."
Another participant swallowed hard.
"But he's not one of the five we know… so who is he? A new one?"
⸻
The narrator continued:
"In the recorded history of the Blood Moon Tournament…"
"…only one Mythic has ever participated."
The crowd fell silent.
The screens flickered, revealing a shadow—massive, horned, barely human.
"He did not fight."
"He did not compete."
"He annihilated."
The arena floor rumbled as the final phrase echoed:
"One Mythic.
One tournament.
One survivor."
Gasps spread like wildfire.
Someone whispered:
"And now… there's another."
The hologram snapped back to Arbokh's face—the Venom King staring down at the entire world.
His Mythic aura flickered like a living storm.
⸻
A sharp, crazed laugh tore through the tension.
"KEKEKEKE—A Mythic in the tournament?"
Waraabe's grin split wider.
"Ohhh, this is gonna be fun."
His laughter rattled a few nearby fighters.
⸻
Zame dragged his tongue across his teeth, eyes fixed on Arbokh's image.
"A Mythic…" he muttered.
Then his grin sharpened into something violent.
"Perfect."
"I already know who my prey is."
⸻
Kongu cracked his knuckles once, shoulders rolling with slow, controlled force.
He exhaled through his nose, expression unchanged.
"Doesn't matter."
"Mythic or not… nothing changes."
His gaze hardened.
"I'm still going to win."
⸻
Falko narrowed his eyes.
The wind brushed past his feathers.
"…Tch."
Not fear.
Not excitement.
Just irritation.
His wings folded closer.
"He'll be a problem. Nothing more."
⸻
Gaja's golden aura glimmered faintly as he watched the hologram fade.
A soft smile touched his lips—quiet, certain.
"A Mythic…"
He exhaled steadily.
"Then my role is clear."
His voice warmed.
"I'm here to protect you all… just like before."
⸻
Duma tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"Tch… strongest or not, it doesn't matter."
He cracked his neck.
"You can be the strongest…"
"…but I'm still the fastest."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Speed kills. Even you."
⸻
Standing alone at the far edge, Varga finally opened his eyes, silver irises reflecting the last flicker of Arbokh's image.
He breathed out softly.
"…Nothing will stop me. Not even the devil itself."
No fear.
No excitement.
Just resolve.
His hand lowered to his coat.
⸻
The arena fell into a thick, pulsing silence.
Every fighter held their breath.
Every spectator leaned forward.
Every screen across the world zoomed in.
Because this was the moment.
The moment the Blood Moon Tournament officially began.
⸻
A booming voice shattered the stillness.
"Alright, contenders… settle your instincts."
A hush rolled over the fifty fighters.
The red glow of the Blood Moon intensified, bathing the arena in an ominous crimson.
"Now begins the qualifying stage…"
Stone rumbled beneath their feet.
Walls shifted.
Hidden mechanisms groaned to life.
And then—
The ground cracked open as massive iron gates rose around the battlefield.
"…welcome…"
A pulse of energy surged through the stadium.
"…to the Escape Gate Trial."
The crowd roared as the gates locked into place—
tall, towering, ancient, decorated with symbols older than any faction.
The narrator's voice boomed louder:
"Fifty fighters enter."
"Only Ten will escape."
"Run. Fight. Survive."
"Because the Blood Moon chooses no favorites."
The gates trembled.
A thunderous bell rang.
And everything went silent.
Preparing for chaos.
© 2025 Moku. All rights reserved. INSTINCTBOUND is an original work by Moku. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.