The next match was set to begin, and the crowd, still roaring from the previous battles, eagerly awaited the next contestants. The sun hung high in the sky, glistening over the arena's sand-covered ground, now tainted with streaks of sweat and blood. Vendors continued shouting bets, and the air was thick with the stench of ale, dust, and excitement.
A lone figure in a deep red cloak stepped forward into the ring, his face obscured by the fabric's heavy folds. His opponent, a burly man wielding a two-handed war axe, slammed his weapon into the ground, sending a ripple of dust outward. The announcer barely had time to declare the match's beginning before it happened.
With an unnatural speed, the cloaked figure lunged forward. The axe-wielder barely had time to react before a flash of steel caught the light—and in a single stroke, his head was severed from his body. Blood sprayed in a violent arc as the man's head tumbled onto the ground, his lifeless eyes frozen in shock. The body swayed for a moment before collapsing like a felled tree.
The arena fell into stunned silence. Gasps of horror replaced the cheering, and for a moment, even the betting rugs ceased their chatter. Then, the cloaked man raised his bloodied hands high into the air and shouted with fervor, his voice piercing the silence like a dagger.
"For Our Merciful God, Yamori!"
A collective shiver ran through the crowd. Then, panic took hold.
Screams erupted as, from the stands and around the arena, more figures clad in identical red cloaks emerged. Like specters of death, they drew their weapons—daggers, curved swords, wickedly serrated blades—and descended upon the spectators. Blood splattered as they cut down civilians and knights alike. The once-thrilling tournament had transformed into a bloodbath.
People trampled one another in their desperation to escape. Children cried, and the air was thick with the metallic stench of fresh death. The guards, caught off guard by the sheer brutality, scrambled to defend the nobles while the common folk were left to fend for themselves.
Karthen, still weak from his injuries, grabbed Micah's arm. "We need to move—now!"
Micah, gripping his belt of potions, scanned the chaos with cold eyes. "This isn't random. They planned this."
A noble near them was run through by a red-cloaked zealot, his screams drowned in the cacophony. The cultists moved like a tide of death, striking with precision, their eerie chants of "Yamori's mercy!" echoing amidst the slaughter.
Then, through the chaos, a desperate voice rose above the rest.
"Look! It's Count Trynal's army! They're here to save us!!"
A collective turn of heads. Across the burning cityscape, in perfect formation, a disciplined battalion of armored soldiers marched forward. Their banners, emblazoned with the sigil of Count Trynal, flew high, and at the helm, rows of heavily armed knights strode forth, swords glinting in the sunlight.
Hope flickered in the eyes of the survivors.