Pandemonium

Several rows of seats encircled the arena, each row rising higher and growing wider as they extended further from the center. Enormous metal arches lined with LED strips supported the ceiling, casting a glow over the space.

At the center stood the main attraction: a wide ring enclosed by walls just high enough to protect the spectators while keeping the action thrillingly close. Massive holographic screens hung around the arena, ensuring that even those in cheaper seats could witness every detail of the spectacle.

Above the arena, a massive rig of lights, pyrotechnics, and drones hovered, all focused on the center of attention.

Right now, one contender stood alone in the ring: an eleven-year-old boy with youthful features. His challenger had suddenly become unavailable, forcing the organizers to find a last-minute replacement.

Eryndor stood at the center of the ring, scanning the area. This wasn't his first time in there, but the feelings it stirred in him were always the same.

The crowd was electric, their roaring voices shaking the very stage beneath his feet. They were eager to see blood spill, and Eryndor couldn't hide his disgust. His thoughts were discernable: Who in their right mind enjoyed watching humans suffer like this?

He stood motionless in the ring, replaying every previous battle in his mind, analyzing them for weaknesses and gaps. He needed to ensure there was no room for mistakes. Whoever they sent out to face him—whether it was a powerful aberrant or another human—there was only one outcome he would accept: walking out alive.

He hated when they forced gladiator matches between humans, where the death of one fighter was the only way to end the match. His first battle had been one such fight, and he could still feel the fear, the despair, and the anguish. He hated the person this place had turned him into. Fighting aberrants was easier—they showed no emotions, no humanity. Killing them felt less personal. But killing humans? That was different. In those matches, you could see it all: their pain, fear, and desperation. It was cruel, a brutal fight for survival.

Eryndor didn't know who his opponent would be today, but it didn't matter. He had infiltrated one of the guards' immune systems, and his virus, though initially struggling to bypass their enhanced immunity, was now thriving. Slowly but surely, he was amassing a network of infected guards—a botnet. He estimated that within an hour, he'd have enough control to stage his escape. All he had to do was survive this one last battle. Just one more kill, and he'd be free of this hell.

The speakers boomed across the arena, snapping him out of his thoughts as the announcer declared the arrival of his challenger.

"Here comes the challenger! The mighty, the undefeated, the strongest fighter: The Grim Reaper!"

The crowd erupted into wild cheers, their eyes fixed on the opposite entrance. But as soon as they saw what emerged, the noise shifted to silence.

A grotesque blob of flesh, heaving and pulsating, was wheeled into the ring inside a cage.

Eryndor was confused. Wasn't that his roommate? The so-called mutant failure? Was this who he was supposed to fight?

The audience's silence turned to murmurs then to boos as they took in the grotesque sight.

"How is that supposed to be mighty and undefeated?" someone shouted.

"This is a joke! I paid good money for a real show, not to see some disgusting mess!" another jeered.

Soon, the arena was filled with jeers and insults, everyone voicing their displeasure at the sight before them.

"Calm down, everyone!" the announcer bellowed. "You're about to witness a battle for the ages—a match between our rising star, the Aberrant Slayer, and our defending champion, the strongest aberrant: The Grim Reaper!"

The cage stopped at the center of the stage. A handler stepped forward, holding a large syringe filled with a strange liquid. Eryndor immediately recognized it as being similar to the nutrient injections, though this substance was clearly different. The man injected the fluid into the blob, and it let out a pitiful whimper of pain.

The formless flesh began to vibrate violently, its body shifting and sloshing as it underwent a grotesque transformation. Bones cracked and reformed as its fluid-like body reshaped itself. The process was both disturbing and mesmerizing—a grotesque display that compelled everyone to keep watching, even if they wanted to look away.

As the muffled screams of pain grew louder, the transformation reached its conclusion. In place of the grotesque blob now stood a young, naked girl.

A worn-out tunic was thrown over her body, and the cage was opened to let her out.

