The announcer's voice echoed across the colosseum:
"Round Two will begin in thirty minutes!"
The crowd erupted in anticipation.
The battle between Kongu and Byte had barely ended, and already the atmosphere felt heavier—hotter.
In the Drifters' waiting hall, Vail sat against the wall, hood half-drawn over his eyes.
The air shimmered faintly around him, his skin rippling in and out of sight as his camouflage responded to each flicker of light.
He exhaled slowly.
"Finally, the wait is over."
His voice was calm—almost too calm.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Waraabe leaned against the doorframe, grin wide, laughter already bubbling in his throat.
"Why're you so quiet, Vail?" he asked. "You sit there like a ghost at a funeral."
He tilted his head, snickering. "You're one of those types—always thinking, never talking. Makes sense for a Chameleon."
Vail didn't look up. "Observation beats noise."
Waraabe's grin grew sharper. He leaned closer, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
"You better win, you know? I can't stand that King of the Jungle guy. Lions always think they own the savannah."
Vail smirked.
"Then I'll make sure he remembers who really hides in the grass."
Waraabe laughed loud enough to echo through the hall.
"Ha! Now that's the spirit, I like you."
He turned to leave, waving lazily over his shoulder.
"Try not to disappear before the fight starts, ghost-boy."
Vail muttered under his breath,
"No promises."
Across the arena, in the Enforcer prep chamber, Orien adjusted his gloves and stared at the glowing insignia on his chest.
The roar of the previous fight still echoed faintly through the walls.
He cracked his neck once and smirked.
"Time to keep the Enforcers' streak going."
His golden eyes gleamed as his pupils narrowed to feline slits.
"Let's make this quick."
The arena darkened.
The crowd's chatter faded into expectant silence.
Then the narrator's voice rose through the speakers—steady, formal, commanding.
"After thirty minutes of waiting, the second match begins."
"Round Two — Vail vs Orien!"
The crowd screamed, banners flashing across every screen.
Two gates opened at opposite ends of the battlefield.
From the left, Vail emerged, moving like a shadow in motion—his figure distorting with each step as his chameleon genes shimmered against the crimson light.
The spectators leaned forward, trying to keep their eyes on him as his outline vanished and reappeared with every stride.
From the right, Orien strode out proudly, mane catching the red light, each step heavy with purpose.
The cheers multiplied tenfold.
The two stopped at the center—one silent and fading, the other glowing with confidence.
"Round Two begins… now!"
Orien didn't wait for the echo to fade.
He roared and charged—pure power in motion, claws tearing through the sand as the ground cracked beneath each step.
The golden aura around him flared brighter with every stride, like a sun collapsing forward.
He closed the distance in seconds—
and then Vail was gone.
Orien's claws sliced through empty air.
Dust exploded outward, scattering under the force of the blow.
The crowd gasped.
Orien's eyes darted left—then right. His golden pupils narrowed to slits.
The air shimmered faintly.
Something—someone—was there.
"Running already?" he growled. "Coward."
A voice answered behind him, calm, distant.
"Not running."
"Just moving smarter."
Orien spun, but Vail had already vanished again—his outline dissolving into the blood-red mist.
The crowd froze.
Every camera struggled to track Vail's movement—his skin shifting hue to match the walls, the floor, even the heat distortion in the air.
Orien exhaled, jaw tightening.
"Fine," he muttered. "Then I'll hunt you by sound."
Before he could take another step—
a faint shimmer flickered behind him.
Then pain.
A dagger slid clean between his shoulder blades, fast and silent.
Orien grunted, staggering forward as blood trickled down his back.
He spun instantly, claws tearing through the air—
but there was nothing.
Vail's voice drifted through the haze, quiet, almost playful.
"You're not the bat, lion."
"Sound won't save you."
The dagger clattered once against the stone before fading from sight—
camouflaged again, just like its wielder.
Orien's breathing deepened. His golden eyes narrowed.
The veins around his neck glowed faintly with aura.
"Okay," he growled, his voice rumbling like thunder trapped in a cage.
"If I can't track you… I'll destroy the field itself."
He slammed both palms into the ground.
BOOM.
The entire arena shuddered.
Stone cracked.
Orien didn't blink.
He could hear him—
tiny shifts in the sand, the whisper of movement where no wind blew.
He could see the dust—
every subtle ripple,
every disturbance in the haze.
He was hunting now.
The battlefield itself was revealing the chameleon's path.
"There you are," he said.
Then he lunged forward.
His claws sank deep across Vail's chest, sparks flying as skin met force.
The impact sent Vail staggering back, blood spilling faintly before his form flickered—then vanished again.
But even invisible, the damage betrayed him.
A trail of blood followed wherever he moved,
painting the air with proof of his pain.
Orien's grin widened.
"Got you now."
He charged—relentless.
He followed the trail of blood, eyes locked forward, claws flashing gold under the Blood Moon.
Every strike hit harder than the last.
Claws tore through the air, fists crushed into the ground, and every blow found flesh.
Vail's silhouette flickered faintly through the haze, each impact carving new wounds across his invisible frame.
Blood splattered the sand in crimson arcs.
Still, the chameleon didn't fall.
Then—suddenly—the blood stopped moving.
The trail ended.
Orien froze, chest heaving.
"The trail… stopped?" he muttered.
The air was still.
No sound. No breath.
And then—faintly—he saw it.
The shimmer of Vail's form appeared before him, knees to the ground, shoulders trembling.
He was visible now. Beaten. Bleeding. Barely conscious.
Orien's eyes narrowed.
"It's over."
He stepped forward, raising his claws for the final strike—
and in that instant, Vail vanished again.
Before Orien could react—
a whisper of motion cut behind him.
The twin daggers flashed once through the red mist.
SHRRK—
Vail's daggers carved a deep line across Orien's throat.
The lion's eyes widened in shock.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent—
then Orien dropped to one knee, one hand clamping over his bleeding throat as the golden light faded from his aura.
Vail stood behind him, breathing hard, blood running down his arm, half-invisible in the dust.
His voice was calm—quiet, almost respectful.
"When you're born the strongest…
you can't understand how the weakest fights."
Orien collapsed.
The crowd erupted.
Half roared in disbelief, the other half in awe.
"Winner — Vail, the Phantom Skin!"
The Blood Moon pulsed once more, its glow washing over the crimson floor.
The crowd's roar still echoed when the cameras cut to the Drifters' viewing hall.
Waraabe leaned back in his seat, laughing under his breath.
"Oh my, he actually did it," he said, eyes wide with amusement.
"Did not expect that to happen."
He whistled low, grinning.
"Guess the quiet ones really are the most dangerous."
Beside him, Falko stood with his arms crossed, wings half-folded.
He didn't smile, but a faint hint of respect flickered in his gaze.
"A bounty hunter like me… made us proud," he muttered quietly.
Waraabe looked at him, smirking.
"Don't get sentimental on me, bird boy."
Falko's eyes stayed fixed on the crimson arena below.
"Wasn't sentiment," he said softly. "Just facts."
The camera panned back to the arena as the dust finally settled.
"Two rounds down.
Five more to go."
© 2025 Moku. All rights reserved. INSTINCTBOUND is an original work by Moku. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.