Why?
The bell was still clutched tight in his shaking hand. The sound had come from the collar at his neck.
Ding.
It rang again.
He hadn't moved. "Is someone making it ring?"
Shit. No. Not now. No time to think.
Mr. Stitch's sharp ear twitched, halting its grisly feast. It dropped what was left in its hand and straightened. Its pale body shifted unnaturally as the black stitches along its torso stretched.
Then, without warning, Mr. Stitch charged.
It moved with terrifying speed, but strangely, everything around Lucian felt slower. His heart pounded so hard it echoed in his skull, yet his body seemed to react on its own, faster than his mind could catch up.
He dropped low just as its long arm smashed into the stone wall behind him. The impact rattled through his bones, shaking the entire arena and showering them with dust from the cracked wall.
He didn't think, he just lunged forward, dagger trembling in his sweaty grip, and drove the dull blade into Mr. Stitch's chest, aiming for where its heart should be. The flesh was cold, rubbery, and unnaturally soft. Then a sudden, hot gush of dark blood burst over his fingers, slick and burning.
Its iron-masked head turned toward him slowly. Blood smeared its pale face, dripping along the deep scar carved across its mouth. The torn, eerie smile stretched wider, twisting in a way that looked like it was mocking him without a sound.
"It has multiple organs, idiot!" someone shouted from the stands above, their voice half laughter.
Before Lucian could react, a sharp crack echoed as Mr. Stitch wrenched its arm free of the wall. The force nearly knocked him over. He stumbled back, feet slipping in the blood-stained sand, barely ducking as its hand sliced through the air where his head had been.
He hit the ground hard, scrambled up, and ran. His legs pumped on instinct, his bell jingling wildly with every desperate step.
Ding.
Before Mr. Stitch could close the gap, another figure darted forward. Number Two shrieked, his voice sharp and broken as his limbs bent at unnatural angles. Number Two slammed into Mr. Stitch's stomach like a spear, feathers stained with blood and flesh as he thrust his beak-shaped face into its body repeatedly.
Then Mr. Stitch grabbed Number Two and, with a casual sweep, threw him aside.
Two flew like a broken doll, his bones snapping with wet cracks before he hit the ground.
He didn't move again.
Mr. Stitch screeched, a shrill, tearing sound that scraped across the arena as its stitched chest heaved, dark blood oozing from the wound Two had torn open. The crowd's response was instant, a wave of howls, stomps, and laughter, louder and crueler than before.
"I... I'm sorry," a voice stammered behind Lucian.
He turned his head. Fynn's face was pale, his lips trembling. "When your bell rang, I panicked... I just ran."
"I get it," Lucian said. His voice came out cold, though his throat felt tight. His breath came fast, sharp, and bitter.
Ding.
Number Four's scream ripped through the chaos. His skin completely turned black, swelling grotesquely as a jagged horn burst through his forehead. His body pulsed with unnatural growth, veins bulging beneath his skin.
With a wild howl, he lunged at Number Eight. The boy froze like prey. There wasn't even time for a scream before the impact. Bones shattered with a wet crunch as Four tackled him, laughing like a maniac while stomping what remained of Eight into a mangled paste.
Then another scream.
Number Seven's body convulsed as silver scales erupted along his arms and neck. His pupils narrowed to slits as he let out a feral roar, clawed fingers flexing with madness. He threw himself at Four, his claws flashing in the dim torchlight. Each strike tore chunks of bloated flesh free, spraying arcs of thick green liquid across the sand.
But Four only laughed louder.
The two of them tore into each other like rabid animals, snarling and thrashing. The sound of claws on flesh, bones cracking, and their ragged laughter mixed with the crowd's feverish chanting. Blood, red and green alike, splattered everywhere, coating the sand and even flecking across Lucian's face as he pressed back against the cold stone of the arena wall.
He wanted to move, but his legs wouldn't obey.
Finally, Four's sheer mass won out. He seized Seven by the shoulder and thigh and twisted until the bones turned and what was inside him came out the way water comes out of a wrung cloth. Seven's scream broke into a gargled hiss before falling silent.
Four tossed the twisted body aside like trash and howled, his massive frame quivering. For a moment even the loudest spectators went quiet, as if they had felt a flicker of dread. Then the crowd erupted.
"Woahh!"
Above them, the shirtless announcer swung lazily from a rope, his grin sharp and gleaming under the torchlight. He raised his sparkling wand high.
"Number Four wins the brutal battle!" he shouted, his voice booming. "Who will be the next victim?"
