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墨書 Inktalez
Mark's chest heaved violently, each breath feeling as if it might tear his lungs apart, yet he still stood tall. His legs felt heavy as lead, and his blood-soaked hands gripped the Roman Helmet tightly, its surface smeared with blood and flesh, glinting with a cruel light. His movements were slow but resolute as he raised the helmet high, like a bloodstained banner.
"Ah—!" A thunderous roar erupted from the depths of Mark's throat, as if he were tearing apart all the suppressed emotions, hatred, and fury within him, releasing them into the dead silence of the arena. His voice reverberated through the space, echoing off the walls; it was a roar akin to that of a wild beast, heralding his awakening and foreshadowing his future.
His gaze was no longer lost but sharp as a blade, piercing directly at the man on the platform. The architect of all violence and bloodshed now looked down upon this hellish battleground. Mark's eyes were filled with unmasked hatred, coiling around the man's figure like a venomous snake. Despite his body being riddled with wounds and drenched in blood, his presence was that of a beast just awakened from slumber, unshakeable by anyone.
"I will survive," Mark growled inwardly, his fingers gripping the helmet so tightly they turned white, trembling slightly from pain. "I will take countless heads in this arena and consume every drop of blood here." He knew that this place would not offer him a chance to live; he had to seize it with his own hands. This path would be littered with corpses, and atop those corpses would ultimately rest the head of that man.
The man on the platform frowned slightly; his expression remained calm, but a flicker of barely perceptible interest flashed in his eyes. He regarded Mark as if observing a newly forged weapon pulled from the furnace. Mark's existence might have already surpassed his control, yet there was not a hint of fear in those cold eyes—only cruelty and calculation.
Mark slowly lowered the helmet, letting blood drip through his fingers onto the ground, merging with the blood already pooled there. He stepped away from the Bald Man's corpse, never taking his gaze off the man on the platform. Each step was like an oath: he was no longer that helpless prisoner but a beast born for revenge.
In this pitch-black arena, he would survive in his own way—through blood, hatred, and endless combat. Mark understood clearly that one day he would ascend that platform, drag that man down, and stain both his head and this hellish ground red in vengeance for his family and himself.
Five years had passed; time in the Underground Arena had honed Mark Ranson like a whetstone, transforming him from a sixteen-year-old boy into a cold-blooded killing machine. He had once been thrown into this hell with blood and tears; now he had become its ruler. Bronze skin covered his iron-like muscles, every contour showcasing strength and endurance forged through countless life-and-death battles. His face was chiseled like stone—hard and stern—with no trace left of youthful innocence in his eyes; instead replaced by endless coldness and pressure. He no longer smiled; even the slightest twitch at the corners of his mouth felt unattainable.
These years had elevated him from the lowest prisoner to a symbol of the arena. The spectators called him the King of the Arena—a name that struck fear into all challengers. Time and again he rose from pools of blood, trampling on opponents' lives beneath him. He was an invincible presence within these confines; each victory earned him more glory and dread. His name became legend; this hell no longer tried to consume him but was instead conquered by him.
Now, his status was vastly different. The dark, damp cells had long been left behind. In their place stood a spacious and comfortable private room. It boasted an en-suite bathroom adorned with understated yet expensive decorations; even a soft leather chair occupied one corner—an intense contrast to the bloody stage of battle. His bed was large and tidy, draped with silky sheets—a luxury reserved for only a select few in this hell.
Mark was no longer accompanied solely by cold loneliness. Whenever he returned here, a dedicated servant awaited him to offer drinks, tend to his wounds, or even organize his personal belongings. They moved cautiously, afraid to show any sign of negligence. The servant's eyes reflected fear as if terrified of angering this bloody king.
Yet all this luxury and status were mere hollow facades to Mark. He knew he remained a prisoner of this arena; no matter how comfortable his room might be, his soul was still shackled to this land soaked in blood and hatred. Each day he stood by the window of his room, gazing at the dim lights of the arena in the distance; it felt as though echoes of that man's cold laughter from five years ago still reverberated in his ears.
"Not enough..." Mark whispered to himself. His fists clenched slightly; five years of slaughter had not drained his will but rather strengthened his resolve for revenge. He knew his journey was far from over, and he had higher goals to achieve. He intended to drag the one who had once pulled him into hell down from that lofty throne, forcing him to kneel on this bloody ground and pay for his sins.
These five years had taught Mark patience and strategy, transforming him into a true beast. And this beast was quietly waiting for the day it could tear apart its prey.
The long wait was finally coming to an end. The beast, bound by chains, had awaited its moment to strike. On this day, the atmosphere in the arena was unusually oppressive. The stands were still packed with a frenzied crowd shouting wildly, but in the shadows where light and darkness intertwined, countless pairs of eyes glimmered with cold light. They were the Fighters behind Mark, a group of warriors who had once been imprisoned, tortured, and exploited in the arena. Over these five years, they had quietly gathered, becoming a pack of wolves waiting for the right moment, with Mark as their leader.
Standing in the center of the arena, Mark's deep brown muscles glistened under the dim lights. He slowly scanned his surroundings; the Fighters were scattered in various corners, like shadows of the arena itself. Their gazes were fervent and devoted, filled with respect and anticipation for him. Throughout these five years, Mark never underestimated any match, but he also never regarded other Fighters as true enemies. He understood that they were all victims of this hell, mere pawns manipulated by that man high above.
Mark's influence grew stronger with every bloody battle he fought. He was not only the king of the arena but also the leader in the hearts of all Fighters. He never belittled those he defeated nor betrayed the delicate alliances he formed with other Fighters. His calmness, strength, and fearlessness earned him everyone's admiration. The Fighters understood that their true enemy in the arena was never each other but that man—the puppeteer controlling this hell from his high perch.
Now, the time had come.
That man still sat atop his platform, dressed in an exquisite suit with a confident yet cold smile on his face. Behind him stood several fully armed bodyguards, symbols of his authority and inviolability. However, his gaze occasionally fell on Mark, a hint of wariness flickering in his deep-set eyes as if sensing something unusual.
Mark lowered his head, his chest rising and falling slowly. His hands were tightly clenched into fists, knuckles turning white from exertion. A flame of vengeance burned within him; all the humiliation, anger, and repression of these five years transformed into a beast's roar. He knew that today was not just a personal war but a battle for all Fighters.
"Brothers, it’s time," Mark murmured softly; there was no need to raise his voice because he knew those Fighters had been waiting for this moment.
As he moved, the Fighters behind him slowly emerged from the darkness. They bore no weapons—only scars and indomitable spirits. They were wolves who had endured too long; today marked their moment to hunt. No longer slaves of the arena, they were warriors ignited by freedom and revenge.
Mark raised his head, his gaze piercing through the lights to meet that man atop the platform. His eyes were as cold as winter frost yet burned with a fierce fire capable of turning everything to ash. He slowly raised his right fist—a signal for the pack—prompting all Fighters to straighten up and focus their attention on the man above.
The wolves had gathered; the horn of hunting had sounded. Today there would be no more duels or games with life and death—only one goal remained: to tear that man apart and end this reign of hell.
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