Chapter XI

Grimm unleashed a roar that was no longer human, no longer even earthly – a feral bellow ripped from the throat of nightmare itself. Watters and Daniels remained frozen, statues carved from shock, their faces bleached white as they stared with eyes wide and unblinking, at the abomination Grimm had become. Perched atop his platform, a malevolent gargoyle surveying his dominion, Mikkelson smiled with curved lips that promised only suffering, while the dimensional rift beside him seemed to pulse with unholy light, its three vertical eyes like abyssal voids drinking in the scene with cold, cosmic hunger. 

From the portal, a cacophony of impossible sounds erupted, not of this world, not meant for mortal ears. Dimensional static crackled like bone splinters, interwoven with tones that resonated deep within the marrow, twisting instinct and reason. The effect was immediate and devastating. A frenzy seized the Lycans, their disciplined ranks collapsing into a writhing mass of fur and teeth. Howls ripped from their throats, no longer calls of the pack, but fractured cries of pure, agonizing disorientation. And above the escalating pandemonium, Grimm threw back his monstrous head and howled at the moon, a primal ululation torn from him as if by an unseen hand, a puppet master's command echoing in the abyssal frequencies from the rift. 

Abruptly, the two Lycans flanking Watters and Daniels erupted into motion, a blur of fur and muscle charging towards Grimm. "Move, damn it!" Daniels roared, shoving Watters aside as the monstrous forms hurtled forward. Twin engines of snarling fury, they launched themselves into the air, their growls ripping through the already fractured air with palpable waves of predatory dread. But Grimm reacted with impossible speed. His head snapped around, tracking their assault with eyes that blazed with cold fire. One arm shot out like a whip of iron, clamping around a Lycan's throat with crushing force before it even landed. Simultaneously, his other hand became a blur, a dark streak slashing across the second Lycan's face. The creature howled in pain and surprise, its body flung sideways by the sheer force of Grimm's counterattack, landing with a sickening crunch across the stone. A horrendous gash split its skull, leaking blood onto the arena floor, its limbs twitching in its death throes. 

Grimm's gaze remained fixed on the Lycan trapped within his massive claws. Then, with inhuman deliberation, his claws clenched. A sickening crunch of bone and cartilage reverberated through the arena, a sound that spoke of finality. The Lycan's body went limp, a sudden slackness in its once powerful frame. Blood oozed between Grimm's fingers, slick and viscous, confirming the creature's gruesome end. He erupted with a roar of primal victory, a challenge hurled into the echoing space, asserting his newfound alpha status with brutal clarity. The spectating Lycans responded instantly, their earlier agitation now amplified into a simmering chorus of restless snarls and uneasy growls, their predatory fervor momentarily tempered by a tremor of instinctive caution. 

"God almighty…" Watters breathed, his voice a hushed tremor, his hand gripping Daniels' shoulder with unexpected force, knuckles white. "He's… gone feral, utterly feral," Daniels rasped, his voice barely a whisper above the Lycan frenzy. They remained motionless, transfixed, their gazes locked on the monstrous Grimm, lost in the raw spectacle of his primal power, a terrifying glimpse into something ancient and untamed. 

Mikkelson threw back his head and bellowed with laughter, a sound of pure, sadistic glee that echoed through the chamber, his monstrous creations proving even more… resourceful than anticipated. But then, the unbearable frequencies returned from the rift, a sonic onslaught that seared the very air with its wrongness. The two vanquished Lycans erupted in fresh agony, their corpses spasming with renewed ferocity, like puppets yanked by invisible, cruel strings. Howls of mortal anguish, not feral snarls, now tore from their throats, a horrifying lament of violated flesh. The air thickened with the sounds of bone grinding against bone, sinew tearing like canvas, flesh liquefying and reforming in grotesque permutations, a cacophony of biological abomination that assaulted Watters' and Daniels' senses with nauseating force. 

"No… NO, again?!" Watters shrieked, his voice cracking, as Daniels stood rigid, his face a mask of petrified horror, eyes locked on the grotesque spectacle, refusing to blink in the face of such unyielding nightmare. 

One Lycan's body rebelled against its own structure, arching impossibly backwards until its spine seemed on the verge of snapping. A horrifying crack echoed as its ribcage split asunder, a brutal blossoming of bone and torn flesh. From the ruptured cavity, four insectoid legs, jointed and impossibly slender yet brutally strong, punched through the ravaged muscle, propelling the mangled torso upwards. The creature's upper half became a dangling appendage, a gruesome trophy swinging beneath the burgeoning insect-form. And from the newly created orifice, a sickening, wet maw, a vast, throbbing tongue, the color of congealed blood, extruded itself, writhing blindly, a frantic, fleshy whip lashing against the jagged remnants of its own ribs. 

The remaining Lycan crashed face-first onto the stone, its limbs splaying outwards in a final, desperate attempt to resist the encroaching transformation. But it was in vain. The real horror was just beginning, blooming across its back. Six needle-thin insect legs, chitinous and segmented like a monstrous cockroach, burst from its flesh in a spray of gore, their sharp points clicking and scraping on the stone as they unfolded. From the widening cavity, a terrifying parody of a spine, a thick, scorpion-like tail, armored and ridged with bone, clawed its way free. Dark fluids dripped from the freshly torn flesh as the tail unfurled, its venomous stinger gleaming ominously, a nightmarish hybrid born from Lycan and insectile abomination. 

