Capítulo 1074: Chapter 55: Cold Steel, Hot Blood (Part 1)
“Kill him!” “Take him down!” “Odds 1.5:2.7.” “Keep going!” “Twist that bastard’s neck!”
The shouts of the fanatics rged into a wave of madness, with a thousand faces yelling and screaming around the octagonal arena, arms either skinny or brawny waving with the cries. Smoke, alcohol, sweat, blood, the intoxicating scent of illicit drugs, all lted into the oppressive underground air, drifting freely with the people’s clamors. In the distance, the VIP seats reminiscent of ancient amphitheaters stacked up like building floors, where elegantly dressed people watched through binoculars, their eyes filled with a thicker passion than those of the lower-class.
“Countdown 10 seconds.” The referee indifferently counted down, “10…”
Before the countdown was over, the man’s right cheek was struck by a punch, the muffled sound like a drumbeat resonating in people’s hearts. Broken teeth flew up amidst blood splatter, the loser’s body was thrown from the scorching edge of the arena towards the fanatic spectators. His facial skin exaggeratedly swung to one side as if hit by a gale, his bloodshot eyes still filled with shock and rage.
The crowd quickly scattered. No one caught him, the man collapsed like a bag of garbage. “Yeah!!” “He’s a damn waste.” “Great!!” No one cared about the loser; voices of delight and regret surged towards the victor standing on the arena. The spotlight bathed the center of the octagonal arena, and amidst cheers, the victor gloriously descended.
Zarul Gate, with a hood over his head, mingled among the crowd at the lowest level, narrowly avoiding being hit by a crude swing of a bottle from a nearby drunkard, yet remained unmoving. This was the sixth match of the elimination round; each participant had won five consecutive rounds, each capable of rousing the arena on an ordinary night but now used disdainfully as expendables.
Zarul raised his gaze towards the top of the casino. He couldn’t see anything but knew sowhere at the highest level, a masked man in black sat on a cold steel throne, overlooking the struggle in the dust like a king ruling over rivers and mountains. That man was Zarul’s target; he aid to overthrow him and seize the throne. It was also the target of everyone in the casino, with countless noble families’ confidants waiting day and night in the filthy lowest level, just to get information on his movents.
Now, the upper gallery was crowded, for the champion was present in the casino.
“Next match starts in 10 minutes!”
As Zarul pondered, the referee stood on the arena and shouted, projecting the contestants’ information onto the casino’s holographic screens. Zarul ceased to recall the details of previous matches, beginning to adjust his Spirit Light through ditation.
Scantily clad girls descended from the second level, dancing wildly around the arena, further stirring the emotions of the n. The comntator with an extravagant hairstyle grabbed a microphone, bouncing clownishly: “Veteran Zarul against the Empire’s newcor! Winning odds are 1.2, a match of equals… Received a big bet from the 7th-level! Three million Kerry on Zarul! Things just got serious, even guests from the 8th-level are placing bets…”
“Take my ticket!” “I bet on the newcor.” “Hurry, the waste is about to start!” Bloodshot-eyed gamblers on the lower level seized their last chance to bet, beating the robot collecting wagers with their white tickets. Whether sweaty lower-class folks or elegantly dressed upper-class guests, everyone was doing the sa thing at this mont, squandering their hard-earned wealth in seconds to seek rewards multiplied and a fleeting fictitious thrill.
Zarul didn’t despise them; he knew everyone here pursued sothing illusory. The audience wagered wealth; the warriors wagered their bodies, skills, dignity, and even their lives.
“This is the last match of the night. No-holds-barred arena!” One-minute countdown, the referee took the stage. “Combat begins after the referee’s announcent, you tell the rules of a no-holds-barred arena.” He raised the microphone high, pointing at the crowd surrounding the arena. “Weapons, prosthetics, armor, any equipnt?”
“Allowed!” The gamblers cheered.
“Battle Pets, puppets, robots, any assistance?” The referee raised his voice.
“Allowed!!” The gamblers waved their arms.
“Heart Phase Weapon! Superpower! Impermanence Skill! Any supernatural power?” The referee roared.
“Allowed! Allowed! Allowed!!”
Shouts were like an invisible tsunami, forming a tangible impact crashing against Zarul’s skin. “The only rule is?” The referee raised both hands, fanaticism like a belief drowning the arena.
“Winner takes all!!!”
Winner takes all. The gamblers’ creed, the fighters’ faith. The countdown ended, the lounge doors opened, and automatic machines laid out a blood-red path straight to the arena. The newcor was first to stand on the stage, a young woman from the Empire, with waist-length hair, clearly from a noble lineage like most Empire champions. No one erged from the other lounge; Zarul removed his hood and jumped onto the octagonal arena amid surprised calls.
Zarul and the newcor stood facing each other, her right leg tucked inward, left leg slightly forward, hands up in a basic stance. Zarul clenched his fists, channeling power to his legs. Newcors often stood silently, while veterans usually uttered a few words before “begin,” thinking psychological warfare never hurt. Such people wouldn’t fall for provocations but attacked them at their weaknesses first.
“Miss, give a chance.” Zarul said with a low voice, lies spilling out, “That man insulted my sister; she was your age at the ti. I want vengeance against him.”
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