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墨書 Inktalez
The arena was instantly engulfed in chaos. The Fighters, once seen as mere entertainment, surged like an unstoppable tide, sweeping across the entire venue. The spectators, who were accustomed to reveling in their brutal battles, were now stunned by the scene before them. They screamed and fled in all directions, but the riot had erupted too swiftly, and the Fighters struck with such ferocity that there was no time for reaction.
Blood splattered everywhere, painting the arena a shocking crimson. Those wealthy patrons and gamblers, who typically viewed the Fighters as slaves and playthings, now found themselves the targets of their wrath. Cries of agony echoed throughout; some attempted to escape while others knelt in desperation, but all that remained in the eyes of the Fighters was cold fury. These once-enslaved beasts had finally broken their chains, transforming long-suppressed hatred into a deadly counterattack.
"Call security! Get help! There's a riot!" someone screamed from the stands, their voice laced with terror. The wealthy scrambled to pull out communication devices, desperately trying to reach for outside assistance, but no one responded. Their faces turned pale as they trembled and glanced around, only to realize a far more horrifying truth—the arena's security had already been quietly "cleansed" by this group of Fighters.
Days prior, the Fighters had begun their meticulous planning. Utilizing Mark's influence, they had infiltrated the security team, systematically taking down armed guards one by one. Their actions were precise and efficient, aimed at maximizing their time today to eliminate all those deemed "undesirable" within the arena.
One spectator attempted to climb up to the stands to escape this hellish scene but was seized by a Fighter, who violently yanked him back down the steps. His scream abruptly ceased, replaced by a dull crack of bone. Those who once held themselves high now resembled livestock awaiting slaughter, mercilessly harvested by these enraged Fighters.
Blood pooled along the slanted floor, forming a small river as the pungent scent filled the air, suffocating all who breathed it in. The once-enthusiastic cheers from the audience turned into pale faces huddled in corners, praying for survival. Yet the Fighters offered no mercy. They swung fists and blades—or any weapon they could find—each strike fueled by anger and vengeance, staining this hellish ground even redder.
Mark stood at the center of the arena like a grim statue, surveying the chaotic scene. He still clutched that Roman Helmet, blood dripping from its metallic edges. His gaze was cold and focused, fixed on the man atop the platform. For him, this riot was merely the beginning of revenge; his ultimate target still stood high above, like a tiger believing itself safe.
On this day, the Fighters declared their freedom with blood and bodies. The arena transformed from a place of entertainment into a battlefield of vengeance; all oppressed souls found liberation in this moment—or paid with their lives for their hatred.
The Fighters rampaged through the arena without restraint; those who had once sat high in the stands with indifferent eyes now became targets drenched in blood. Their screams mingled with pleas for mercy and cries of despair in the air but could not halt this torrent of revenge. At the heart of this chaos and despair stood Mark, his gaze locked onto that man atop the platform—the architect of it all, the one who had dragged countless Fighters into hell.
The man's face showed no trace of his former indifference or confidence; panic filled his eyes as he hoarsely shouted, "Quick! Protect me! Cover my escape!" His personal guards immediately surrounded him, raising their weapons and vigilantly scanning their surroundings. Blood and screams turned the arena into a hellscape while his only thought was to flee this dire situation.
Mark slowly ascended to the platform; his movements were deliberate yet carried an overwhelming sense of impending doom with each step. His body was already soaked in blood; sweat mixed with it trickled down his muscular form, but his gaze remained icy and resolute as if nothing could sway him. In his hand was that Roman Helmet, a trophy claimed five years ago from his first kill—a symbol of his declaration of vengeance.
Finally reaching the platform, Mark blocked the man's escape route. His figure loomed like an iron wall, trapping both him and his guards within that confined space. The personal guards raised their weapons towards Mark; one barked coldly, "Stop! One more step and we will shoot!"
Mark showed no fear as he stopped in his tracks, looking down at the helmet in his hands before slowly placing it on his head. The helmet obscured his face, leaving only a pair of cold, crimson eyes visible. Those eyes sliced through the air like blades, causing the guards' hands to tremble slightly.
"Fire!" a man screamed hysterically, his voice laced with unmasked terror.
At that command, Mark surged forward. His speed was that of a predator in pursuit, catching the close guards off guard. Bullets erupted from the guns, tearing through the air with piercing gunfire as they whizzed past Mark. One bullet grazed his shoulder, leaving a deep gash, but he remained unfazed, completely ignoring the pain, like a reaper moving through a hail of bullets.
He kept his head low, agilely dodging the incoming fire. The blood on his helmet reflected a cruel glint in the dim light. His fists clenched tightly, charged with the power to tear everything apart as he charged at the guards. The floor trembled beneath his feet, as if heralding the impending slaughter.
Mark crouched low, his body pressed against the ground like a stealthy leopard before exploding into astonishing speed. He pushed off the ground and lunged forward, evading the guards' crossfire. Bullets whizzed past his shoulder and waist, but he remained undeterred, his gaze locked onto his targets like a predator zeroing in on prey—focused and merciless.
One guard raised his gun in an attempt to aim, but Mark was already upon him. He delivered an uppercut with tremendous force that struck the guard's chin. "Thud!" The sound of impact echoed as the guard's body lifted off the ground slightly; blood sprayed from his mouth like a fountain as his jaw twisted grotesquely, the sound of cracking bones clear to hear. His body stiffened for a moment in mid-air before crashing down like a ragged doll, unconscious.
Before the other guards could react, Mark spun around and executed a sweeping kick that arced swiftly towards another guard's waist. "Thud!" The guard was caught off-guard and sent flying sideways, crashing against the railing before tumbling to the ground, groaning in pain while clutching his waist.
In that instant, Mark swiftly bent down and snatched the handgun from the fallen guard’s hand with lightning speed. As soon as he had it in hand, he raised the gun without hesitation and aimed at the guard who had just fallen to the ground. He decisively pulled the trigger. "Bang!" The gunshot echoed across the platform as blood erupted from the fallen guard's head, staining the floor crimson.
He immediately turned and aimed at another guard who had just been kicked down. His wrist was steady as rock as he squeezed the trigger again. "Bang!" A second shot rang out, hitting its mark perfectly; the guard's struggles ceased abruptly as his body stiffened and fell lifelessly.
The entire sequence unfolded fluidly and breathtakingly fast. From punches to kicks, then seizing guns and firing shots—Mark’s movements were like those of a meticulously calculated machine, each action executed with lethal precision. His expression was cold and focused, resembling a seasoned warrior fully in control of this deadly game.
Silence enveloped the surroundings, broken only by the lingering echoes of gunfire in the air. The remaining guards stood frozen in place, cold sweat beading on their palms and their legs trembling slightly; they understood that this man before them was not just a fighter but an unstoppable beast.
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