Grimm stood immobile, a monolith of monstrous power, his roar a thunderclap of absolute dominance. The scorpion mutant, a blur of chitin and fury, scuttled across the stone with terrifying speed, its segmented tail arching high, a venomous stinger poised like a living lance. Simultaneously, the spider-Lycan launched itself into the air, its ear-splitting screech tearing through the arena. The scorpion tail blurred forward, a lightning strike of bone and venom, whipping past Grimm's face by mere inches. With reflexes defying comprehension, Grimm's massive claws snapped shut, intercepting the lethal stinger at the last possible instant, even as his other hand shot upwards, seizing the airborne spider-Lycan in a crushing grip mid-lunge. The combined momentum of the two mutated assaults slammed into Grimm with staggering force, threatening to buckle even his colossal frame, his monstrous legs digging deep into the stone to maintain his ground. 

The spider-Lycan's razor legs became a whirlwind of chitinous blades, tearing into Grimm's monstrous arms, each strike a searing gouge. A frenzy of terrifying strikes hammered against his massive body, drawing blood in thick rivulets. Grimm's eyes blazed with incandescent fury; the cold fire of the Abyss ignited within. With a titanic jolt that shook the ground, he ripped the spider-Lycan from his flesh, the tearing sound of muscle and sinew echoing through the arena, and hurled the screeching abomination like a living weapon directly into the scorpion-Lycan. But the spider-creature was clinging with unnatural tenacity, its legs embedded deep in his massive hairy arms. Fueled by pure, unadulterated rage; Grimm began to batter the struggling spider-Lycan against the scorpion mutant with earth-shattering force. Again and again, he slammed the two creatures together, each impact a sickening thud of bone and carapace colliding, each blow driving the mutated horrors deeper into ruin. 

In a spectacle of savage power, Grimm wrenched free the scorpion mutant's tail, tearing it from its base with a sickening rip. The severed scorpion body went into a violent, involuntary spasm, limbs twitching and clicking like a broken machine. With brutal efficiency, Grimm reversed the trajectory, jamming the barbed stump of the tail deep into the spider-Lycan's body, a grotesque impalement that finally shattered its vise-like grip. Snatching the still-twitching scorpion torso by its remaining legs, Grimm became a whirlwind of destruction, slamming the limp body against the struggling spider-mutant again and again. Each impact was a sickening thud and squelch, painting the stone with a spreading carnage of gore and ichor, reducing the spider-creature beneath him to a pulpy, unrecognizable ruin. The sheer fury of Grimm's assault was a masterclass in brutal annihilation, a terrifying ballet of destruction leaving no doubt of his utter supremacy. He repeatedly smashed the mangled scorpion carcass into the spider-Lycan until both mutated horrors lay still, broken and lifeless, twin heaps of butchered flesh. 

Grimm unleashed a roar of absolute dominance, a sound that reverberated through the amphitheater and visibly shattered Mikkelson's composure. The warlock visibly shuddered, a tremor that ran through his velvet-clad form, momentarily cracking the veneer of his arrogant theatricality and revealing a flicker of something akin to… fear. Watters and Daniels remained transfixed, locked in a shared paralysis of shock. They were men acquainted with war's grim realities, veterans of violence in its myriad forms, but never had they witnessed brutality on this scale, this raw, untamed, and utterly primal. It was a visceral spectacle that bypassed intellect and logic, striking directly at the core of their being, a terrifying glimpse into the raw, untamed heart of existence. 

But reflection was a luxury they could ill afford. Mikkelson's eyes ignited with emerald fire, his gaze locking onto Grimm with predatory triumph. "Njhlgznsl lpa. Pjpa nj jnvgpa essndlgl!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with manic fervor as he threw wide his hand, a conductor unleashing pandemonium. The portal responded instantly, its abyssal light intensifying to a blinding emerald glare that pulsed with malevolent energy, flooding the amphitheater in sickly, unnatural light. In the galleries, the Lycans succumbed completely to the encroaching madness, a tidal wave of rage consuming their minds and bodies. Every single creature erupted in a frenzy, overcome by an unquenchable, bloodthirsty fury. Without hesitation, Lycans began leaping from the tiered levels into the arena below, a cascade of monstrous forms raining down onto the stone, driven by an insatiable hunger for violence. Grimm answered the overwhelming assault with another earth-shattering roar, bracing himself against the tidal wave of mutated flesh and fury as dozens upon dozens of Lycans charged towards him, an inexhaustible horde descending to tear him apart. 

