CH: 30: The Diversity in Depravity of Humans?!

{Chapter: 30: The Diversity in Depravity of Humans?!}

!!!HIGH SEXUAL DARK CONTENT!!!

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Staring intently at the dwarf standing defiantly in front of him, the Qia Demon Lion's fierce golden eyes flickered with a glimmer of human-like wariness. It was a rare sight—the look of caution from a monster so feral and dominant. Though it could not comprehend the intricate design of the weapon Ottok held tightly in his calloused hands, the metallic gleam and the way light danced ominously along its edge signaled one thing clearly: danger.

Somewhere in its primal memory, the beast remembered similar weapons—cold, sharp, and always accompanied by searing pain. It was the same kind of pain it had endured when captured by the dwarves in the first place, the same piercing agony that had driven it into blind fury and fear.

And yet, despite this warning echoing through its instincts, something else overwhelmed its caution—the scent. A maddening, irresistible fragrance clung to the dwarf's body and armor, seeping into the Qia Demon Lion's nostrils and clouding its senses with primal hunger. Thick saliva dripped from the corners of its mouth as its body trembled with anticipation.

The lion began to circle the dwarf slowly, deliberately. Its massive paws thudded against the arena floor with weighty intent, and low, guttural growls resonated from deep within its chest. This wasn't just a show of intimidation—it was the prelude to a hunt. Any predator worth its claws knew the importance of psychological warfare: pressure the prey, break their spirit, then pounce for the kill.

But something wasn't right. No matter how many circles it made, no matter how much it stared with wild, murderous eyes, the prey—this stubborn dwarf—did not waver. Ottok stood still, resolute, his weapon gripped tightly, his breathing steady despite the sweat running down his temples.

The Qia Demon Lion, growing irritated and impatient, pawed the ground, claws gouging the dirt as it gathered strength into its haunches. It crouched slightly, muscles rippling under its skin like coils ready to spring. The moment had come—it could wait no longer.

Then, with an ground-shaking roar that echoed off the massive walls of the Colosseum, the beast lunged.

Its hind legs exploded with force, propelling it forward like a living battering ram. Dust surged into the air behind it, trailing its massive body as it charged with terrifying velocity. The air itself seemed to split before the beast's advance.

Ottok's heart pounded. His mind raced.

He knew—knew beyond doubt—that if he met this charge directly, it would be the end. The Qia Demon Lion, easily weighing over a thousand kilograms, barreled forward with a force that could crush bones through steel, flattening even the sturdiest warrior.

Instinct screamed for him to dodge, and he acted just in time.

He flung himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the monster's main assault. But just as he thought he had evaded the danger, the Qia Demon Lion's powerful tail whipped around like a serpent from the abyss, wrapping around his waist mid-roll with shocking speed and strength.

It was as if a massive python had snatched him from the air. The tail coiled and yanked violently.

Ottok's boots lost contact with the ground. For a split second, he was airborne again—but this time, completely at the beast's mercy.

In that critical moment, driven by survival and honed by years of brutal combat, Ottok swung his axe. The blade gleamed as it came down hard toward the thick, muscular base of the tail.

The axe struck true. A horrific screech tore through the air, the Qia Demon Lion rearing in pain as the weapon cut through its armored scales and bit into bone. Blood sprayed into the dust as the tail reflexively recoiled.

Ottok was hurled a dozen meters through the air, slamming into the sand-covered ground and tumbling end over end before finally sliding to a stop, coughing and wincing.

Pain lanced through his ribs and shoulders, but he forced himself to move, to rise.

He glanced up.

The Qia Demon Lion stood less than ten meters away, its tail twitching erratically, the base marred by a deep gash. Its eyes were no longer curious or predatory—they were murder incarnate. Fury burned in its gaze, and a low, constant growl rumbled from its bloodied throat.

Ottok assessed quickly. His blow had hurt it, but not deeply enough. The angle of the strike had been off due to the awkward position, and he had failed to commit his full strength. Still, there was a silver lining: the tail—one of its deadliest weapons—had been rendered temporarily useless. That, at least, was one attack vector disabled.

