After the fight, I felt the earth tremblel and when I turned, the ogre is walking towards me.
The arena trembled beneath OGRE's footsteps. Sand and blood clung to my small boots, sticky and wet, as I darted between fallen bodies, trying to maintain some breathing room. His eyes never left me, scanning, calculating, predatory. I could feel the raw power of his muscles coil with every movement, ready to obliterate anything foolish enough to get in his path — me included.
I pivoted, Blood Drinker whistling through the air as I snapped it around his massive calf. He roared in anger, jerking backward, and I used the moment to drive my axe into his ankle, twisting hard. A grunt escaped him — enough to tell me my strikes were effective — but not enough to stop him. I rolled away as he swung a fist the size of a barrel toward my head, sand exploding beneath the impact.
"Not… done… yet," he growled, swinging his other hand in a crushing arc. My Spartan helmet saved my skull from being split open, but the force knocked me back several feet. Pain exploded along my jaw, vision blurred, and I landed roughly on my side. My body screamed, but I forced myself up. Survival wasn't about comfort — it was about movement, strategy, and patience.
Around me, the free-for-all raged. Maniacs, barbarians, beasts, cultists, and misfits — all converging, all killing, all driven by primal instinct or pure insanity. One of the northern barbarians swung a spiked club at a cultist; another wind-strider dashed past me so fast I barely caught a blur of motion before he impaled a misfit. Blood sprayed, screams erupted, and chaos painted the sand in deep, dark strokes.
I ducked under OGRE's swinging arm again, rolling forward and yanking Blood Drinker into a spin. The spiked rope wrapped around his wrist, yanking him slightly off balance. I followed immediately, axe and sword striking in tandem — axe aimed at his thigh, sword slashing across his side. Muscle tore, blood sprayed, but the giant barely faltered.
I backpedaled, surveying the arena for breathing space. That's when I realized — the other fighters had noticed me too. The bandaged one-eyed man I'd seen earlier wasn't out yet; a cultist, masked, and a beast that had survived another clash were closing in. OGRE's attention split briefly as he roared, turning toward a wind-strider who had darted behind him, dagger aimed for his back.
Perfect.
I spun, Blood Drinker snapping in a controlled arc, smashing into the wind-strider's ankle. He stumbled, dagger falling, giving OGRE a momentary distraction. I charged forward, axe leading, shoulder pad ramming into the cultist who lunged at me with a rusty halberd. The impact sent him sprawling, blade digging into the sand, leaving him immobile. I didn't pause — sword swung in a clean horizontal arc across his torso. The cultist's scream ended abruptly as blood exploded across the sand.
OGRE recovered, massive fists swinging, eyes blazing with fury. I rolled, weaving past him, instinct guiding my movements. Each dodge was calculated, precise. His arm came down, crushing the sand, and I flipped backward, planting my axe deep into his knee again. He roared, swinging wildly, and I ducked under a massive fist, ramming the sword into his side, slicing deep.
But survival in a free-for-all isn't just about OGRE. A barbarian came from my left, swinging a spiked club. I used my shoulder pad to block the blow, twisting my body to redirect force. Axe smashed into his ribs mid-spin, then Blood Drinker snapped around his ankle, yanking him off balance. I pivoted, sword slicing across his shoulder. He went down, gasping, but alive — enough to distract, enough to keep the chaos flowing.
The arena itself became a tool. Fallen bodies, broken shields, discarded weapons — each step I took, each roll, I used to my advantage. I kicked a half-dead cultist into OGRE's path. The giant crushed him with a punch, briefly distracted. Perfect window. I lunged, sword and axe striking in tandem, Blood Drinker wrapping around his wrist to slow him. Each strike tore muscle, ripped tendons, drew blood. He staggered — not enough to kill, but enough to hurt, enough to buy me time.
And then came the real test. OGRE recovered fully, eyes blazing with calculated fury. He roared and charged, each step hammering into the sand like a drum of death. I dove to the side, rolling, but he anticipated — a hand shot out, grabbing my shoulder pad, crushing it against my small body. Pain exploded through me, ribs threatening to crack, but I twisted instinctively, yanking free and flipping backward, Blood Drinker snapping violently across his wrist.
Other fighters noticed the damage. A wind-strider tried to capitalize, darting in with daggers flashing. I pivoted mid-roll, axe swinging, decapitating him cleanly. A cultist came from behind, spear aimed at my back — Blood Drinker snapped around his wrist, yanking him forward. He stumbled into the OGRE's path. Pain, chaos, carnage — the perfect symphony of survival.
Adrenaline surged. I wasn't thinking in words anymore — movement, action, instinct. Axe, sword, Blood Drinker, shoulder pad, helmet — each became an extension of my body. OGRE swung, I rolled, whip snapped, axe struck, sword slashed — rinse and repeat. Every bone, tendon, joint became a target; every misstep could be death.
He swung, and I ducked, rolling under him. Sword drove into the side of his massive thigh, tearing muscle. He staggered, finally — I could see fatigue flashing behind his furious eyes. Shoulder pad rammed into his stomach, axe twisting deep into his calf. Blood sprayed, sand exploded, and for the first time, he faltered, toppling to one knee.
Other fighters saw their chance. Barbarians, cultists, beasts — they surged toward him. OGRE reacted violently, swinging fists like wrecking balls, tearing through everything. I stayed at the edge, Blood Drinker coiled, sword and axe ready, waiting for the perfect opening.
It came. A momentary misstep as he tried to grab a lunging barbarian. I leapt, spinning mid-air, Blood Drinker snapping around his neck and arm. Axe plunged into his shoulder, sword slashed across the side. The combined force unbalanced him fully. He roared, staggering, and I charged — shoulder pad leading, smashing into his chest like a battering ram.
He fell backward. Sand, blood, screams, and chaos exploded around us. I didn't pause. Axe drove into his knee, Blood Drinker twisted around his wrist, sword slashing across his torso. Muscle tore, joints gave way, and finally, with one massive, decisive strike, I plunged the sword deep into his neck.
OGRE collapsed, massive body hitting the sand with a thunderous crash. Silence — a brief, horrifying pause in the chaos. And then the free-for-all surged back. Barbarians, cultists, wind-striders, beasts — all aware of the new threat: me.
I pivoted, axe and sword ready, Blood Drinker coiled for strikes. Shoulder pad gave me leverage for rams. Small body, fast, precise — that was my advantage. One by one, I dismantled anyone who came close. Axe split skulls, sword tore through limbs, Blood Drinker tripped and entangled, every move calculated.
The arena became a whirlwind of sand, blood, and steel. Every step, every strike, every roll was survival. Brutal, gory, relentless. I moved like a machine, instincts and experience fused with sheer desperation. Screams, roars, and metallic clashes filled the air. Bodies fell in piles, others ran, but no one could match the precision and speed of a mind desperate to survive.
By the end, the sand was soaked in blood, broken bodies everywhere. OGRE was down, beaten and incapacitated. Barbarians, cultists, wind-striders, and beasts — all dead, injured, or fleeing. I stood, chest heaving, adrenaline surging, Spartan helmet streaked with red, shoulder pad dented, weapons ready.
The arena quieted slightly, the spectators watching in stunned awe. I didn't celebrate — survival wasn't about victory yet. It was about breathing, moving, preparing for the next wave. The chaos wasn't over, but I had survived — against monsters, men, and instincts that wanted me dead.