Blood Hari

The murmurs in the waiting hall, a low, nervous hum, abruptly ceased as the skinny man with round glasses ascended to the high balcony. His thin, reedy voice, surprisingly sharp, sliced through the tension like a razor. His gaze, cold and calculating, swept over the gathered fighters, assessing them with a predatory gleam before he spread his arms wide, a macabre conductor of the impending carnage.

"ATTENTION, PARTICIPANTS!" he announced, his voice echoing through the hall. "Welcome to the Underpath's Slaughterhouse! You are here for one reason—to prove your worth in combat. To kill to die for the prize for the fame for the recognition of your brawns. The rules are simple. The first round will be a free-for-all."

A ripple of reactions spread through the crowd. Some fighters smirked, their confidence bordering on arrogance, while others stiffened, their expressions betraying a flicker of apprehension.

"You will be placed in separate sets, and only one from each will survive to advance. No forfeits, no second chances. If you go down, you stay down. This is not your fantasy world where you can think you leave if you lose. Absolutely FKIN not."

Ash exhaled slowly, his gaze unwavering, his body still. He remained rooted to his spot, absorbing the information, his mind already dissecting the implications.

"The winners will then proceed to one-on-one duels, eliminating each other until a single warrior remains. And finally, the last survivor must face our reigning champion!"

The atmosphere in the hall shifted, a palpable wave of dread washing over the crowd. Everyone knew what that meant. The champion was a legend, an undefeated force beyond comprehension, a spectre that haunted the dreams of even the most seasoned fighters. Some exchanged uneasy glances, while others scoffed, their bravado a thin veneer masking their inner turmoil.

Ronny, once the great guardian of the Sangreal kingdom, one of the commanders, is now an exile who breaks through the shackles of morality.

"And before you get your hopes up about walking away with your lives, let me be clear." The skinny man adjusted his glasses, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. "The winner takes everything. The title, the gold, the glory, the women. As for the runner-ups… Well, let's just say there won't be any."

A grim chuckle rippled through the crowd, a chilling reminder of the stakes. Everyone here understood the unspoken truth—no survivors.

Ash leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes narrowed, his mind already calculating the odds. He knew this was more than just a tournament. It was a brutal, orchestrated slaughter, a battlefield designed to weed out the weak.

But none of that mattered. For Ash, the fight was never about the prize, the gold, or the fleeting glory. It was about two things, one person. The Champion. And for redemption.

His hands trembled, not with fear, but with a burning, incandescent rage. Even now, memories not his own surfaced unbidden, a phantom echo of pain that resonated through his very being. He could feel the phantom sensation of torn flesh, shattered bones, and the suffocating darkness of unconsciousness. Muda's memories, a brutal tapestry of suffering woven into his very soul.

His mortal enemy was not a choice born from hatred. It was a primal instinct, a will engraved into his very flesh, a debt that demanded to be paid in blood.

Maeve shifted beside him, her glowing purple eyes studying him carefully, sensing the sudden tension in his body. "You're acting strange," she murmured, tilting her head.

Ash didn't respond at first, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to regain control. Slowly, he released a breath and met her curious gaze. "I just remembered something unpleasant, that's all" he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.

Maeve frowned slightly but didn't press further. Instead, she cast a glance at the other competitors, then back at Ash. "You want to fight him, don't you?"

Ash's eyes darkened, but a predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Of course."

She tapped her fingers on the table, considering his words. "Even if it means dying?"

Ash chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Don't you think asking this kind of question in a slaughterhouse is useless?"

Maeve gave him a long, searching look before sighing. "You're an interesting one."

Before he could respond, the room erupted with movement as the first names were called. The first set of names rang through the hall, sending a wave of movement through the gathered fighters. Without hesitation, they began filing out—some walking with a casual swagger, others with cold determination. Among them was the man in golden armour, his gilded spear resting easily against his shoulder, and the lich who had nearly run into Ash earlier. Their expressions were unreadable, but their intent was clear.

As the fighters departed, a Dravian mage, a figure with dark, grease-covered skin, stepped forward. He carried a gleaming crystal ball in his clawed hands, veins of shakti running through the surface like molten silver. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a pulse of energy into the orb, projecting a wide, shimmering screen onto one of the hall's stone walls.

The Image wavered for a moment before stabilising, revealing the Slaughterhouse Pit—a nightmarish battleground known to many by a far more fitting name: The Stage of Hell.

The pit was a brutal arena carved from jagged stone, its ground uneven and slick with the dried remnants of past battles. The walls bore deep scars from spells and weapons alike, a silent testament to the countless souls who had fought—and perished—within its depths. Torches burnt with eerie blue flames, casting ghostly shadows that danced along the walls. With any other light source shut down, they focused on the pit. The scent of blood and iron seemed to seep through the screen itself, making the tension in the waiting hall even heavier.

"Five…" A booming voice echoed from the pit, signalling the countdown.

On the screen, the fighters took their positions. The golden-armoured man twirled his spear effortlessly, its tip glowing with a faint golden aura. The lich stood eerily still, its hollow gaze fixed on the others. A brute with twin axes cracked his neck, muscles tensing. A hooded figure whispered something under their breath, magic already coiling around their fingertips.

"Four…" The waiting hall was silent. No one spoke. No one moved. Every participant still in the room knew that soon, they would step into that same hell.

"Three…" Ash leaned forward slightly, watching every movement on the screen. He had seen many fights in his life, or Muda's life, but this wasn't just a simple brawl. This was something else entirely. Something he can't recall, or those memories just haven't come to him yet.

"Two…" Maeve fidgeted beside him, gripping her staff tightly. Her glowing eyes reflected the eerie light of the projection, her expression unreadable.

"One…" The torches in the pit flared, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched across the jagged stone. The audience surrounding the pit, perched on ten stories of tiered seats, held their breath, anticipating the carnage.

"BEGIN!"

The screen erupted into chaos.