But the creature's bloodlust had now reached a new high. Injured beasts were always the most dangerous. With its pride wounded and instincts ablaze, the Qia Demon Lion would now fight not just to kill—but to tear him apart piece by piece.

Breathing heavily, Ottok re-centered his stance and raised his weapon again. Every part of his body ached, but his spirit hadn't wavered.

This wasn't over.

---

High above in the stands, a figure leaned against a gilded pillar, watching the battle with casual disdain.

Dex scoffed.

"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, loud enough for the nearby attendants to hear and glance nervously his way.

In his mind, neither of these fighters were anything impressive. To Dex, they were bumbling amateurs pretending to be gladiators. He sneered at the notion of calling them warriors.

"If we tossed either of these fools into the Bottomless Abyss," he continued, "they wouldn't last two breaths. Hell, they wouldn't even make it past a newborn [Baby Demon], let alone a proper demon."

He spat over the railing.

'Physical stats are probably around 12 to 15 at most. Barely outclassing a goblin footsoldier of the high world. Their resistance to poison and mental attacks is a joke—just a few more gulps of that corrupted air down there and they'd start foaming at the mouth. Worthless.'

The energy circulating within Ottok's body was pitifully thin compared to that of a true demon—those born with magic surging through their very veins from the moment they took their first breath. Such beings were gifted with power, forged in the crucible of otherworldly essence, molded by arcane forces far beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals.

Even when placed beside creatures of magic like the Qiya Demon Lion—a monstrous beast feared across the continent—Ottok's opponent could hardly be considered a true magical lifeform. The Demon Lion, despite its commanding figure and thunderous roar, was ultimately unimpressive beyond its outer appearance. Its body housed only a sparse amount of mana, just enough to crudely enhance its muscles and give it an illusion of threat. Without that faint trickle of magical force, it would have been nothing more than an oversized, well-fed beast.

Unlike those blessed beings born with magic in their marrow and bloodlines that could command elemental forces, the Demon Lion's strength was surface-level, hollow at its core.

It was no different from dressing a common brute in golden armor—shiny, perhaps, but still just a brute.

And in that glaring inferiority, the creature had no real advantage at all.

And yet, despite his words, Dex didn't leave because.

Dex, watching from the private observation deck, kept his gaze cool and detached. While his eyes held the dull sheen of someone unimpressed, the rest of the crowd was an entirely different story.

The crowd gathered around the coliseum was electric with bloodlust and anticipation, their emotions swirling far beyond the battle itself. When the two combatants clashed and blood spilled onto the sands, the audience erupted—not in horror, but with unfiltered joy. Screams, shouts, and whistles pierced the air as they cheered like starving animals thrown scraps of fresh meat.

Many of them were louder and more frenzied than the ones actually fighting in the arena.

Particularly vocal were the ones who targeted Ottok, a fellow human. Mocking voices echoed from the stands. Jeers, curses, and provocations rained down like arrows, relentless and cruel.

There was something deeply perverse about the way they behaved—something primal.

The Colosseum thundered with the roar of thousands. Each drop of blood spilled on the field, each clash of steel and bone, sent ripples of excitement through the masses. When either Ottok or the Qiya Demon Lion suffered a wound, the crowd's fervor spiked. Shouts, cheers, jeers—they came in a cacophony of primal noise. The people weren't just watching a fight. They were feeding off it.

And they reserved particular venom for Ottok.

Though he was one of them—human—they heckled him mercilessly. Every mistake he made was met with derision. Every successful blow brought a moment of stunned silence before the crowd erupted again, louder than before.

Why? Because Ottok was a murderer. A criminal. A man who had spilled blood off the field long before stepping into the arena. But here, in the gladiator pit, that didn't matter. If anything, it made the crowd even more enthralled. There was a strange pleasure in watching someone deemed worse than them be brought low… or rise against the odds.

The crowd relished seeing someone stronger, someone with higher status or greater power, forced to fight tooth and nail for survival. It stirred something inside them—some ancient craving. It was like being high on adrenaline and sadism at the same time.

