The hordes descended on Ashen like an endless black tide. There was no empty space in the arena; every inch was filled with savage bodies, fangs, claws, and rusty primitive weapons. It was as if the arena had been built for a massacre, and he was thrown alone into its heart.
The first ten enemies arrived together, and Ashen met them without hesitation. He struck the chest of a giant with a bull's head. The sound was like a rock exploding; its chest bones shattered, pieces flying outward, blood erupting like a fountain. Before it could fall, Ashen spun and kicked another creature, a blow that blasted half its skull, sending its head flying through the air before it rolled across the ground.
The monsters did not stop; each fall was immediately replaced by ten more.
Ashen grabbed the arm of a deformed creature, pulled it until it tore from the shoulder, bones snapping with flesh and tendons. The human-animal's scream echoed before Ashen silenced it with another strike that broke its neck. Without hesitation, he plunged the severed arm into the eye of another beast. The sharp bones pierced the brain, exploding its skull like a watermelon.
Blood was no longer just stains; it flowed like rivers beneath his feet, mixing with the streams pouring from the mouths of the giant statues. The ground was slippery, but Ashen, using his instinctive strength, slid between enemies at speed, tearing apart anyone who came close.
With every kill, with every new corpse, the black threads of savage intent rose and pierced his body. His soul became another battlefield, filled with beastly voices howling inside, trying to tear his mind apart, pushing him toward madness.
Ashen's breathing began to change. It was no longer a heavy human exhale but a deep roar, like the awakening cry of a primal beast. His veins bulged under his skin, his eyes reddened, as if he were swimming in a sea of blood.
His body was covered in scratches, stabs, and protruding bones from torn flesh, but instead of weakening, he grew fiercer. He lifted a giant opponent by the neck, bit its shoulder, ripping a chunk of flesh, then spat it to the ground like a hungry wolf.
The more he killed, the more he lost of his humanity.
At one moment, a flock of metallic crows attacked. Their wings cut through the air like knives, their claws piercing his skin. But Ashen did not retreat. He raised his arms, grabbed two of them, and crushed them into bloody paste and shattered metal. The rest tried to pull back, but Ashen leapt high, caught three more midair, and smashed them with his knees as he fell.
He slammed into the ground, shattering the black stones; the arena cracked beneath his feet. The shockwave knocked more monsters down, which he used to jump through their ranks, striking, tearing, kicking, piercing.
The scene was a pure massacre:
Bones scattered.
Brains exploded.
Guts were pulled from ripped abdomens.
Screams of pain choked in broken throats.
Ashen was no longer human. He was a beast wearing a human body, fighting with a single instinct: kill to the end.
The black threads piercing his body turned into rivers. Ashen's soul became a vortex of darkness. Savage voices roared within him, pushing him to go further.
He saw himself in a sea of corpses, but he could no longer tell them apart. He could no longer distinguish friend from foe, beast from human. All he saw was flesh to tear, blood to spill.
He slammed his fist on the ground, and the floor exploded like fragile bones. He jumped over a corpse, tore out its spine, and swung it like a whip, slicing through three enemies in a single strike, splitting their bodies in half.
A mad laughter erupted from his throat. It was not human laughter but that of a blood-soaked beast.
Even the arena seemed to acknowledge his savagery. The giant statues atop the walls trembled, their hollow eyes dropping larger blood drops from their mouths, turning the streams into raging waterfalls. The air was filled with the smell of fresh and rotting blood, a mix that choked any human mind.
But Ashen no longer breathed as a man. He breathed as a beast, feeding on the blood itself.
He grabbed a three-headed monster, tore off two heads with his hands, and bit the third until his teeth shattered. He smashed dozens more with the corpse, each body destroyed, each scream lost in the roar of battle.
After hours of continuous slaughter, Ashen had become a killing machine. Yet his body began to betray him. His broken bones could no longer fully support him, his deep wounds bled enough to kill ten men, and his muscles bulged, nearly tearing from the inside.
Still, his eyes burned. The savagery that had taken root inside him had become part of his being.
He stood among mountains of corpses, blood reaching his knees. He looked like a king of blood, surrounded by a throne of death. But his mind? It was on the verge of being lost forever.