Ren and Asher stepped forward, their bare feet finding purchase on the rough-hewn planks. Untied, their movements held a taut, coiled tension. The crowd, a swirling vortex of sound and bodies, erupted anew, a primal roar tearing through the cavernous arena.
"Yes!" A voice, raw with bloodlust, split the din. "You will die today! No one survives the dark pits!"
Another, deeper, resonated from the stands. "I'm betting everything on Lord Vutagon Mondanza's men. They never fail!"
Greyson, a thin smile stretching his lips, nudged his friend. "Of course. Vutagon's men always win."
Cosmass scoffed, a short, sharp burst of air. "You'll regret that bet, brother. Do you even know who Asher Kade is?"
Greyson's smile faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.
Cosmass continued, catching his breath, the words tumbling out. "Man, Asher slaughtered twenty-six vampires alone in the dark forest. That's not a myth—that's real. I'm betting on him." He glanced toward Ren, his brow furrowed. "I don't know much about the other guy, but if he really is the Gatekeeper, he's bad news. The Gatekeepers protect the Karian Kingdom from being overrun by vampires."
Greyson chuckled, a dismissive sound. "Come on, Cosmass, be real. Have you ever seen Vutagon's men lose a match?"
A mocking smile, slow and deliberate, crept onto Cosmass's face. "Actually, yes, I have. You're new here. The matches you've seen are the ones where Vutagon's men won. But today—this is different. These men have something to lose."
The two continued their heated exchange, their voices swallowed by the rising tide of the crowd. People surged towards betting tables, their fortunes in gold, glimmering diamonds, cool sapphires, and every precious stone imaginable piling high.
On the wooden stage, Ren turned to Asher, his voice a low thrum, heavy with a regret that seemed to emanate from his very bones. "Brother, if this is the end of the road for us… I'm sorry. Sorry for the years I—"
Asher cut him off, his words like a whip-crack, igniting the air between them. "There is no next life, Ren. We survive. I refuse to see Nova torn apart by those beasts." His eyes, molten pools of fury, burned with a rage that became a palpable force. "We do whatever it takes. Anything. You hear me?"
Ren stood still, absorbing the words, his shoulders squaring. Asher wasn't done. "We take revenge—a hundredfold—for what Vutagon Mondanza has done to us. He is human, Ren. He bleeds. Don't give up now."
Ren swallowed hard, the sound almost lost in the arena's roar. He had missed this side of Asher—the relentless, unwavering fighter. The person he had known before he broke his spirit, before he stole the love of his life. The arena was a deafening, chaotic storm of voices, and yet—despite it all—every word spoken on that stage carried through the madness, a fragile thread of defiance.
Six warriors, Lord Vutagon Mondanza's elite, stepped onto the wooden stage, their weapons glinting under the dim, flickering torchlight. Each was armed to the teeth: a Gladius, a Trident, a Net, a Sica, a Hasta, and a Cestus. They spread out, a loose but calculated formation, closing in on Ren and Asher. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, chanting the names of their favored fighters.
"This is madness!" A woman in the audience exclaimed, her grip tightening on the arm of the man beside her. "Two men against six? And they have no weapons!"
The man chuckled darkly, a rasping sound. "Lady, life isn't fair. Power rules the world, whether in wealth or brute strength. And these six—" he gestured at the warriors circling Ren and Asher—"they embody that power."
She frowned, her gaze fixed on the stage. "Still, the odds are impossible."
"You bet on those two fools, didn't you?" He laughed, a booming, uncontrollable sound. "You've lost your gold, then. Should've asked us men—we know better."
The murmur of bets being placed, voices calling out numbers, and the clink of precious stones being exchanged filled the underground arena. Lord Vutagon Mondanza, a figure of dark opulence, lifted his hand, demanding silence. The arena fell into a hushed tension, the crowd's eager anticipation crackling in the air.
"Have we all placed our bets?" His voice thundered, echoing off the stone walls.
The crowd responded in unison, a guttural, hungry sound. "YES!"