They weren't just spectators. They were parasites, feeding off pain and bloodshed.

They screamed with excitement, with passion, with the twisted satisfaction of spectators who had nothing to lose and everything to gain by living vicariously through another's suffering. The ugliness of humanity laid itself bare in the grandstands.

Greed. Lust. Hatred. Petty. Pride. Jealousy. All of it leaked from their pores and curled on their twisted faces, painted with ecstasy or contempt. The polished masks they wore in daily life were gone. Here, in the Colosseum, their true selves emerged—ugly and unashamed.

By now, his enchanted hearing—cursed with clarity beyond mortal limits—picked up everything through the velvet walls of his chamber. The screams were no longer distant. They pressed against his mind like claws. The private VIP suites surrounding him pulsed with the sounds of corrupted pleasure and suffering so raw it stained the air.

Whimpers of innocence bled into screams of agony. He could hear young girl voices—barely more than children—pleading through sobs: "Please… don't… stop… it hurts, it hurts so much… not so fast… don't hit me… Please stop…" Their cries were cut off, muffled by gags, choked by hands, or drowned beneath the wet slaps of flesh and the cruel laughter of monsters wearing noble crests.

Others, drugged beyond reason, wailed for more—"Harder… deeper… faster… yes yes… hit me harder… d@ddy harder… slap me harder"—their minds already shattered, their pain twisted into madness and pleasure. The boundaries between r@p£ and ritual blurred with every passing second.

The nobles were escalating. He heard the brutal cadence of gold-tipped canes cracking against bare skin. Whips adorned with jeweled handles sang through the air, each strike a cruel punctuation on the night's depravity. They didn't stop with beatings. No—some had brought personal collections of instruments: sadistic tools crafted in hidden forges, designed not just to inflict pain but to destroy dignity. Clamps, hooks, burning rods. Devices meant to tear, break, ruin.

The young girls were turned into canvases of torment—flesh opened, bruised, bleeding—while their violators indulged every depraved fantasy they could imagine. Opium smoke drifted from under the doors, mixed with the scent of sweat, sex, blood, and perfume. Syringes of alchemic stimulants were plunged into soft limbs to keep them conscious through the ordeal. Potions that twisted sensations were forced down their throats. Some nobles laughed as they poured glittering powder into the trembling mouths of girls, as they also took themselves then slammed them against silk-covered walls like ragdolls.

Below, the gladiatorial pit raged with blood. Limbs were torn, decorated the sand like garlands. Yet no one looked away. Between thrusts and screams, they cheered for the gore—fucking as the two beasts below fought with blood. Pleasure and violence melded into one grotesque symphony. This wasn't a party. It was a ritual. A festival of dominance where the only currency was power, and mercy was extinct.

This was nobility—its true face. Not gilded ballrooms and hollow courtesies, but velvet-lined slaughterhouses. Palaces of privilege built on broken bodies and stolen screams. In most worlds, this is how the elite ruled—not through honor or law, but through unchecked hunger, cruelty veiled in elegance, and the silence of those too afraid to speak.

But then again, Ottok wasn't a saint either.

No amount of sweat or spilled blood could cleanse him of the darkness buried in his past. The man standing in the pit wasn't a hero—he was a serial killer, a predator who had taken more than a dozen lives and violated countless others.

And yet, the truth was hard to swallow.

The audience and nobles—those very same people screaming his name now—knew who he was. They knew what he had done. But that didn't stop them. It only made the performance more exhilarating.

After all, this was a blood sport. Violence and sex was entertainment.

To them, Ottok's crimes weren't atrocities. They were backstories. Drama. Flavor. It made the show more thrilling.

The only difference between Ottok and them was that he had done his killing with his own hands, while they paid to watch others do it for them. But nobles did it with their own hands; however, it wasn't as cruel as any killing or r@p£ Ottok had committed in his whole life.

To the crowd, the fight in the arena wasn't about justice or morality. It was about satisfaction. It was about seeing someone brutalize a beast and walk away bathed in gore. It was about feeling power without earning it.

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