The infirmary smelled faintly of steel and blood.
Rows of tubes pulsed beside recovery beds, each humming softly as nanofibers stitched wounds invisible to the eye.
Vail sat on one of them, shirt torn open, his chest wrapped in bandages. His hood rested on the edge of the bed, still damp with sweat, dust, and blood.
Across from him stood Kongu, arms crossed, gaze steady.
His wounds were already healed, his massive frame blocking most of the light from the doorway.
Kongu tilted his head slightly.
"Good job" he said. "Didn't expect you to beat Orien. Not my kind of fight, though."
Vail exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk forming.
"Yeah. Strong people like you never like my kind of style."
He leaned back, eyes half-closed. "Too quiet… too deceiving."
Kongu grunted. "Deceiving, huh?"
He cracked a faint grin. "You call it that. I call it survival."
Vail glanced up, meeting his eyes.
"For a second there, I thought you came for revenge."
Kongu smirked. "I'm not that petty. You won clean and square."
He turned toward the door. "Get some rest. The next match'll be brutal."
Vail's camouflage shimmered faintly as he faded from sight—
not out of disrespect, but instinct. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Clean and square… huh."
The hum of the infirmary machines echoed softly.
Outside, the crowd's roar grew louder, rumbling like thunder under the colosseum floor.
Then, the narrator's voice rose once more—steady, resonant, commanding.
"And finally… the third round is about to start!"
In the Predators' Hall
Zame stood in silence, gills flaring faintly with every breath.
He locked eyes on the rising gate, muscles tightening like coiled steel beneath his skin.
He cracked his neck, teeth bared in a grin—half hunger, half challenge.
"Finally… the wait is over," he muttered, voice low and rough.
Across the Arena — the Drifters' Hall
Arbokh stood in silence, three silhouettes beside him, one participant and two staff members.
A faint hiss escaped between his teeth—calm, deadly, controlled.
His scales glinted, the hood-like ridges of his neck flaring for a moment before settling.
He spoke softly, his voice smooth and laced with venom."Time to accomplish the mission."The three silhouettes answered in unison, "Yes, sir!"
The gates rose.
A crimson tide of light washed over both entrances.
The crowd roared—louder than ever—as two predators stepped into the arena.
One from the depths.
One from the desert.
"Zame vs Arbokh.
Round Three—begins now!"
The crowd erupted.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
The shark and the cobra simply watched each other—one pacing forward, one stood still.
Zame's jaw clenched, muscles rippling across his arms.
"I want to taste your blood," he growled, voice echoing like a rumble from the deep.
Arbokh tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a faint, cruel smile.
"This will be quick," he hissed.
Zame's grin widened, teeth flashing like blades.
"Then how about we stop talking."
He lunged.
Sand exploded beneath his feet.
In a blink, he was on Arbokh—ruthless and relentless.
Fists, bites, tail swipes—each strike sharp and fast, each movement a blur of muscle and bloodlust.
Zame fought like a storm unleashed, his blows cracking stone, shockwaves echoing through the colosseum.
But the Arbokh didn't flinch.
He weaved through every hit with serpent-like grace, each dodge a ripple of movement.
Then, when Zame overextended—Arbokh struck.
A flash of fangs.
A hiss like thunder.
A single bite sank deep into Zame's shoulder.
The shark froze mid-motion.
Muscles twitched. Breath caught.
The veins in his arm darkened as venom spread through him like wildfire.
Arbokh stepped back, eyes cold, watching his prey stumble.
"Still think you'll taste my blood?" he said.
Zame dropped to one knee, growling through clenched teeth—his body trembling, paralyzed but refusing to fall.
Arbokh's hood flared wide. He watched his opponent struggle, eyes glowing gold.
"How about we end this," he hissed, lunging forward—fangs bared, venom dripping.
But the shark moved first.
Zame's muscles screamed, yet his body responded. He twisted aside, mist bursting from his gills as he spun.
His jaws snapped forward, sinking into Arbokh's arm. Blood sprayed, dark and thick.
Arbokh staggered back with a hiss of pain.
Zame's voice rumbled, deep and defiant.
"Of course. I always taste the blood of my prey."
Arbokh's pupils narrowed to slits.
"Ohh I get it, so… because you're a shark, your immune system dulls my venom," he sneered.
"It'll only take longer to kill you. You're not immune, you're on borrowed time."
Then Zame struck again.
Bites, kicks, tail swipes—each one heavier and faster than the last, cracking stone and shaking air, surpassing his limits.
Arbokh countered with venom-laced strikes, coiling, dodging, striking back.
The two predators collided again and again—fangs meeting flesh, teeth meeting scales, their battle echoing like thunder under the Blood Moon.
Every hit drew more blood. Every step left deeper cracks in the arena floor.
But then… Zame began to slow.
His breath grew ragged, his movements heavier, each swing a second too late.
The venom was winning.
Arbokh, bloodied, smiled faintly.
"Looks like you're reaching your limit," he said, voice low and venom-smooth.
Zame's glare burned hotter than ever, even as his legs shook.
"Maybe…" he growled. "But even dying sharks still bite."
He planted his feet in the cracked stone.
The air thickened around him—pressure rising.
"Before my body gives up," he snarled, aura flaring around him like liquid fire,
"I'll kill you."
Then he moved.
The ground shattered beneath him as he launched forward—stronger than ever, faster than reason.
For a single heartbeat, he was gone—a blur of fury and instinct.
The shockwave cracked the arena floor, sand exploding into the air.
Zame struck.
His jaws clamped down with everything he had left—a bite fueled by desperation, pride, and pain.
The impact sent tremors through the arena, dust clouding everything in crimson haze.
For a moment, no one could see.
Only silence.
Then the dust began to clear.
Zame's eyes widened.
His teeth hadn't pierced the scales.
Before him, Arbokh stood unmoving—scales stronger, blackened, massive, gleaming with a metallic sheen.
These were not the same scales Zame pierced earlier—this hide was Mythic now.
His body had changed—his hood stretching, veins pulsing with a venomous green glow.
The air shimmered around him, heavy and alive with aura.
Zame staggered back, disbelief flickering through his eyes.
Arbokh raised his head, voice deeper, colder, ancient.
"I can't believe you made me use it…
Venom isn't the only thing I can do.
This is my Mythic Form—Jörmungandr."
The arena fell silent.
No chants. No cheers.
Arbokh stood tall, his new form towering over the battlefield—scales black as obsidian.
The air trembled around him.
Even the wind seemed afraid to move.
No one spoke.
The audience stared in awe—frozen between worship and fear.
Then Arbokh moved.
A single strike.
A blur of motion.
A tail faster than lightning and heavier than stone.
The impact shook the colosseum.
Zame didn't even have time to block—the blow sent him crashing into the wall, the floor cracking beneath him, dust rising like a tidal wave.
For a heartbeat, everything was red.
The world spun.
His body refused to move.
As he fell, he saw the Blood Moon's reflection shimmer faintly across the serpent's scales.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Tch… I guess… this is my limit."
The sound of the crowd returned—a distant echo.
Zame hit the wall and fell.
Then—
BOOM.
A sudden, thunderous explosion ripped through the colosseum corridors.
The sound came from deep within the Drifters' waiting room.
Dust and smoke burst from the hallway, alarms blaring through the walls.
Gasps spread through the crowd.
The camera feeds flickered.
Something had gone wrong.
© 2025 Moku. All rights reserved. INSTINCTBOUND is an original work by Moku. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.