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墨書 Inktalez
The remaining guards, witnessing Mark's ruthless slaughter, felt their willpower drown in a tide of fear. They could no longer face this man who resembled the Grim Reaper; their hands trembled uncontrollably around their weapons, and eventually, one of them dropped his arms and turned to flee. Seeing this, the other guards scattered like frightened birds, desperate to escape the wrath of Mark. The once formidable guard team on this high platform disintegrated into a pile of sand in an instant.
"Come back! You useless lot, come back to me!" The man's voice trembled with anger and terror. His eyes widened, and his expression twisted in despair. He shouted desperately, trying to call back the guards, but his commands no longer held any authority. Those who had once obeyed him without question were now disappearing into the chaos, unwilling to stand in front of the beast that was closing in.
"Don't come any closer! Mark, stop! I warn you!" The man backed away until he found himself pressed against the edge of the platform. His voice became hysterical as he flailed his arms, attempting to create an invisible barrier in the air, but he knew it was futile. Those eyes burning with fury were fixed on him, as if they intended to swallow him whole.
"Mark! Listen to me!" The man's tone shifted suddenly to pleading, fear and cunning flickering in his gaze. "It was me... I gave you everything you have now! Without me, you would have been dead long ago! You wouldn't have this position today, nor those honors and luxurious life!" His voice trembled, but urgency and testing laced his words as he tried to shatter Mark's resolve with his speech, hoping to make the beast halt.
"You are alive because I gave you a chance! Everything you have is a gift from me!" The man's voice grew louder, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. He scanned Mark's face for any hint of hesitation or wavering but found only an unfathomable coldness and murderous intent staring back at him.
Mark remained silent and did not slow his pace. Each step he took was slow and steady, carrying a heavy pressure that struck like the tolling of death's bell against the man's heart. He still held the bloodstained Roman Helmet in his hand; blood dripped from his fingers onto the platform floor, leaving dark red stains behind.
The man's voice grew increasingly frantic; he spoke faster now, words tumbling out in a rush as he began to cry out. "Mark, please! Don't kill me! I can give you more! More money, more power! Don't you want freedom? I can give it to you! I can give you anything!" His hands clawed at the air as he tried to grasp onto the railing of the platform, but fear made his fingers slip away.
Mark still did not respond; his silence was more terrifying than any words could convey. He drew closer until he was just a few steps away from the man. Despair filled the man's eyes as he finally understood that for these five years, this Fighter he thought he could control had never forgotten his hatred nor given up on his thirst for revenge.
The beast had finally arrived, bringing with it an unstoppable fury for the final judgment.
Mark halted before the man, looking down at the architect of all his suffering who once controlled the entire arena. His voice was low and filled with cold authority: "Stand up like a true Fighter and decide your fate with your own fists." His tone left no room for argument; it felt less like an offer and more like a final decree.
"I have been merciful enough." Mark's gaze was icy as he spoke with cruel mockery. He slowly raised the Roman Helmet in his hand before throwing it down hard onto the ground. The metal clashed against the floor with a sharp sound that echoed through the space; the helmet rolled to rest at the man's feet as if mocking his cowardice.
Mark raised his hands; his bloodied fists glimmered crimson under the dim light. He appeared as a beast emerging from hell, ready for the final hunt. Every muscle in his body was taut, radiating an oppressive force like a blade poised to pierce an enemy's heart at any moment.
The man's face was pale, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as he longed to escape this hell, yet his feet felt as if they were bound by lead, unable to move. His lips trembled, and finally, he erupted in a hysterical roar, "You’re insane! Mark, you lunatic!" His voice was hoarse, filled with fear and anger, like a cornered beast.
However, faced with Mark's relentless advance, he had no choice but to confront the situation. Mark's presence was overwhelming; the pressure felt like an invisible net that ensnared him completely. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he finally managed to stand, his body swaying like a dry reed in a storm, on the verge of collapse.
The man raised his fists, his wrists trembling like a helpless lamb. He stared intently at Mark, his gaze filled with despair and unwillingness, but more than anything, there was profound fear. He understood that this was not a fair fight; it couldn't even be called a "match." He had never stepped into the ring nor faced fate with his fists before, but today he finally tasted the despair and helplessness that those fighters experienced.
"Come on..." the man whispered, his voice laced with struggle and a desperate will to survive. Yet he knew that at this moment, there was no turning back.
Taking a deep breath, he fixed his gaze on Mark. He realized there was nowhere left to retreat; all he could do was give it everything he had. Summoning all his strength, he threw a heavy punch aimed directly at Mark's face. However, despite its appearance of power, the punch lacked precision and speed, revealing its flaws.
Mark simply sidestepped lightly and effortlessly avoided the blow. The man's fist brushed past Mark's ear without making contact. Leaning slightly forward, he exposed himself entirely within Mark's range of attack, yet Mark remained still, showing no intention of striking back. His cold gaze remained fixed on the man, and the corners of his mouth curled slightly upward as if watching a comical performance.
The man's expression twisted into a snarl; his anger magnified by fear. Gritting his teeth, he unleashed a flurry of jabs in an attempt to disrupt Mark's rhythm. Yet each punch felt like it struck nothing but air; neither power nor speed could touch Mark in the slightest. Mark moved with agility and coldness, casually dodging the man's attacks as if it were merely a game of cat and mouse.
"Damn it! You bastard!" the man shouted in frustration. His rage made each punch heavier but increasingly inaccurate. His steps became erratic; his attacks grew more chaotic as he completely lost any semblance of strategy. His fists sliced through the air repeatedly but landed nowhere, producing only dull whooshes without effect.
Mark remained silent like a patient predator. His cold eyes watched the man intently, unfazed by his fury. Each time the man's fist narrowly missed its target, the corners of Mark's mouth would twitch up slightly—a blatant expression of disdain as if to say: "Is that all? Is this your best?"
As time passed, the man's strength dwindled with each missed punch. His breathing grew rapid; his chest heaved violently while sweat poured down from his forehead like rain, soaking his collar. His punches became weaker; every strike slowed down until even retracting after missing appeared clumsy.
Before long, the man was panting heavily, his legs trembling slightly while his arms felt leaden. He halted in place, gasping for breath as the fire in his eyes gradually gave way to helplessness. He knew he was being worn down step by step while the man before him showed no signs of fatigue whatsoever.
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