CH: 29: A Beast’s Gaze and a Killer’s Gamble

{Chapter: 029: A Beast's Gaze and a Killer's Gamble}

The paint shimmered.

The entire room exhaled as if alive.

One of the black-robed men, crouched near a glyph, caught something strange in the corner of his eye. He whipped his head around, scanning the space.

'Um?'

'What?'

"Hm?" he grunted.

But there was nothing. Just the soft flicker of candlelight and the steady dripping of blood from his brush. After a moment, he returned to his work. The runes had to be perfect. Any mistake could unleash horrors that none of them were prepared to face.

He subconsciously looked back again, but found nothing. So he could only lower his head and start his task seriously.

There cannot be any mistakes in drawing the runes, otherwise it will cause unexpected accidents.

This is something he cannot afford.

---

Back in the main arena, a booming voice echoed from enchanted loudspeakers that hung invisibly above the crowd.

"Welcome, one and all, to the Grand Arena of Marton!" the host's voice thundered, igniting cheers from the crowd. "Today, we have an extraordinary match for your pleasure—blood, steel, and ferocity beyond your wildest dreams!"

Dex swirled his wine gently in its crystal goblet. He sipped slowly, the taste rich and aged. His gaze drifted toward the host standing at the center of the Colosseum, his tone dramatic and exaggerated.

"Our first challenger hails from the infamous Saya Tribe—a criminal of the highest order. Wanted in six provinces for heinous crimes, including over ten confirmed murders and r@p£d five women in the Principality alone. Arrested after half a year of pursuit by elite bounty hunters... I give you the Butcher—Ottok!"

From the left passage, a towering figure emerged. Over two meters tall, wrapped in spiked armor custom-forged to match the Principality's elite troops, he held a colossal battle axe in one hand and a thick shield in the other. His exposed face was hardened and scarred, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.

"And now, behold the beast from the untamed Chik Wild Forest! A monster so savage it tore through three caravans before being subdued! Stronger than a warhorse, faster than a lightning bolt, and protected by black scales impervious to most weapons—presenting the Qia Demon Lion!"

A rumble echoed as the iron gates on the opposite side creaked open. A massive creature prowled forward on muscular limbs.

A magical beast that looked somewhat like an enlarged version of an African lion. Its body was covered with strong muscles visible to the naked eye. Its streamlined body and tail were more than seven meters long. When it was on all fours, its shoulder height was more than two meters. Its body was covered with black scales that reflected the sunlight. It was obviously an extremely ferocious predator!

When it came out, it let out a loud roar directly towards the audience stands, then raised its head and glared at all the audience present, as if it was ready to pounce on people and bite them at any time, causing a bloody storm.

Then, panic.

Some of the spectators flinched. Others cheered even louder, adrenaline overtaking fear.

Dex leaned back into his seat, raising his arms. "You two," he said, motioning to the maids beside him. "One on my shoulders, the other on my legs. Let's see if you can keep me relaxed through all this noise."

The two girls nodded and quickly moved behind and beside him, their hands working in practiced unison. Dex closed his eyes briefly, soaking in the ambiance.

Below, the announcer retreated from the arena floor, and the gates slammed shut behind the two opponents.

One could only wonder, as the Qia Demon Lion prowled and paced in the arena below, whether even the twenty-meter-high stone walls of the grand Colosseum were enough to contain such a monstrous force of nature. Would it leap? Would the beast defy the very limits of its kind and hurl itself into the screaming, sweating, and terrified crowd?

It was not an impossible notion.

Many of the spectators seated closest to the edge of the arena, those who had come seeking cheap thrills and now found themselves in danger's reach, suddenly recoiled. Their postures tightened like frightened poultry caught beneath a raised boot—necks shrunk, shoulders hunched, mouths sealed shut. For a moment, they looked less like members of the nobility and more like commoners who had realized far too late that their coin had bought them a seat in hell.

Tension rippled through the air like a drawn bowstring. The colossal beast paced again, its muscles rippling beneath its glistening black-scaled hide. Then, with terrifying suddenness, it launched itself at the arena's edge—its claws screeching across the smooth marble as it tried to gain traction.

Once. Twice. A third time.

But each time, it failed to get a grip. The stone walls had been treated with alchemical grease, a slick, almost invisible coating applied regularly by workers who risked their lives for a few extra copper coins. Without that maintenance, the Qia Demon Lion could have scaled the wall with ease, driven by nothing but hunger and fury.

This was no ordinary beast. It wasn't merely strong—it was efficient, calculated, and terrifyingly aware.

At full maturity, the Qia Demon Lion could leap nearly eight meters vertically without a running start. Given a single foothold or enough momentum, reaching the top of the wall would be no harder than a man climbing a ladder. For such a monster, defying gravity wasn't just instinct—it was simply another step forward.

Eventually, realizing it had no means of escape, the beast stopped its futile attempts to climb. It turned instead toward the crowd, lips peeled back into a snarl, long fangs gleaming in the sunlight. A bone-rattling roar thundered out from its lungs, a sound that silenced all but the most foolhardy of spectators.

