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墨書 Inktalez
Mark's gaze was as cold as ice, closing in step by step, his footsteps steady like the sound of death knocking at the door. The man's anger had long been replaced by fear; his eyes flickered as his body instinctively recoiled, trying to escape this nightmare. However, just as he turned halfway, before he could take a single step, Mark's fist was already hurtling toward him.
"Bang!" A straight punch landed brutally on the man's nose, the force so great that his head snapped back violently. The sound of cartilage shattering echoed in his mind, a piercing noise that felt like the tolling of a doomsday bell. His nose twisted grotesquely, blood gushing forth like a dam breaking, staining his mouth and chin. His nose was crooked, and his face appeared both hideous and absurd.
"Ahhh!" The man screamed in agony, instinctively covering his nose with his hands as tears mixed with blood streamed down his face. He had never experienced such excruciating pain; it felt as if this bone-deep agony would split his skull open, pressing on his nerves and rendering him unable to think.
Yet Mark showed no mercy. In the moment the man covered his nose and bent forward instinctively, Mark swiftly lowered himself, firmly planted his feet, and delivered an uppercut mercilessly aimed at the man's abdomen.
"Bang!" The fist sank deep into the man's torso as if it were trying to penetrate his body. The immense force hammered down on the man's insides, causing his abdomen to collapse instantly. Air was forcibly expelled from his lungs; he couldn't even let out a complete scream of despair but instead coughed up a mouthful of thick blood before collapsing helplessly to the ground.
The man's body crumpled like a withered leaf battered by a storm, hands clutching his abdomen as he curled into a ball, emitting weak whimpers. His features twisted in pain, trembling all over like a dying beast. He finally understood that there would be no redemption or miracle; his fate had long been sealed under Mark's fists.
Lying on the ground, curled up like an insect with crushed wings, his face contorted in agony, blood and sweat dripped onto the floor. He weakly pushed against the ground in a futile attempt to rise but found himself completely unable to move. Broken pleas escaped his lips intermittently, filled with despair and fear.
"Mark... please, don't... don't continue..." The man raised his bloodied face, pleading through tears. His voice trembled like a shattered wind chime, eyes unfocused from pain and terror, looking helpless and pitiful.
Mark stood over him, coldly observing the man on the ground. His figure stood tall and unyielding like an immovable monument, casting a shadow over this fallen sinner. The light above was obscured by his presence; shadows covered his face, making it impossible to discern his expression—only a pair of eyes glinted with icy resolve in the darkness.
The man's pleas echoed in the air, stirring something deep within Mark's heart. He lowered his head and glanced at the bloodied face before him—a pitiful figure stripped of dignity and strength. In that moment, he felt a flicker of hesitation—perhaps this man did not deserve revenge. He was too weak, too powerless; he didn't even have the right to resist, rendering any sense of satisfaction from this revenge utterly meaningless.
But this moment of doubt quickly dissipated. The chill in Mark's eyes solidified once more as he looked down at the man and calmly reached a conclusion in his heart—this vendetta must come to an end, not for challenge or pleasure but for those who had died because of this man and for all the hell he had endured over these five years.
He slowly crouched down and extended his fist without hesitation. "Bang!" Once again, a heavy impact reverberated against the man's face; his head snapped back violently as teeth shattered and more blood sprayed from his mouth.
Mark did not stop; his fists fell like raindrops, one punch after another, each strike carrying an irresistible force. The man's head was knocked back repeatedly, blood splattering on the ground, on Mark's fists and clothing. His cries grew weaker and weaker until they completely vanished, leaving only the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the silence.
The overhead lights shone down on Mark's face again, illuminating his bloodied visage in a particularly ferocious manner. There was no anger in his eyes, no sense of satisfaction—only a deep indifference and emptiness. This was merely a process in his life, not an end.
As the final punch landed, Mark slowly stood up, looking down at the man on the ground, who had become almost unrecognizable as a corpse. The sinner who had controlled the arena and dictated his fate had finally become a part of what he trampled upon—no more resistance, no more escape.
Mark rose to his feet, his body smeared with blood and sweat, resembling a demon that had just crawled out of hell. He glanced at the man’s now indistinct body, his face devoid of any victorious joy, only filled with profound indifference and emptiness. He lifted his head and scanned the entire arena; the scene before him resembled purgatory.
Corpses lay scattered everywhere, blood flowing freely, staining the floors and walls. The Fighters were like liberated wolves, tearing apart their former "masters." Those who had once looked down from their lofty seats, reveling in the violent spectacle, were now fleeing in panic; their screams mingled in the air, filled with fear and despair. Many were forced into corners with no way out, bending down to pick up weapons that once belonged to the Fighters—blades, broken swords, iron rods, even sharp shards of stone. Their hands trembled as they clumsily wielded these weapons, transforming from mere spectators into true participants, fighting for survival against the Fighters.
Mark stood on the platform, coldly observing it all. The sounds of screams and wails mixed with clashing metal rose and fell like a dissonant symphony. Yet this scene did not bring him the anticipated sense of fulfillment; the thrill of revenge felt more hollow than he had imagined. Anger still burned within him like an unquenchable flame. He understood that even though that man was dead, this massacre had not granted him true relief.
The faces of his brother and family floated through his mind; those warm smiles had long been replaced by bloodshed and despair. The end of revenge did not bring liberation; he could feel those resentments still deeply entwined with him, as if trapped in an inescapable cage.
Mark's gaze fell to the edge of the platform where a Roman Helmet lay quietly on the floor, stained with blood—a meaningless piece of tattered decoration. He walked over to it, stared at it for a moment, then raised his foot without hesitation and kicked it hard.
The helmet arced through the air before crashing heavily into the center of the arena with a piercing metallic clang. That sound seemed to signify both the end of a violent feast and perhaps the beginning of a new hell.
Mark stood atop the platform, looking down at this battleground from above. His face remained stern, but there was a hint of confusion in his eyes. He had completed his revenge, yet it did not quell his anger nor grant peace to his soul. He knew that this chaos might be part of his destiny, but the true end was likely still far from reach.
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