The roar of the crowd rose like thunder in the sky when it's about to rain, rattling the stone walls of the Blackpit Arena. Dust and the stench of sweat clung to the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Thousands pressed against the iron bars of the stands, screaming for death, screaming for spectacle. At the center of the pit, Carlos Jean stood with his head bowed and his blade resting against his shoulder.
The chains at his wrists had been struck off only minutes before. He was no prisoner now, no slave—but the crowd didn't care. To them he was a beast, a weapon of flesh and fury, unleashed only when the overseers demanded blood.
"Jean!" they chanted, voices merging into a savage hymn. "Jean! Jean! Jean!"
He spat blood into the dust. His lips were split from old battles, his arms roped with scars, and his eyes burned like coals in a dying fire. He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscle full chest, a man carved not for beauty but for war. And yet, even in his raw brutality, there was a hunger in the way women leaned forward from the stands, clutching their dresses, whispering to one another as though already imagining what it might be like to be pinned beneath him.
Across the pit, the iron gates groaned open. Six men strode into the light, armored in mismatched steel, their eyes gleaming with the fever of killers promised coin and flesh. Gladiators, harmed dangerous worriors,mercenaries, dogs of war.
The crowd howled. Bets were placed, wine spilled.
Jean rolled his shoulders and let the weight of his greatsword settle into his hands. He had killed more men than he could remember—yet still the hunger gnawed at him to kill more. The fight was never enough. Victory was never enough. He needed something more to burn away the emptiness inside him.
The horn sounded.
The first man charged, screaming with a rusted axe raised high. Jean stepped forward, smooth as a predator, and split him from collarbone to belly with ease like a butcher splitting pork. The man's scream was cut short, drowned by the eruption of cheers and noise.
Blood sprayed across Jean's chest, hot and wet. He grinned and Rob it on his chest.
Another came from the left, thrusting with a spear. Jean turned, parried, and snapped the shaft with a twist of his wrist. He drove his sword through the man's throat. The body crumpled.
Four men left.
They circled him now, learning caution, but it was too late. Jean moved like a storm, his blade singing, his body fueled by rage and raw desire. One lost an arm, another his head. The third tried to run—Jean caught him by the hair, forced him to his knees, and whispered in his ear before the kill.
"On your knees, just like the rest."
The man wept before Jean ended him.
Only one remained, a brute nearly as tall, muscles swelling under scars. He swung a hammer wide enough to crush bone to dust. The impact shook Jean's blade, sent sparks leaping. For a moment, steel clashed against iron, strength against strength, and the crowd screamed in delight.
Jean roared, drove his forehead into the man's nose, and in the same motion cut him in half from hip to shoulder. The brute fell in two wet pieces, spilling entrails into the sand.
Silence fell, sudden and heavy.
Jean raised his sword high, dripping red. The silence shattered into a storm of cheers, shrieks, and moans. Coins rained from the stands. Women screamed his name like a prayer. Men are praising him . Kids are admiring him as an hero.
Jean stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, cock swelling hard against the leather of his breeches. He didn't care if the crowd saw—it was no secret what battles did to him. Bloodlust and lust had always been one and the same.
The overseer entered the arena, lifting his voice. "The champion! The unbroken! Carlos Jean! Carlos Jean !!"
The mob roared again.
But Jean wasn't listening. His gaze had found her.
In the stands, near the royal box, a noblewoman sat forward, lips parted, eyes fixed on him as though nothing else in the world existed in her face. She licked her lips when she saw him watching. Her gown slipped, revealing pale cleavage. And when he tilted his head toward the shadowed exit, she rose without hesitation.
Jean smirked.
The fight was over. But the night was just beginning.
The torches burned low in Jean's quarters beneath the arena, throwing long shadows across stone walls scarred by years of violence. The air was thick with the scent of oil, leather, and fresh blood that still streaked his arms. He had not yet washed—he never did, not right after a kill. The blood clinging to his skin was part of the ritual, part of the hunger that still gnawed inside him.
The door creaked.
She stepped through, trembling but determined. The noblewoman from the stands. Her gown of silk dragged across the dirty floor, the hem already stained with dust. Her lips were painted red, her dark hair falling in loose waves about her face. Her eyes, wide and wild, locked onto him as though he were both executioner and savior.
Jean leaned back on the cot, sword resting against the wall within reach. His bare chest glistened in the firelight, streaked with blood that had dried in black rivulets. His grin was slow, deliberate.
"I wondered if you'd come," he said, voice rough from the fight.
Her breath caught. She shut the door behind her and pressed her back against it as though sealing herself inside a cage. "I couldn't… I couldn't stop watching you."
"You liked the blood," Jean said, his eyes sliding down her body, lingering where her breasts strained against silk. "You liked seeing men fall while I stayed standing."
"Yes," she whispered, then louder: "Yes."
He stood, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and crossed the room. He did not touch her at first. He simply stood before her, towering, the heat of him radiating, the scent of sweat and steel surrounding her. She shivered, thighs pressing together.
"Say it," Jean demanded.
Her lips parted. "I liked it."
"Liked what?"
Her blush deepened, but her eyes never wavered. "The way you killed them. The way you looked at me after. The way you…" She faltered.