Subterra: Dark Relm

Part 13: Veil of Blood: A Saga of Vengeance

The stadium echoed with a mixture of awe and terror. The mighty giants, once thought invincible, had fled, leaving behind only the most daring fighters to face Askrak. He stood in the center of the arena, unarmed and armorless, his eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. A slow smile spread across his face as he beckoned them forward with a casual flick of his hand, as if daring them to come closer.

The fighters, though shaken, whispered among themselves, rallying their courage. They knew they had only one chance to strike together, to overwhelm Askrak before his full power could be unleashed. Weapons were drawn, blades and spears humming with the lethal energy of Veyra. The charge began, a unified front of warriors racing toward Askrak with everything they had.

Milo, trembling but determined, tried to blend in with the remaining fighters, hoping to catch Askrak off guard. But Krelan, ever cautious, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the side. "Not yet," Krelan whispered, his eyes never leaving Askrak. "We strike when he's exhausted."

As the first spear flew, its tip crackling with energy, Askrak didn't flinch. In one smooth motion, he sidestepped the spear, caught it by the handle, and spun on his heel. The air vibrated with the sheer force of his movements as he hurled it back with unimaginable speed. The spear whistled through the ranks of fighters, slicing through armor and flesh like paper. It embedded itself deep into the stadium wall, leaving a smoking hole in the stone-and through the soldiers it had skewered along the way. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath as they watched limbs fall and blood splatter the ground.

The realization hit them all at once -this was no ordinary battle. It was a massacre.

Askrak stepped forward, now bathed in the blood of his enemies. He reached down, grabbing a sword from one of the fallen fighters. With terrifying grace, he swung it in wide arcs, cutting down anyone foolish enough to approach. His strikes were brutal, efficient-each swing ending a life, sending body parts flying in all directions. Blood coated the ground, turning it into a slick, crimson pool beneath his feet. The fighters' cries of pain were swallowed by the roar of the crowd, some cheering, others too shocked to react.

In a flash, Askrak threw down his sword, charging directly toward Milo and Krelan with terrifying speed. His fist, glowing with the energy of Veyra, swung toward Krelan with deadly intent. Krelan barely managed to dodge, but Milo wasn't so lucky. The punch connected with his face, sending him flying across the arena like a ragdoll, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Milo lay motionless, blood seeping from his mouth, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths.

Krelan, heart pounding, raised his
sword, but Askrak caught the blade
with ease. The cold look in his eyes
froze Krelan in place. His grip
loosened, and the sword slipped
from his hands, clattering to the
ground. Sweat poured down
Krelan's face as he stood helpless,

staring into the eyes of death itself.
"You're lucky," Askrak growled, his voice low and mocking. "Maybe tomorrow, you'll be ready to fight."

Without another word, Askrak turned his back, leaving Krelan standing there, breathless and drenched in fear. The first round was over. Soldiers rushed in, their faces grim as they cleared the arena of the bodies, limbs, and blood. Milo, barely alive, was carried off to receive medical care.

The arena was reset, but the atmosphere remained heavy with tension. The next group of fighters was called in. Galen entered first, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Unlike the others, Galen carried no weapon, his belief that a true warrior fought with only his body setting him apart. He took his corner, a calm smile on his face, ready for the fight to come.

Vesper, the last to enter, drew the crowd's attention. His thick armor gleamed under the sunlight, and his curved knife hummed with power. As soon as the signal was given, the other fighters rushed toward him, all eyes set on revenge. Vesper, undeterred, charged his fists and blade with Veyra, moving with deadly precision. His strikes were quick, but the sheer number of opponents overwhelmed him. He dodged and countered, but each blow drained him, slowly wearing him down.

Galen watched from his corner, intrigued. No one had come for him, leaving him to sit back and observe. As the battle raged on, Galen grew bored, sitting on the ground and watching the chaos unfold. Vesper, though skilled, was beginning to falter under the relentless assault. One by one, the fighters fell, until only Vesper remained standing, bloodied and exhausted.

Galen stood, brushing the dust from his clothes. "Finally,” he muttered, stretching his arms, "my turn."

But before Galen could move, Varek called an end to the fight. Only two remained: Galen and Vesper. The crowd buzzed with mixed reactions -some impressed by Galen's restraint, others muttering that he hadn't earned his victory.

Varek stepped forward, announcing the next day's matchups. "Tomorrow, Vesper will face Krelan. And Galen... will fight Askrak."

The crowd erupted in whispers.
Some doubted Galen's chances,
others wondered if his passive
approach had been a clever
strategy. But as the fighters were
led away to their chambers, one
thing was clear-tomorrow's fight
would be unlike anything they had
seen before.