He spread his arms wide, a predatory grin on his face. "Then this—this is the moment we have all been waiting for. A fight to the death!" The roar of the audience was deafening, a wave of bloodlust. "No mercy! Winner takes all! LET THE BATTLE BEGIN!"
Ren and Asher stood back to back, their breath steadying, their eyes dissecting their enemies. "Ren," Asher muttered under his breath, his gaze locked on a hulking figure. "You know who to target first, don't you?"
Ren's eyes flickered over their opponents, a plan already forming. "Yeah. The one with the Net. That thing is meant to trap us, and if they succeed, we're done."
Asher gave a sharp nod, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Good. I'll cover you. If anyone tries to strike while you're taking him down, I'll handle them."
"But watch your own back," Ren reminded him, his voice tight, a hint of steel beneath the urgency.
"Always," Asher muttered, his stance shifting, ready.
The warrior wielding the Net tightened his grip on the rope, preparing to cast. Ren's muscles coiled, his body a spring. "He's going for it—NOW!"
With explosive speed, Ren sprinted toward the net-wielder, a blur of motion. He narrowly dodged the heavy weighted mesh as it whipped through the air, a dark cloud meant to ensnare. The fighter snarled, pulling at the ropes, desperate to recast his trap, but Ren was already too close. Using his momentum, Ren threw a punch, a piston-like strike straight into the man's jaw. The crowd gasped as the warrior staggered back, stunned, a dazed look in his eyes—but he wasn't down. Snarling, he swung a knee toward Ren's ribs, a brutal, bone-crushing blow. Ren anticipated it, twisting to the side, grabbing the man's wrist, and twisting hard, a sickening crack echoing faintly. The net-wielder yelled in pain, dropping his weapon as Ren drove his elbow into his throat, a precise, devastating strike.
Meanwhile, Asher faced off against two warriors advancing toward him. One wielded the Trident, its prongs glinting menacingly, the other the Sica, a curved, wicked blade. The Trident-fighter lunged first, aiming a sharp, piercing strike at Asher's stomach. Asher sidestepped, a dancer's grace in his evasion, grabbing the man's wrist in a brutal grip, yanking him forward—straight into the Sica-wielder's path. The two collided with force, a grunt of impact, giving Asher just enough space to deliver a devastating kick into the Trident-fighter's ribs. "AGH!" The warrior staggered back, gripping his side, his face contorted in pain. The crowd roared, a wave of surprised delight.
"Come on!" Greyson shouted at his friend Cosmass, his voice tight with disbelief. "Vutagon's men should be wiping the floor with them!"
Cosmass smirked, a slow, knowing smile. "I told you, brother. Asher Kade is no ordinary man."
Back on the stage, Ren snatched up the fallen Net, spinning it expertly in his hands, testing its weight. "I think I just claimed a weapon," he muttered, a grim satisfaction in his tone.
"Good," Asher said breathlessly, his eyes scanning the remaining fighters, a predator assessing its prey. "Now let's finish this."
The Hasta-wielding warrior, a long spear gripped in his hands, charged toward Asher, spear tip aimed directly at his throat. Asher ducked in at the last second, a blur of motion, twisting his body to avoid the lethal strike. Ren reacted immediately, a sudden, powerful throw, sending the net hurtling toward the warrior's feet. The weighted mesh tangled around his legs, an inescapable snare. He stumbled, then fell with a heavy thud. Another wave of cheers erupted, a deafening crescendo.
"NO WAY!" Greyson cursed, slamming his fist on the railing. "They're winning?!"
Cosmass grinned, a triumphant flash of teeth. "Told you."
The fight intensified, a brutal, desperate dance. Ren and Asher had turned the tide, their movements sharp, tactical, every strike deliberate, every evasion precise. But Lord Vutagon Mondanza watched from his throne, amusement dancing in his cold eyes, a flicker of something ancient and dangerous. "They're skilled," he murmured, his voice a silken thread of malice. "But skill alone won't save them."
Lucius Vance, a gaunt figure seated beside him, leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "You have something else planned, don't you?"
Lord Vutagon Mondanza smirked, a chilling, predatory curve of his lips. "Always."