The coliseum floor was hot with blood, sweat, and the faint smell of roasted chicken (don't ask, it was my fault). After two victories, Team Traumavengers was the crowd favorite. People weren't just cheering anymore—they were chanting rhymes.
"Diesel! Diesel! Drop the beat, drop the foe,Punch a man once, then you steal the show!"
I wanted to die of second-hand embarrassment.
Aryan, meanwhile, sat in his car in the middle of the arena, polishing his toothpick with the intensity of a samurai preparing for war. Kevin scribbled notes so aggressively I thought his clipboard might combust.
And then the announcer roared:
"NEXT UP! A CROWD FAVORITE—THE MUSCLE MONKS!"
Out marched four bald dudes in orange robes. Each one flexed so hard their biceps had biceps. Their veins looked like roadmaps. One guy cracked his neck and a chunk of stone fell off.
The lead monk clapped his hands. "We fight with discipline, serenity, and focus."
Diesel cracked his knuckles. "I fight with bars, chains, and focus on your nose."
Then the beat dropped—except there was no beat. Diesel just started stomping his foot like he had his own inner DJ.
"Monks in the ring think they're holy and strong,
But I'm about to prove that your mantra's all wrong.
Your bald heads shiny, but your rhymes all weak,
I'll knock you down fast—call it spiritual defeat."
The crowd ERUPTED.
One monk charged. Diesel dodged, spun, and cracked him in the ribs. The monk gasped like a balloon losing air.
Another monk leaped through the air, fists blazing with ki. Aryan calmly drifted his car into him midair, sending the poor monk flying like an unpaid stunt double. Aryan didn't even look. He just muttered, "I drive."
The third monk tried sneaking behind Diesel. Kevin stepped forward, pointed with his clipboard, and said, "You only fight because you're overcompensating for your weak jawline."
The monk froze, touched his jaw, and whispered, "…It's true." He sat down mid-battle and started meditating on his life choices.
The last monk screamed, "ENOUGH! WE ARE DISCIPLINE MADE FLESH!"
Diesel uppercutted him so hard his robe spun like a helicopter.
"Call yourself Zen, but you ain't that wise,
You just got KO'd in front of your guys.
You pray to the gods, I pray on the beat,
Brawler in the game and I can't be beat!"
The monk crashed, unconscious.
The bell rang. Victory again. The referee hesitated before raising our hands, like he was afraid Diesel might start freestyling about his mom.
Round Four – The Beast Brigade
The gate opened, and out lumbered a team of beast-tamers. Lions, wolves, even a goddamn bear chained at their side. The audience roared. One tamer shouted, "We control the savagery of nature itself!"
Diesel spat immediately:"Nature's fury? Man, I eat that for lunch,I'll box a damn bear while I'm throwing this punch.Your wolf's on a leash, my rhymes run free,Try to chain me down—you can't cage an MC."
The bear roared. Diesel roared back louder, then punched the bear. The bear stopped, blinked, and… clapped for him.
The wolf tried lunging at me. I panicked, summoned a spell… and got a rubber duck the size of a carriage. The wolf sniffed it, tilted its head, then sat down on it like it was a dog bed.
The lion charged Aryan. Aryan simply drifted his car in a perfect circle. The lion tried to follow the motion and got dizzy, then collapsed on the ground like a drunk dad at a barbecue.
Kevin pointed at one of the tamers. "You only raise animals because your wife left you for a veterinarian."
The tamer dropped his leash, screamed, "SHE SAID IT WAS JUST CHECKUPS!" and ran crying from the arena.
Diesel finished the job by suplexing a wolf mid-verse:"You bringin' beasts? But I'm bringin' bars,Suplex so hard, I'll send you to Mars.Your pets ain't loyal, they clap for me,Crowd chanting Diesel—y'all history."
The crowd was now standing, stomping in rhythm with every one of his lines. Vendors started selling "Diesel Chains" made of breadsticks.
"Next round!" the announcer bellowed. "Entering the arena… THE GOBLIN BARBERSHOP QUARTET!"
Round Five– Goblin Barbershop Quartet
Out walked four goblins in tuxedos that had seen better centuries, each carrying a broken comb. They lined up, cleared their throats, and harmonized:
🎵"We're here to fight, we're here to sing,We'll cut your hair while breaking your shin!"🎵
The audience clapped.
Diesel didn't hesitate. He punched the air to start his beat:"Y'all sing in four, I rap in one,Step in my ring, and you're already done.Goblins with combs? Man, that's whack,One punch, send your hairline back!"