Eryndor's confusion deepened. Was this girl his former roommate? Was he truly expected to fight her to the death? The realization hit him hard—he had used the loo and exposed her body several times in front of her, thinking she was a boy. His face flushed red at the thought. But before he could process the embarrassment, a sudden wave of bioflux energy jolted him back to the present.

One moment, the girl was thirty meters away. The next, she was throwing a punch at him.

The air vibrated and whistled from the sheer speed of her movement. Eryndor barely dodged in time, his eyes locking on the cracks in the ground where she was initially standing. If that punch had connected, it would have killed him instantly.

The crowd exploded with excitement, their cheers reaching a fever pitch. Maybe this match wasn't going to be as dull as they'd thought.

The girl stood gracefully, her long, fluid blonde hair gliding through the air. Her deep blue eyes locked onto Eryndor, her body tensed and ready for her next attack.

Eryndor quickly activated every skill he had copied from previous opponents, knowing that even a moment's hesitation could mean his death.

First, he activated panoramic vision, a skill he had stolen from a Vitachame—an aberrant mutated from chameleons. He paired it with camouflage, erasing his presence from the battlefield while maintaining a full view of his surroundings. He struck fast, taking advantage of her temporary blindness, but the Grim Reaper was fooled for only a few seconds.

Eryndor managed to land several blows on her body. His first strike did significant damage, but with each successive attack, she adapted. Her skin grew heavier, hardening like steel with every hit, and soon Eryndor's bones began to crack under the sheer force of the impact.

Desperate, Eryndor retreated into his camouflage skill, buying time for his healing factor to kick in. But woe unto him—the Grim Reaper traced him with her piercing eyes. Her next attack locked onto the unsuspecting Eryndor, despite his invisibility.

All Eryndor felt next was a heavy, bone-shaking slam, as if he had been struck by a sledgehammer. If not for the Bone Weaver's skill cushioning the blow, he might have been reduced to pulp.

Eryndor slammed into the wall, his vision blurring from the impact. Yet his roommate gave him no time to recover. Blow after blow rained down on him, each one heavier than the last. The cocoon-like carapace he had formed with the Bone Weaver skill began to crack, despite his desperate reinforcements. He was a sitting duck.

Realizing his situation was dire, Eryndor made a snap decision. His aching ribs could turn to crushed powder at any moment, so he shifted from defense to offense.

Using the Bone Weaver's skill, he forged a sword-like structure designed to pierce the Grim Reaper's armor. He waited patiently for the inevitable—the moment his carapace shattered.

When it did, he struck. Eryndor lunged, the weight of his entire body behind the strike. The blade pierced her chest, and for a moment, everything stopped. His breath caught as her heartbeat thudded against his hand—warm, alive, painfully human.

His stomach twisted. She wasn't some faceless aberrant. She wasn't a monster. She was a girl. And in her wide, unblinking eyes, he saw fear, confusion—maybe even a plea. His grip faltered, just for a heartbeat.

Focus. Survive. You don't have a choice.

Without hesitation, he shredded it with all his might. This was his one chance to defeat such a formidable foe.

But just as hope surged through him, Eryndor was violently hurled across the arena. He had hoped tearing through her heart would end her, but he had prepared for the possibility she might survive. That's why he had a Plan B.

His blood, now coursing through her system, carried a virus—one he had painstakingly engineered. He was go to turn her into one of his bots. Everything seemed to be going according to plan when suddenly, a deafening silence fell over the arena.

The crowd's roaring cheers stopped abruptly.

Then, someone in the audience burst like a balloon, their remains splattering across those nearby.

Panic and pandemonium ensued. The once-thrilled spectators now scrambled to escape, their screams echoing through the arena as more and more people spontaneously exploded, their insides splattering grotesquely across the floor.

Eryndor lay sprawled on the ground, his mind reeling amidst the chaos. It felt as though his brain was turning to mush. Somehow, his own attack was being used against him. If he didn't act quickly, he might meet the same fate as the spectators.