. . .
Lucian's voice came out fast, hard. "I have a plan."
Fynn blinked at him, eyes wide. "What plan? Wait, what are you-"
Lucian didn't wait for him to finish. He darted to the crushed corpse of Number Eight, prying the collar from what was left of his body. The bell still jingled faintly, the sound sharp in the heavy air.
"The bell is a signal," he said, his voice low but steady. "We throw it on Four and let Mr. Stitch handle him."
Fynn hesitated, his hands shaking. "Can... can that even work?"
Lucian didn't answer. There wasn't time. He crouched low, waiting.
Four stood over Seven's broken body, his horn glinting as he roared toward the crowd.
Lucian sucked in a breath and hurled the collar at Four's horn. It spun through the air, wobbling, before hooking on with a faint metallic click.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Mr. Stitch's head snapped toward the sound. Its long arm trailed behind as it lunged, closing the distance in seconds. Four met it head-on, and the two collided with a bone-shaking crash.
Claws raked across pale skin. Teeth sank into swollen flesh. Green fluid and dark blood sprayed wildly as their screams blended with the roar of the crowd.
Four stumbled, his bloated arm nearly torn free as Mr. Stitch's long limb cracked against it. He dropped to one knee, gasping, thick green sludge pouring from his wounds.
Mr. Stitch tilted its head, jaw creaking as it opened wide, inching closer.
"You... you did it, Lucy," Fynn whispered, his voice trembling with fragile hope.
Before Mr. Stitch could finish Four, Number Two shrieked again. Somehow, he was still alive, his wings broken and bloodied, yet he hurled himself upward one last time. He slammed into Mr. Stitch's side, driving it toward the wall.
The ground quaked with the impact as stone cracked and feathers scattered.
For a moment, they struggled. Then Mr. Stitch's pale fingers closed around his neck. It held him motionless, then swung his body like a ragdoll, smashing his skull into the wall again and again until it jerked once and went limp.
Mr. Stitch didn't even pause. Its pale torso dripped with dark fluid, but it still looked strong enough to kill every one of them.
Ding.
Another bell.
Lucian's head snapped toward the sound. Number Three stood at the far edge of the arena, frozen as he stared at the carnage. His eyes were wide, his dagger hanging limp at his side. Then he broke.
Screaming, he turned and ran, his bell chiming wildly.
Mr. Stitch lunged. It was slower than before, but still fast enough to close the distance before Number Three noticed. Its jaw opened wide, biting down hard. A wet rip echoed as the boy's head was torn free. The crowd cheered so loud it felt like the ground shook.
. . .
Ding.
Lucian froze. It was not his collar. It was the kid beside him.
Fynn's bell.
He hadn't even moved.
"Why?" he whispered, his voice thin and cracking.
Lucian reached toward him, whispering, "Don't run. Don't. Please don't."
Ding.
The bell rang again. Fynn's breathing turned ragged. His eyes darted in wild panic, and then his legs moved before his mind could stop them. He bolted.
Ding.
The ringing grew louder, faster, every step echoing.
Mr. Stitch shifted.
Then it charged.
"Fynn!" Lucian screamed, his voice tearing out of him.
Mr. Stitch was already there.
Its long arm swept past his vision, just a blur, then a flash of red.
Something hurled through the air and slammed into Lucian, knocking the breath from his lungs and dragging him across the slick sand.
Cough. Cough.
His jaw had locked shut from the impact. He worked it loose, and only then did he see what had hit him. It was Fynn's body, thrown hard enough to break him into pieces, and the thing that had done it was still standing despite its wounds.
Lucian wiped at his face, trying to get the blood and the rest of it off. His body was covered in what was left of Fynn. The smell and the taste were so strong that he vomited.
He sat there for a second, staring at nothing, breathing heavily.
"Monster," Lucian said weakly.
Then, the shirtless announcer swung from a chain, grinning.
"Only three left!" he roared. "Number One, Four, and Nine! Who's gonna win?"
Across the arena stood a blurred figure, edges wavering like a mirage. He wore gear unlike anything in this world. Lucian's chest tightened, not from fear but from recognition he couldn't explain.
'Attention!'
The single word boomed through the arena, silencing every sound.
He stood up before he could think. Heels snapped together. Shoulders pulled square. Chin up, eyes forward. His arms locked tight against his sides, fists curled.
His body just moved. A stance drilled into him from somewhere he wished to forget.
Every muscle held tense, refusing to relax.
It was like he was staring at himself.