He lunged forward, uppercutting the lead tenor into a falsetto so high dogs outside the coliseum started howling. Aryan drifted his car through the baritone, pinning the poor goblin to the wall like an embarrassing parking accident.
Kevin stared at the bass and said, "You only harmonize because you're terrified of standing out as an individual." The goblin dropped his comb and cried, "It's true! I wanted to be a soloist!"
I, of course, summoned a spell. I aimed for lightning, but naturally, it came out as a giant ukulele. The last goblin tripped over it mid-song and knocked himself out.
"WINNERS: TEAM TRAUMAVENGERS!"
The crowd was now chanting in rhythm: "DIE-SEL! DIE-SEL!"
Round Six – The Council of Dads
When the next team walked out, the entire stadium went quiet. Four middle-aged men in sandals, socks, and suspiciously tucked-in tunics. They carried belts—not swords, belts.
The announcer cleared his throat nervously. "Uh… THE COUNCIL OF DADS!"
The crowd whispered. Legends spoke of them. Fathers so powerful, their dad-jokes alone could end civilizations.
One pointed at me. "Going out dressed like that, son? Hmph. I guess that's a choice."
I immediately lost 30 HP in self-esteem damage.
Diesel stepped forward, grim."Dads in the ring, think they wise,Spittin' bad jokes, but I improvise.You throw puns, I throw fists,Ground you harder than your Christmas lists!"
He swung, but one Dad parried his fist with a grill spatula. Another tried to explain compound interest mid-fight, nearly putting Kevin to sleep.
Aryan fought dirty—he did a three-point car turn and gently nudged one Dad into the wall. The crowd gasped like he'd just defeated Zeus.
Finally, Diesel ended it with a devastating combo:"Respect your pops, but I ain't your kid,Punch so fast, make your lawn un-mowed, mid!Your curfews break, your jokes outdated,My rhymes upgraded—Dad style deflated!"
The Council of Dads collapsed, muttering about "back in my day."
Round Six: Victory.
Round SEVEN – The Furious Feminists
The gates opened again. Out stormed four armored women wielding weapons forged out of sheer rage. Their banner read: "SMASH THE PATRIARCHY".
The announcer gulped. "And now… THE FURIOUS FEMINISTS!"
The crowd went nuts—half in fear, half in solidarity.
One pointed at Aryan. "You think you're mysterious because you chew wood? Newsflash, pretty boy, your silence is just emotional unavailability." Aryan's toothpick cracked in half.
Kevin stepped forward, but the feminists glared at him. "Don't you dare psychoanalyze us!" He froze. "Fair enough," he muttered.
Diesel smirked."Respect the queens, I ain't no clown,But step in the ring, I'm still throwin' down.Equal rights mean equal fights,So catch these bars with lefts and rights!"
The feminists charged.
One swung a hammer that shattered the ground. Diesel weaved, countered, and delivered a rhyme with every strike."Smash the glass, but I smash your stance,This ain't a waltz, no feminist dance.You strong, you bold, I still break through,Punch with respect—but still hit true."
Aryan improvised—he opened his car door mid-drift, knocking one feminist flying while still looking impossibly cool. The audience screamed as if they'd just witnessed divine geometry.
I conjured a spell… it came out as a massive, glowing equal sign that flattened two feminists simultaneously. The crowd screamed with laughter.
In the end, only one feminist stood. She glared at Diesel. "You… you rhymed respectfully."
Diesel nodded. "Always." Then he uppercutted her so hard her helmet spelled #Woke in the dirt.
Round Six: won.
By the end of the day, our team was undefeated. The announcer screamed our name so hard he nearly lost his voice. Coins rained from the stands.
And as we stood victorious in the center of the arena, Diesel raised his fists, chains glowing under the torchlight, and shouted:
"This the Traumavengers, name in the sky,We fight, we rap, and we never die.So bring your best, your blades, your pride,We'll break your bones—then drop a rhyme on the side!"
The stadium shook. People screamed. Even the gods were watching.
Up in the heavens:
DivineChatHoly_Simp_69: yo this kid better drop an albumGodOfChaos69: this is the dumbest and greatest party everZeusAltAcc: why is the driver hotter than me tho??HeavenlyIntern: do i still get dental insurance??
The crowd erupted. And somewhere in the shadows above the coliseum, a cloaked figure leaned forward.
"Soon," they whispered. "He'll face… the Final Boss."
Would the Traumavengers survive? Would Aryan ever run out of toothpicks? Would Kevin finally diagnose himself? And most importantly… would I ever summon a spell that wasn't poultry-related?
The tournament had only just begun.