But when no retaliation came—when no arrow pierced its hide and no gate opened to offer freedom—the crowd remembered their distance, their numbers, and their arrogance. Like cruel children mocking a caged animal, they began to jeer once more. They tossed trash, bits of food, and even empty tankards toward the bloodstained sand below.

The beast responded with another deafening roar, pacing madly as it flared its nostrils and bared its claws.

What the audience didn't understand—what they never would—is that their lives had hung by a thread only moments ago. Had the wall not been prepared, had even one patch of grease worn thin, their beloved "entertainment" would've turned into a massacre. The Qia Demon Lion wasn't some dumb animal. It was a predator—an apex killer bred in the deep forests of Chik Wild—infused with natural magic and battle instincts honed through countless hunts. It could sense weakness. It could judge distances. And most terrifying of all, it could remember.

Now, the beast's attention shifted, no longer on the wall or the fools above.

It turned its full gaze upon the lone man standing on the other side of the arena—Ottok.

The lion's yellow-gold eyes narrowed with deadly intelligence. It didn't want to fight this creature. Not truly. Its instincts whispered caution. The man standing before it—though dwarfed by comparison—radiated a dangerous aura. His stance was coiled, patient, precise. He was not like the feeble prey it had torn apart in the forests. This one was something else.

A rival.

A predator.

After a period of impotent rage, the Qiya Demon Lion looked towards the Ottok opposite. If possible, it did not want to deal with the dwarf in front of it. The beast's instinct told it that the dwarf in front of it was very dangerous and was also a predator with the ability to threaten him. He was not on the same level as those weaklings on the high wall who were numerous but meaningless and could be killed at will.

However, although reason told it that the target in front of it would be difficult to catch, the long period of hunger had made it a little unbearable.

And yet… the hunger gnawed at the beast's gut, and the animal-attracting powder lightly dusted on the man's armor was starting to take effect. It wasn't just the scent—it was the illusion of meat, of warmth, of prey—tricking its senses, inflaming its appetite.

Ottok could feel the tension rising like a storm before lightning. The massive beast was eyeing him, lips curling with hunger. The man clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the hilt of his battleaxe. His shield shifted slightly as he widened his stance.

Ottok did not act rashly, but instead adopted a defensive posture, specifically designed to deal with attacks from wild beasts. He was well aware that high-level magical beasts like the Qia Magic Lion not only had much greater strength than ordinary beasts, but also had the wisdom of a human child. If he made the slightest mistake, he would die on the spot.

"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath, voice low, gravelly, and tinged with loathing.

Fortunately, he had a set of armor and weapons; otherwise, he would have had no chance of surviving against such a ferocious creature with bare hands. Even so, he only had at most a three or four percent chance of survival.

When humans face opponents who are larger, more flexible, and stronger than themselves in head-on combat, they mostly have to rely on their brains. Brute force is really not an option. But now, standing in the empty arena, he obviously has no other option.

His muscles were taut, like bowstrings ready to snap. But he didn't charge. Not yet.

He knew better.

Ottok's bloodstained life had taught him that battles weren't won by rage—they were won by control. Precision. Planning. He adopted a defensive posture—one meant specifically to deal with beasts that relied on momentum and raw power. He kept his shield angled, knees slightly bent, weapon raised but not committed.

He wasn't fighting for glory or coin. He was fighting for his life. And this beast—this monster—was not a trial. It was a reckoning.

Ottok had no illusions about the odds.

Even with the shield. Even with the axe forged in the Principality's war foundries. Even with years of blood-soaked experience… he estimated his chances at surviving this fight at perhaps three, maybe four percent. That was being generous.

No human could match a magical beast of that level in direct confrontation—not without tricks, tools, or divine intervention. But here, in this open pit of sand and blood, there was nowhere to run. No traps to lure it into. No terrain to exploit.

Only the rules of the Colosseum.

And in those rules, there was one path to freedom.

Thirty wins.

Thirty victories in this cursed place, and the slate of your sins would be wiped clean—your life given back by decree of the law, your crimes pardoned by divine judgment. Even the Church had sanctioned it, calling it "Trial by Combat," a barbaric echo of ancient rites where the gods themselves were said to choose who lived and who died. A trial deciding his guilt or innocence in the eyes of the gods!

Most men died in their first match. Those who survived a few rarely made it to ten. In the long, bloody history of the Colosseum, fewer than ten men had survived all thirty.

And yet… it was still hope.

The only hope Ottok had left.

He had been a killer, yes. A r@pist. A man condemned not just by the courts of men but by every whisper of morality in the land. He did not expect redemption. But survival… survival was something even monsters sought.

He grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

If he lived, he would hunt down the master of this place—the smug bastard who had tossed him to the lions. And then he would r@p£ his wives and daughters, and then Ottok would thank him in the only way he knew how: by tearing his head from his shoulders and lifting it high like a trophy.

But first… he had to live.

The Qia Demon Lion crouched low, its massive form bristling with power. Its tail flicked once. Twice.

And then, it charged.

*****

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