Ren struck.
His twin daggers fused together in a blur of steel and shadow, the metal singing a high, crystalline note as the blades merged, appearing as one lethal instrument.
The sound cut through the humid arena air—sharp, final, like the last breath before death. As he leapt, his boots left the blood-soaked wooden planks with a wet squelch, his body coiling and then releasing like a spring.
His target was clear—the Ghost Beast's head, that grotesque amalgamation of bone and sinew that seemed to shift and writhe even as it remained still.
But—the Beast was ready.
Its massive arms crossed with a thunderous CRACK, the impact reverberating through Ren's bones even before contact.
The creature's flesh—if it could be called that—was cold and slick, like touching a corpse pulled from winter waters. The daggers met the Beast's forearms at the last second, and Ren felt the jarring shock travel up through his wrists, his elbows, his shoulders. His teeth clacked together. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue.
But Ren wasn't done.
His heart hammered against his ribs—*thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud*—each beat a war drum urging him forward. *Move. Adapt. Survive.*
In a swift motion—muscles screaming, tendons stretching to their limit—he twisted his daggers, the leather-wrapped hilts burning against his palms as he forced them between the Ghost Beast's defense.
The angle was impossible, the leverage nonexistent, but desperation made him strong. The twin blades sank deep—into its neck, parting the creature's flesh with a wet, obscene sound like tearing fabric underwater.
A bloodcurdling growl ripped through the arena, shaking the wooden stage beneath Ren's feet. He could feel the vibration in his bones, in his teeth, in the very marrow of his being.
The Ghost Beast's breath—hot, fetid, reeking of rotted meat and something else, something ancient and wrong—washed over him in a nauseating wave. Ren's stomach lurched.
The Ghost Beast, furious beyond reason, lashed out.
Ren saw the claws coming—those impossibly long talons, each one the length of a shortsword, gleaming with a sickly phosphorescence in the torchlight.
He tried to move, tried to twist away, but he was still committed to the strike, still pressed against the creature's massive form.
The claws tore into his chest, ripping fabric and flesh alike with equal ease. The pain was white-hot, blinding, a supernova of agony that exploded across his torso.
He felt each individual talon pierce his skin, felt the warm rush of his own blood as it spilled down his stomach, soaking into his waistband.
The impact sent him flying backwards.
The world spun—wooden beams, torches, screaming faces, all blurring together in a nauseating carousel. The wind rushed past his ears with a hollow roar.
Then—impact. Ren hit the ground, somehow landing on his feet, but the momentum was too much. He slid back, his boots carving furrows in the blood-slicked planks, splinters catching and tearing at the leather. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation like swallowing broken glass. His lungs burned. His vision swam.
He looked down.
Blood dripped from his torso in thick, dark rivulets, the marks of the Beast glaring at him—four parallel gashes, deep enough that he could see the white of his ribs through the torn flesh.
The sight made his head swim. 'Don't pass out. Don't you dare pass out.' His heart was racing now—*thudthudthudthudthud*—so fast he couldn't distinguish individual beats anymore, just a continuous thunder in his ears. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes, mixing with the blood and creating pink trails down his neck.
The Ghost Beast tore the daggers from its own neck, its screech piercing the air.
The sound was inhuman, a frequency that seemed designed to shred sanity itself.
Ren's hands flew to his ears instinctively, but it was too late—the noise burrowed into his skull, making his vision blur and his balance waver.
The creature's blood—if it was blood—sprayed in an arc, splattering across the wooden stage. It was black, viscous, and it smoked where it landed, eating into the wood with a hissing sound. The acrid smell of burning timber joined the already overwhelming stench of death and fear that permeated the arena.
---
From his throne, Lucius Vance almost jumped to his feet, his silk robes rustling with the sudden movement. "Wow!" he exclaimed, his voice cutting through the din, eyes gleaming with an excitement that bordered on madness.
His pupils were dilated, his cheeks flushed. He gripped the armrests of his throne so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "This is thrilling! The real definition of ecstasy. Spectacular! What a marvelous show, my friend!"
Mondanza remained silent—his gaze locked forward, watching closely. His face was a mask of stone, but his fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the arm of his throne.
The torchlight cast deep shadows across his features, making him look like a carved idol, ancient and merciless.
"I'm curious to see what comes next," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the crowd's roar.
The Ghost Beast trembled slightly, its massive frame shuddering. The pain was real—Ren could see it in the way the creature's muscles spasmed, in the way its breathing had become labored and wet—but its rage was far greater.
The creature's eyes, those hollow pits of darkness, burned with an intensity that made the air around it shimmer like heat rising from sun-baked stone.
---
Cipher watched intensely, her sharp gaze fixed on the creature. Her heart was pounding—*thump-thump, thump-thump*—a steady, insistent rhythm that she could feel in her throat, in her wrists where the ropes bit into her flesh.
Sweat trickled down her spine, making her shirt cling uncomfortably to her back. The wooden pivot beneath her feet creaked ominously with each slight shift of her weight.
Below, she could hear the alligators—the wet slide of their bodies against stone, the occasional snap of powerful jaws, the low, rumbling hisses that vibrated through the water.
The smell rising from the canal was overwhelming—stagnant water, decay, and the musky, reptilian scent of the predators waiting below.
Then—Zane spoke in her mind, his voice a familiar presence that cut through her mounting panic. 'Cipher, I can hear him.'
Cipher froze. Her breath caught in her throat. 'What?'