The arena was a storm of death. Screams, clashing metal, the sickening smell of blood mixing with sweat and dust. I wasn't even sure if I could keep track of every attack coming at me, every glint of steel slicing through the chaos, but I had weapons now, armor on my head, and a single shoulder pad as a shield. That's enough to start.
And since I'm set with my weapons, I'm now looking for armor so... I did some scavenging for armor, and now found my first target. And it's the helmet of my favorite warrior in history, the "Spartans".
I took the Spartan helmet next to the fallen or now dead guy who was spilt in half, he's not needing it anyways. Additionally, the shoulder pad is what I found after dodging and killing some punks. Again who am I talking to? And also why am I talking to myself in the middle of a bloodbath?!
The first thing I did was assess. Axe for heavy strikes, sword for versatility, Blood Drinker for unpredictable range. Spartan helmet to protect my head. Shoulder pad to shield one side and ram in a charge if I needed to. My body was small, but my mind? Hyper-focused. The adrenaline pulsed through me, a river of fire, sharpening every instinct.
I ducked as a blade whistled past my ear, spinning the Blood Drinker in a blur. The spikes scraped across the attacker's ribs, his scream cutting through the chaos like glass. I didn't wait for him to recover — pivoting, I slammed the axe into his side, the weight driving the air from his lungs. He crumpled, blood pouring from the strike, a grotesque fountain over the sand.
I kept moving. Every step counted. Sand and blood coated the ground, sticky, slippery, threatening to make me trip. My Spartan helmet pressed tight against my skull, sweat running down the sides, dripping into my eyes. I spat it out, ignoring the sting. Focus. Movement. Survival.
Instinct screamed at me, a spike of awareness. I twisted just in time to see him — the OGRE, his massive frame barreling toward a group of fighters, tearing through them with terrifying ease. My heart skipped, chest hammering. He wasn't just strong; he was a walking wrecking ball. And right now, for some reason, I was marked.
I bolted to the side, weaving between fallen bodies. One guy lunged at me with a jagged knife; I ducked and swung the sword, slicing across his forearm. Another scream. Another body. The Blood Drinker lashed out, wrapping around a spear, yanking the wielder off balance and into the dirt. One shoulder pad caught a heavy slash, metal edge scraping sparks off the blade, and I rammed him with my weight, spiking his ribs against the edge.
My eyes scanned. And then — him.
"Well well well... Seems like a child has a fancy time of himself," a voice hissed, wet with blood and malice. Scars covered every inch of the bastard's body, and in one hand he held a severed head. The other hand gleamed with a blade dripping crimson.
I froze for half a second. Then adrenaline snapped me upright. Check weapons, check armor. Axe? Sword? Blood Drinker? Helmet? Shoulder pad? Check. Good. Let's dance, motherfucker.
He grinned, licking blood off his blade. "I like your eyes, boy... I'll gauge them out after I kill you!"
He charged.
Instincts kicked in before thought. Ducking low, I let him swing past, the blade carving through the air where my head had been seconds before. I rolled, yanking the Blood Drinker in a vicious spin. The spikes lashed out, tangling his leg. He stumbled, but only for a heartbeat.
He swung again, faster, more precise, a blur of steel. I barely parried with the sword, sparks flying as metal collided. Pain stabbed my forearm where the axe scraped his blade, but I didn't stop. Momentum carried me into him, shoulder pad smashing against his chest. The edge bit, cutting, tearing, leaving a slick streak of red across his armor.
He grunted, staggering back. I slammed the axe into his thigh, twisting, feeling the bone beneath the muscle resist and then give. Another scream. Another notch in my tally.
And he kept coming. Faster, angrier, crazier. His scarred face twisted in rage, eyes burning like molten steel.
I feinted with the sword, then rolled under his swing, pivoting and whipping the Blood Drinker around his midsection. Spikes dug into flesh. I felt it tear, felt the resistance, but he ripped free, roaring like a predator. I didn't flinch.
I grabbed the sword in both hands, swinging low to high, slicing across his ribs. He blocked some of it with his blade, but the momentum carried him back. I slammed the axe into his shoulder, cracking bone. Pain. Blood. Anger.
This wasn't a fight. It was survival incarnate. Every strike, every parry, every twist of the body counted. One slip, one misjudged swing, and I was gone.
He lunged with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for someone his size. I twisted the Blood Drinker around his wrist, yanking, tripping him into the sand. He hit hard, roaring, but rose almost immediately. Instincts told me he was testing me, gauging my strength. And I… wasn't backing down.
I moved like water, flowing between him and the next attack. Someone else charged, a man swinging a spiked club. Blood Drinker whirled, wrapping the club, yanking him sideways into a fallen corpse. The OGRE's eyes narrowed. I could feel it — he saw me differently now. Not prey. A challenge.
He came at me again. I spun the axe, catching it in a horizontal arc, bashing his chest, sending him staggering. His blade slashed, missing by inches. The smell of iron and sweat hit me, stinging my nose, filling my lungs.
I ducked, rolled, and rammed my shoulder pad into his midsection, the metal edge biting into flesh. Spinning, I drove the sword across his torso, shallow but enough to make him hiss in pain.
We circled, both of us breathing hard. Sand and blood coated everything. My helmet had a streak of crimson across the visor. My shoulder pad was dented. My arms ached. But I was alive.
Another charge. He swung wide, and I pivoted, letting him overextend. I slammed the axe into the back of his knee. He collapsed with a roar.
I didn't stop. Sword came down, slicing across his back. Blood sprayed in an arc. Spikes of the Blood Drinker tore at his sides as I rolled past, dragging him forward. Pain screamed through his body; rage boiled hotter than ever.
He came up again, slower this time, eyes smoldering. One hand wiped the blood from his face, the other gripped his blade like a lifeline.
I checked my arsenal — sword, axe, Blood Drinker, Spartan helmet, shoulder pad. I flexed my fingers. Sweat and blood stung, but my focus was pure. This fight wasn't over until one of us was dead.
Every strike, every dodge, every spinning lash of the whip, every hammering blow of axe and sword — it was survival, pure and raw. My instincts screamed. I screamed back with fists, spikes, and steel.
The arena faded around me. The crowd's roar became a distant hum. All that existed was him, me, and the dance of death unfolding in the sand soaked in crimson.
I knew this fight would scar me — in body, in mind, in instinct. But if I survived… I'd walk out of this hell alive, stronger, sharper, and more dangerous than any of these monsters thought possible.
And I wasn't planning on dying today.