Watters peered at the glowing portal and Mikkelson, MIkkelsons eyes glowed as the light from the portal illuminated the space. "Daniels," Watters yelled, "Look!" he said pointing at the portal. "When Mikkelson's voice rose in the infernal chant, each syllable resonating with dark energy as the portal flared to life, bathing the platform in an emerald blaze. "He's drawing power from it… somehow," Watters breathed, his voice tight with dawning realization, his gaze fixed on the pulsating rift. Daniels narrowed his eyes, studying the scene, piecing together Watters' fragmented thoughts with grim efficiency. "But how…? How can you be sure?" he demanded, his voice sharper now, edged with mounting concern. "We can't be certain, Daniels," Watters retorted, his tone laced with desperation, his hand gesturing wildly towards the arena, "but if Grimm keeps up this slaughter… he'll butcher every last one of them! This isn't control, it's…" He trailed off, words failing him in the face of such overwhelming carnage. Daniels shifted his gaze back to the chaotic arena, his face hardening with grim acceptance. Lycans swarmed Grimm, a relentless tide of mutated flesh, but each one met a fate more horrific than the last, ripped apart with brutal ease. Blood slicked the stone, staining it crimson, as Grimm's primal dominance became a suffocating, undeniable presence in the air. 

"Damn it, fine!" Daniels gritted out, his voice raw with a desperate resolve, "We need to get to Mikkelson. Maybe, just maybe, we can stop this madness!" Watters clenched his jaw, a sharp intake of breath his only answer, his agreement etched in the taut lines of his face. Their eyes frantically scanned the swirling chaos, searching for a route through the pandemonium, a desperate gamble in a near-hopeless situation. "Stairs! Up there!" Daniels yelled, his voice cutting through the din, urgency cracking his tone, pointing towards a dark, spiraling staircase clinging to the cliff face, their only ascent to Mikkelson's ominous perch. Watters snapped his gaze to the stairwell, then back to Daniels, a silent question in his widened eyes answered with a grim nod. "Okay," he breathed, the word a mix of fear and forced courage, and they launched themselves forward, a desperate dash towards the daunting stairs, their movements urgent, reckless, a fragile hope against the overwhelming tide of despair. 

Driven by desperate hope, the men sprinted up the stairwell, each step a frantic scramble against the relentless tide of time, each breath a lungful of fear. Below, the cacophony of Grimm's battle raged unabated. Dozens of Lycans, mangled beyond recognition, littered the blood-soaked arena floor, grotesque monuments to his savage power, while still more surged forward, an endless wave of mutated flesh. The air vibrated with the sickening symphony of bone shattering and flesh tearing, a chorus of carnage that assaulted their senses even as they climbed. Grimm's unbridled rage, a tangible force, clawed at their very nerves, sending icy tendrils of dread down their spines. No wonder he's like this… a berserker, Watters thought, his mind flickering with a grim understanding. His entire family… consumed by flames, by the Order. It's no wonder he's fueled by such a consuming hatred. And Mikkelson… what game is he playing? He could have banished Grimm with a gesture, yet he chose transformation. Why? What twisted purpose lay hidden within his grand design? 

Watters and Daniels reached the platform's edge, the stairwell depositing them abruptly before Mikkelson's ominous presence. He stood there, bathed in the sickly green glow of the portal, a demonic maestro conducting an orchestra of chaos. "Mikkelson!" Daniels barked, his voice rough with anger, but also with a tremor of fear, his hand clenched into a fist, trembling with suppressed violence. Mikkelson's head rotated slowly, like a predator acknowledging prey, his emerald eyes gleaming with cold amusement in the chaotic light. "Daniels," he purred, a silken sneer stretching his lips into a chillingly affable smile, "You persist. A commendable stubbornness...well done. And Doctor," his gaze shifted to Watters, a theatrical raise of an eyebrow adding to his mocking tone, "you, too, have managed to rejoin the performance. How charming." 

Watters' eyes narrowed, his analytical mind finally cutting through the fog of horror, replaced by a stark, furious clarity. "What is your game, Mikkelson?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, trembling with contained fury. "You could have finished this, offered Grimm to your… god. But you transformed him. Why? For your exquisite amusement?" Mikkelson threw back his head and laughed, a booming, unsettling sound that echoed across the platform, devoid of humor, filled only with chilling self-congratulation. "Oh, Doctor, you wound me with your simplistic view," he chided, his voice laced with theatrical disappointment, a sweeping gesture encompassing the arena. "My master hungers for souls, good doctor! And what is a grand symphony without a delicate overture?!" He gestured grandly to the Lycan carnage below. A cold dread washed over Watters, the horrifying puzzle pieces clicking into place, forming a picture of unimaginable depravity. "The Lycans… the people… their souls… you're sacrificing them all!" Mikkelson unleashed a laugh that was a chilling, resonant bellow, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the very air, sending a shiver of pure terror through Watters' soul. "Exquisite deduction, Doctor!" Desperate, Watters cupped his hands, shouting into the roar of the arena, his voice strained and cracking with urgency. "GRIMM! Grimm, stop! You're feeding it! STOP!" But his voice was swallowed by the overwhelming chaos, lost in the symphony of screams and howls, Grimm's enraged roars drowning out all reason. Mikkelson's laughter swelled, a triumphant, sickening sound as his grand, horrifying design neared its terrible completion.