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墨書 Inktalez
The man on the platform surveyed his surroundings before slowly raising his hand, and the scene gradually fell silent. His voice was deep and powerful, cutting through every corner like a command. He announced that today Mark Ranson would face a new enemy. Each word dripped with cold authority, as if he were a high-ranking judge rather than a criminal manipulating the dark underworld.
At that moment, a burly Bald Man stepped out from another iron door. His physique loomed like a small mountain, muscles bulging as if forged from steel. His bald head reflected the light, giving him the appearance of a beast unleashed. He wore an oddly shaped costume, vibrant and garish, reminiscent of some failed Roman soldier's attire. In his hand, he casually held a vintage Roman Helmet, treating it more like an accessory than a weapon. His eyes burned with a mad flame, exuding an absurd yet threatening aura, like a lunatic lost in his role-playing.
As soon as the crowd caught sight of him, they erupted in fervent reactions. Their cheers crashed over one another like waves; some screamed, others howled, and some even jumped up, waving their arms as if welcoming a hero. Their eyes sparkled with fanaticism, as if the appearance of the Bald Man had ignited their most primal desires for violence. They shouted his name, their voices laced with bloodlust and adoration for the victor—a twisted emotion amplified infinitely in this underground world.
Blinding white light flooded in from all directions, mercilessly spotlighting Mark. The brightness stung his eyes, forcing him to instinctively raise his hand to shield himself from its glare. His hands were dirty, and the marks left by the handcuffs still lingered on his wrists, glaringly visible under the harsh light. He blinked repeatedly, struggling to clear his vision as the brightness seared into his pupils, threatening to burn away his very soul.
Using his hand to block some of the light, he slowly adjusted to his surroundings through the gaps between his fingers. The noise around him remained deafening; the audience roared like fervent worshippers cheering for their sacrifice—or rather, their warrior. Mark turned slightly to focus on the Bald Man, recognizing him as an arrogant and dangerous role-player. But Mark knew this was no game; there was no room for role-playing here. This was a battleground of life and death—a coliseum for predator and prey—and he, Mark Ranson, would never willingly become prey.
The Bald Man raised the Roman Helmet high above his head and waved it toward the audience, sending their cheers soaring once more to a fever pitch as if the entire space trembled with excitement. A manic grin spread across his face—an expression of confidence in power and obsession with violence. Meanwhile, Mark stood amidst the blinding light, his gaze growing increasingly steely; he understood that this battle was not just about defeating the opponent before him but also about proving himself as the most dangerous beast in this dark chaos.
The Bald Man lifted the Roman Helmet even higher; standing under the spotlight, he resembled a statue of a war god. With a deep and hoarse voice, he shouted, "I salute you!" The sound echoed deafeningly throughout every corner of the arena. His voice carried an insane passion and an air of invincibility that instantly ignited the crowd's suppressed fervor.
After speaking, he placed the helmet onto his smooth head; its edges bore several noticeable scratches—marks of honor carried by a seasoned warrior. His gaze beneath the helmet deepened ominously as if he had transformed from a mad performer into a true killer. He raised both fists; his muscles bulged like rock, suggesting that each strike could obliterate everything in front of him.
The crowd reacted explosively as if dynamite had been ignited; their screams, howls, and applause melded into one cacophony. Some frantically jumped onto their seats while waving their arms and chanting the Bald Man's name. Others placed bets while many waved cash in excitement, shouting "Kill him!" or "Let us see blood!" The unabashed frenzy was suffocating; it felt as though every person in the arena was eagerly anticipating the bloody spectacle to come.
In the center of the arena lay a gruesome hellscape. The ground was stained with dark red blood; several patches of still-wet blood glimmered ominously under the lights. The stains on the floor and deep claw marks bore witness to countless brutal battles—lines that seemed to narrate tales of torn lives and shattered dreams. Scattered around were various weapons—rusty blades, broken iron rods, blood-soaked spikes—even a shattered wooden spear lay discarded among them. These remnants appeared as relics from previous fights, carelessly strewn across the ground awaiting another's grasp.
This was precisely what made this arena's design so profound: it was not merely a place for combat but rather a meticulously orchestrated slaughterhouse. Everything aimed to maximize sensory stimulation for its audience. Those weapons scattered about, pools of blood everywhere—even pieces of armor long trampled—served as constant reminders to every participant that there were no rules here; only victors could leave alive. And winning required not just strength but also clever use of one's environment—even a stone or a rusted pipe could become crucial in life-or-death moments.
The Bald Man strode toward the center of the arena with steady yet heavy steps; each footfall echoed clearly against the floor. Once he stood firm, he turned around to gaze at Mark with those deep-set eyes beneath his helmet—eyes filled with excitement and cruelty akin to those of a hunter fixated on its prey. He pointed at a broken sword lying on the ground before lifting his gaze toward the audience as if announcing that this battle was not merely a contest but rather a performance—a spectacle designed to satiate humanity's deepest desires.
Mark stood in the blinding light, his pupils gradually adjusting, but the surrounding frenzy and the stench of blood still made it hard to breathe. He scanned the scattered weapons in the center of the arena, his mind racing as he calculated his next move. He knew all too well that this battle was not a fair duel but a fight for survival. Weapons were the only advantage, yet they were also a deadly trap—whoever seized them could dictate the rhythm of victory, but no one could guarantee that those very weapons wouldn’t become the last straw that broke them in the next moment.
The crowd's cheers grew louder, and Mark took a deep breath, suppressing the overwhelming scent of blood and decay. He lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of the Bald Man. A silent challenge exploded between them, and the atmosphere instantly turned oppressive and dangerous. This was a stage of hell, and they were born to be dancers in this inferno.
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