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墨書 Inktalez
The Bald Man roared, resembling a beast that had just broken free, charging towards Mark. His heavy footsteps pounded the ground, each step creating a deep indentation, and the audience's cheers reached a fever pitch. His massive fists came crashing down like a battering ram, moving so swiftly that there was barely time to react, accompanied by a howling wind as it struck Mark's right cheek.
"Bang!" A dull thud echoed as Mark took the punch squarely, his head snapping to the side. His ears rang, and his vision blurred instantly. The force of that blow felt like a sledgehammer hitting his cheekbone, pain coursing through his body like an electric shock. He was thrown uncontrollably to the ground, hitting it hard; the unforgiving floor rebounded him back up before he crashed down again. A wave of metallic sweetness surged in his mouth, blood mixed with saliva spraying from the corner of his lips, splattering onto the ground like crimson flowers.
Mark tried to lift his head, but everything was a haze. He could only vaguely see the Bald Man standing there, raising his arms in triumph before the frenzied crowd. It was a display of dominance, like a conqueror in an arena receiving adulation from his subjects. A cruel smile curled at the corners of his mouth, eyes gleaming with sadistic excitement and pride. He turned to look at Mark sprawled on the ground as if he were nothing more than a discarded rag doll.
In the next moment, he raised his foot and kicked Mark's ribs without hesitation. "Bang!" The kick carried enough force to send Mark rolling across the floor like a deflated ball. His back scraped against the rough surface, clothes tearing and skin burning with pain. His head slammed against the ground, and the ringing in his ears grew louder; dizziness clouded his mind, making it hard to discern direction.
The audience's excitement reached a fever pitch as they wildly pounded on the barriers, chanting the Bald Man's name. Some even threw coins, bills, and empty bottles into the arena as if paying homage to some cruel deity. The cacophony pierced Mark's ears like needles but simultaneously ignited a deep-seated anger and survival instinct within him.
Mark gritted his teeth, enduring the agony in his ribs and face as he struggled to grasp the ground with trembling fingers. His blood mixed with dust and sweat on the floor, creating filthy stains.
Time seemed to slow down suddenly; everything around him became blurred and distant. The raucous cheers, the jarring sounds of metal clashing, even the Bald Man's beast-like roars felt muffled behind a thick barrier, intermittent and ethereal. Mark's world spun; he felt as if he were thrown into an endless abyss where all sensation dulled.
A wave of pain surged from his ribs and face like relentless tides crashing against his consciousness. It felt as though countless needles were piercing through to his marrow; every breath brought searing agony. He struggled to open his eyes but was met with blinding white light that felt like flames scorching his retinas. He attempted to blink but still could not make sense of anything around him; the brightness was like a blade mercilessly stripping away his vision.
Mark tried to move, but it felt as if an enormous weight pressed down upon him, rendering him completely immobile. His fingers twitched slightly but could not touch the ground. His muscles felt utterly disintegrated; he couldn't muster even the most basic strength. His limbs lay limp like broken dolls under gravity's relentless grip.
His consciousness fought against despair; a voice deep within screamed frantically: "Get up! You can't stop! You can't lose!" But that voice flickered like a weak candlelight, slowly consumed by exhaustion and suffering within him. Days of captivity, abuse, and violence had left him battered beyond recognition. Every bruise and wound reminded him that he had surpassed any limits of endurance long ago. Now it felt as if his body protested against him, demanding an end to this struggle.
A profound sense of hopelessness washed over him—an exhaustion that penetrated deep into his bones, stemming not only from physical fatigue but also from mental weariness. This was not his first encounter with such adversity; yet this time he felt utterly crushed beneath its weight. Every inch of him screamed: "Give up! Stop struggling!" He felt devoid of fighting spirit or strength—only a heavy shell remained silently lying on that cold, filthy floor.
The light remained blinding; pain still cut sharply through him as he closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out everything around him. But the crowd's shouts grew louder in his ears; their twisted frenzy pierced through any semblance of calm he tried to maintain. These sounds reminded him that this was not a place for rest nor an endpoint for death. This was hell—a graveyard for the weak.
Mark's body was dragged across the ground like a rag, the rough floor scattered with sharp stones that carved new wounds into his skin with every scrape. A jagged shard had sliced open his cheek, blood flowing down the wound and staining the dirt beneath him. His chest heaved, each breath feeling like he was inhaling blades. The frenzied shouts of the audience echoed in his ears, but those voices felt distant and muffled, as if heard through a thick curtain of water.
Just as he was on the brink of giving up, his consciousness slipping into the abyss, a familiar voice rang in his ear—deep and resolute, filled with anger and indomitable strength.
"Fight... take revenge... don't let those bastards win!" The voice thundered like a clap of thunder, pulling Mark back from the edge of despair. His pupils constricted sharply; his vision was blurred, yet that voice grew clearer, as if it were a cry coming from the other side of the abyss.
"Even if you lose, make them pay! Take his legs, his eyes, his ears! Don't give them an easy time!"
It was his brother, the one who had long since passed away, now appearing in Mark's mind like a specter. His brother's voice was filled with rage and resentment, as if it sought to ignite the last flicker of fire within Mark's heart. Images of his brother lying in a pool of blood flooded his mind—those once resolute eyes now dull and lifeless, body cold and stiff. That was a scene Mark could never forget, the moment that set him on this path of vengeance.
"Mark!" The voice whispered again, more urgent now. "Family... I... we can only rely on you now! Stand up, don't let our revenge go to waste!"
The voice pierced through him like a knife, stirring all his pain and exhaustion into a surge of anger. Mark's breathing quickened; his heartbeat thundered like war drums. His fingers twitched slightly before slowly spreading apart, fingertips scraping against the rough floor as blood mixed with mud.
"No... I can't stop yet..." he roared inwardly, teeth clenched tight as blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes gradually focused; Bald Man’s arrogant face reappeared in his blurred vision, that smug smile seeming to mock his failure.
"No matter what... I will make you pay..." Mark whispered to himself, fury swelling within him like a flood. He thought of his family, of everything that had been destroyed—the laughter and warmth that had turned into cold memories deep in hell. The only thing left for him to do was seek revenge—for his brother and for himself—sending all those who had taken everything from him straight to hell.
With trembling hands bracing against the ground, he struggled to lift himself up. Every muscle protested; every bone screamed in agony. Yet within him burned a fire that grew fiercer and more intense. Gritting his teeth, he raised his head, his gaze sharpening like a blade. In that moment, he was no longer the defeated man lying on the ground awaiting an end; he was a vengeful warrior ablaze with fury. He would fight—even if it meant crawling—to drag his opponent into hell and reclaim every ounce of dignity and vengeance owed to him and his family for his brother’s sake.
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