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墨書 Inktalez
Mark pressed his hands firmly against the ground, his muscles twitching in pain as blood trickled from his forehead and the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the filthy floor. His breath was heavy, each exhale accompanied by sharp pains between his ribs, yet his eyes burned with fury, propelling him to lift his body inch by inch. However, just as he raised his head, the Bald Man charged at him like a storm.
"Bang!" A dull thud echoed as the fist struck Mark's left cheek like a hammer, the force causing his head to snap violently to the side, ringing filling his ears instantly. His cheek throbbed painfully, as if his bones were being crushed, and the impact blurred his vision once more. The cold, hard floor felt unforgiving as his body was nearly forced back into place.
The Bald Man savored the solid feel of the punch, a cruel smile curling at the corners of his mouth. He knew this blow was enough to finish anyone off; there was no way Mark could rise again. Without hesitation, he turned away, raising his hands to showcase his victory to the audience. It was a confidence that needed no validation; he couldn't even be bothered to glance at Mark on the ground, lost in admiration for his own strength and reveling in the adoration of the crowd.
The audience reacted like a tidal wave, screaming and pounding on the railing. Some shouted "Champion! Terminator!" while others frantically threw bills and coins into the arena to celebrate their "king." He stood under the lights, a towering figure like an undefeated statue, basking in the worship of everyone in this hellish arena.
Yet, just as he reveled in his triumph, a dull whoosh sliced through the air. "Bang!" The Bald Man's body lurched forward as if struck by a truck, losing balance and crashing heavily to the ground. His helmet rolled aside, revealing a face full of shock.
It was Mark—fueled by rage and defiance—exploding with force from the depths of hell. The moment the Bald Man turned around, Mark gritted his teeth and launched a final counterattack from the ground. His shoulder slammed into the Bald Man's waist like an iron hammer, flipping him onto the floor. The impact reverberated through the arena as the Bald Man rolled several times, clutching his chest in pain and disbelief.
Mark wasted no time; his gaze was icy, like flames burning in an abyss. He pushed himself up with determination, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth only adding to his terrifying appearance. He advanced step by step toward the Bald Man like an avenging angel ready to reclaim control of this life-and-death battle. The crowd's cheers turned into gasps as the atmosphere in the arena shifted dramatically; all eyes were fixed on this man who had risen like a phoenix.
Mark became a ferocious beast awakened from slumber, completely overpowering the Bald Man. He locked his legs around the opponent's waist while pressing down with his knees against the Bald Man's ribs, rendering him unable to roll over or escape. His fists rained down like an unending storm—each punch landing with astonishing force accompanied by dull thuds as bone met flesh.
"Bang! Bang!" His fists struck against the man's abdomen, leaving him gasping for breath. The Bald Man's body convulsed under each impact as he struggled to fight back but felt as if crushed beneath a mountain; he could hardly move. Mark's next punch landed squarely on his neck with such force that it elicited a low groan from him, causing dizziness from lack of oxygen.
Mark showed no hesitation; his gaze was sharp as ice, each punch fueled by deep-seated anger and obsession. His fists struck relentlessly at the Bald Man's face, shattering any confidence or arrogance left within him. Blood flowed from the Bald Man's nose and mouth as his face swelled grotesquely beyond recognition.
"Stop! Let me go!" The Bald Man screamed in terror. He tried to break free, flailing wildly in an attempt to strike Mark, but each punch landed harmlessly against Mark’s body like hitting an unyielding stone pillar. Mark paid no mind to these attacks; his focus remained locked onto his opponent as if nothing else existed in that moment. His fists continued to fall relentlessly as if he sought to unleash all hatred and pain upon this man.
The Bald Man's hands began to tremble; his attacks grew weaker and weaker until they merely grazed Mark’s shoulder without any power behind them. Fear filled his eyes; he had never encountered someone like this—a mere boy yet bursting with such terrifying strength from that frail frame. He felt himself growing heavier under Mark’s pressure; it was not just physical strength but an intangible force pushing him toward oblivion.
"No... it's impossible..." the Bald Man whispered, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth, the light in his eyes dimming with each passing moment. His fists slowly dropped, consciousness fading as strength ebbed away like a receding tide. His fear was palpable; he knew he was not facing an ordinary opponent, but a vengeful ghost, a demon scorched by the flames of hell. His awareness crumbled under the relentless blows from Mark, ultimately dissolving into an abyss of darkness.
Mark gasped for breath, unable to distinguish whether the blood on his fists was his own or that of his opponent. His hands trembled slightly, yet he did not relent; his fists continued to rain down like a storm, each strike fueled by destructive fury. Blood splattered everywhere—on his face, on his body, even pooling on the floor, forming a sea of crimson. His fingers and knuckles were a gruesome mess, but he paid no mind; only endless anger and a thirst for revenge burned in his eyes.
At that moment, his gaze fell upon the fallen Roman Helmet nearby, a symbol of the Bald Man's arrogance and hubris. Mark reached down to pick it up, his fingertips gliding over the blood-stained metal surface, a cold ruthlessness flashing in his eyes. Without hesitation, he raised the helmet and brought it crashing down onto the Bald Man's face.
"Bang!" The sound of metal striking flesh was deafening; the edge of the helmet embedded itself into the Bald Man's face, tearing through skin and shattering bone. Blood erupted like a fountain, staining the helmet and Mark's arms. The Bald Man's face had long lost its original form; his features were twisted and deformed from the impact, even broken bones protruding through the skin, stark white against the air. The scene was grotesque and horrifying, as if it belonged to some infernal realm.
Yet Mark did not stop. He lifted the helmet once more and struck again; the sound of metal clashing echoed throughout the arena, each blow ringing like a funeral bell for this violent spectacle. The Bald Man's body had already slumped down like a ragged doll, devoid of life. His limbs hung limply as his head bobbed weakly, allowing Mark's assault to reduce his face to a blurred mass of blood and flesh.
Silence enveloped the scene; the audience had ceased their roars and cheers, their gazes transfixed by Mark's ferocious and merciless actions. The man who lay on the ground, stripped of all dignity—the once "King" of the arena—had been their idolized warrior but had now become nothing more than a cold corpse. Meanwhile, this seemingly frail youth had executed an incredible turnaround with unimaginable strength and brutality.
Mark's heavy breathing was the only sound that remained—deep and guttural, like a beast from the depths of hell. His eyes scanned the surroundings with an oppressive intensity that left spectators instinctively stepping back, fearing that Mark's wrath might spill over onto them. No longer did they see fervor in their eyes; instead, they were filled with profound fear and shock.
Bloody, violent, merciless—at that moment, Mark embodied death itself, freezing the very air in the arena.
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