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Nightfall Hunting Ground: Exploding Steel Fang
墨書 Inktalez
The dark corner loomed like an unfathomable abyss, and Mark Ranson's figure was elongated by the dim light, casting a shadow on the stained wall, resembling a predator waiting for its prey. His hands were shackled high on the iron rings embedded in the wall, the cold metal tightly constricting his wrists, leaving a ring of red marks. Yet he did not appear weak; rather, his steel-like muscles revealed a beastly strength with every slight movement.
The sound of dripping water echoed in his ears, crisp yet monotonous, like a silent countdown of judgment. Each drop splashing onto the ground seemed to remind him of the oppressive chill surrounding him. However, this minor noise could not shake Mark. He merely lifted his head, squinting his eyes to adjust to the faint light cast by the dim bulb. From afar came the roar of a crowd—the shouts and screams from the Underground Fighting Arena surged like waves. It was clear that the spectators were exhilarated by some bloody clash. The sounds ebbed and flowed, intertwining with the dripping water, creating a bizarre rhythm that felt both lively and hollow.
Mark took a deep breath; the air sliced through his nostrils like a knife, pungent enough to induce discomfort. The scent of disinfectant hit him first, an overpowering odor that seemed to mask something far filthier. Following that was the damp, musty smell that invaded with the humidity, causing a heaviness in his chest. The stench of sewage slithered through the cold space like an invisible snake, omnipresent. There was also the metallic tang of blood, mingled with a strong fishy odor that saturated the room with an indescribable aura of violence. These scents clashed in a sensory war that was hard to withstand. Most repugnant was an indescribable odor reminiscent of rotting food fused with abandoned dreams, suffocating in its intensity.
Mark shook his head, trying to dispel the overwhelming smells but only feeling pain radiate from his neck. He leaned back against the wall, using the limited space to stretch his muscles; his shoulders and spine cracked like an old machine struggling to function. He lowered his head slightly, a cold smirk curling at his lips as he felt an absurd familiarity with his surroundings. His world had always been composed of darkness and foulness; whether it was the clamor of the Underground Fighting Arena or the oppressive atmosphere in this cramped room, it was merely part of his life.
As he pondered, his gaze fell upon the ground where dark red stains marred the dirty concrete floor—dried blood that had long since congealed into chaotic lines as if recording stories long forgotten. In one corner stood an iron barrel filled with indistinguishable refuse; faint insect chirps occasionally broke through, hinting at something crawling within. His eyes shifted back to himself, scanning over the iron rings shackling his wrists and down along his arms where veins slightly bulged. He knew every muscle protested yet brimmed with power. He needed no sympathy or assistance. He was the predator here, not prey.
A sharp scream pierced through from afar—another fighter had fallen, igniting a new wave of roars from the audience. Mark snorted disdainfully at the chaos around him. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath; though the stench remained unbearable, his expression gradually calmed. He understood that this place would not confine him; he would not bow to such an environment. Patience was his strength; eruption was instinctive. Hidden within this suffocating darkness lay undeniable danger and coldness.
Tick-tock, tick-tock—the sound of dripping water continued as if silently counting down to something imminent.
The coarse roars echoed through the dark corridor, each carrying an unmistakable fury and fervor as they called out "Mark Ranson." The voices came from all directions as if the corridor itself were conversing with him—oppressive and eerie, making it difficult to discern their source. Mark lifted his head, peering through the dim air as if trying to catch some sign of danger.
Suddenly, a figure burst forth from the thick darkness—a middle-aged man radiating a potent aura of danger. His movements were swift like a beast yet steady as if he had melded into this darkness long ago. His face was shrouded in shadow; only his eyes were visible—deep and consuming as if they could swallow you whole. The man spoke no words; he simply grasped Mark's handcuff lock and skillfully twisted it until it clicked open with a sharp metallic sound before carelessly tossing it aside where it landed with a dull thud.
The man's grip seized Mark's wrist with an unyielding force that left no room for resistance. His strength did not stem merely from physicality but emanated an oppressive authority that made every movement seem unquestionable. He offered Mark no choice but to follow him deeper into the corridor.
This passage appeared endless; damp walls exuded potent mildew and decay scents. The ground was slick with unknown liquids that emitted faint sticky sounds with each step taken. Above them lay scattered grates allowing harsh white light to slice through their narrow space into patches of black and white. Whenever light struck Mark's face, it accentuated his grim expression, carving sharp lines into his features like cuts from a blade. And when he slipped back into darkness again, he resembled a beast returning to its lair—cold and dangerous.
Mark followed closely behind the man, walking steadily while keeping vigilant eyes peeled for any threat. His mind swirled with questions: why were people calling out his name? Whose voice belonged to those cries? And who was this person unshackling him—friend or foe? Yet he understood there was little need for speculation here; such places held no friends or allies—only exploiters and exploited, predators and prey. He, Mark Ranson, would never accept being prey.
Finally, they reached the end of the corridor, where a heavy iron door stood. The sounds behind the door were even more jarring, a chaotic mix of shouts, cheers, and the crisp ringing of bells, like a mad feast ablaze with excitement. The man pushed open the iron door and pulled Mark into a vast space. A middle-aged man dressed in lavish attire stood on a high platform, his figure cast long shadows on the ground by the lights above, resembling a dark presence looming over everyone.
Behind him, an electronic screen flickered with gruesome images, capturing the moments when fighters clashed in brutal combat. This man was the Slave Owner of the Underground Arena, the mastermind behind all the violence and wickedness that unfolded here. He slightly lowered his head, fixing his gaze on Mark, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. His eyes were sharp as knives, seemingly dissecting Mark's very soul to determine if he was worth exploiting.
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