Chapter 692: My Name Is Death

The crowd exploded, their voices a deafening wall of sound, money and bottles exchanging hands as the body was dragged out of the cage, leaving a bloody trail in the sand.

A hulking figure lumbered toward me, his gut straining against his shirt. "So you’re the new blood," he grunted, sizing me up. "Viper, right? You sticking with that, or you got something better for the stage?"

I met his gaze, my voice low and steady.

"Death. My name is Death."

The fat man threw his head back, his belly shaking as he barked out a laugh, the sound grating against the hum of the crowd. "Ha! Ha-ha, sure, sure—pick whatever the hell you want," he wheezed, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with a greasy finger. His yellowed teeth gleamed in the dim light as he jerked a thumb toward the cage, his voice dripping with mocking amusement. "Next round’s yours, kid. Don’t embarrass yourself."

I didn’t bother with a reply.

Instead, I gave him a single, cold nod, my gaze already sweeping over the sea of faces in the crowd. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, alcohol, and bloodlust, the roar of the mob a living, breathing thing, hungry for violence.

Natalya should have been here—somewhere in the shade of the chaos, watching, waiting. But the shadows and the madness swallowed her whole.

No sign.

No trace.

Just the deafening howl of the crowd, their voices a primitive chorus of bloodthirsty excitement.

I wasn’t worried.

Killing my opponent was as effortless as blinking my eyes. A single thought, a flicker of intent, and it would be done.

But tonight wasn’t about efficiency.

It was about brutality.

About showing them exactly what I was.

And fuck, was I getting excited.

A slow, predatory smirk curled my lips as I stepped toward the cage, the crowd’s eyes locking onto me, their energy electric, anticipatory. The fat man’s laughter faded into the background, replaced by the pounding of my own heart, the thrum of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck, my body coiled like a spring, ready to unleash hell.

Let’s fucking play.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, echoing like a death knell over the blood-soaked sand. The crowd was a living, breathing beast, their roars vibrating through the air, their eyes hungry for more carnage. I stood in the center of the cage, my body coiled like a predator, my gaze sweeping over the sea of faces—drunk, sweaty, desperate for violence.

And then—there she was.

Natalya.

Seated in the front, isolated from the rest of the crowd by a ten-foot gap, flanked by hulking bodyguards with guns glinting under the harsh lights. Her dark hair gleamed like polished obsidian, her sharp features unreadable, her eyes—cold, calculating—locked onto me. The way she sat, regal, untouchable, like a queen surveying her domain, sent a jolt of something primitive through me.

Lust. Challenge. The thrill of the hunt.

The announcer’s voice crackled again, snapping me back to the moment: "Ladies and gentlemen! In the red corner, we have a newcomer—Death! And in the blue corner, another newcomer—King!"

The crowd erupted, their cheers mixing with jeers as King—a mountain of a man, his muscles ripped and veiny, his chest a map of scars—stepped into the cage. He grinned, spitting a wad of phlegm onto the sand before laughing, a deep, mocking sound that echoed off the metal walls.

"Kid," he scoffed, shaking his head as he eyed me up and down. "Go back and drink your mama’s milk."

The crowd roared with laughter, their voices a deafening wave of amusement.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t smile.

I just stood there, calm, unmoved, my voice low, almost bored as I replied, "Sure. I’ll definitely go find your mama after this." A pause. A beat. Then, "I’m sorry you won’t have the opportunity to see that scene... since you’ll be dead in about ten seconds." I tilted my head, my eyes locking onto his. "Any last words?"

The crowd exploded—some in laughter, others in shock. Even Natalya’s lips twitched, just barely, a flicker of something dark and amused crossing her features.

King’s face twisted in rage. "You little—"

The announcer shouted:

"FIGHT—START!"

King charged, his boots kicking up sand as he grabbed a massive hammer from the weapon rack, raising it high over his head, his intent clear—smash my skull into pulp.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t flinch.

I waited.

As he swung the hammer down, I stepped aside in a blur, my hand snapping out to grab his wrist. Bone cracked under my grip, the sound sharp, final. The hammer clattered to the ground, useless.

Before he could even scream, my other hand closed around his throat. I lifted him effortlessly, his feet dangling above the sand, his eyes bulging in terror, his face turning purple.

And then—

CRACK.

I twisted.

His neck snapped like a dry branch, the sound echoing through the arena. His body went limp, his head lolling at an unnatural angle.

I dropped him.

His corpse hit the sand with a wet thud, blood pooling beneath his broken neck.

The arena fell silent.

A single drop of blood rolled down my fingers.

Then—

"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!"

The chant started slow, a low rumble, then grew into a deafening roar, the crowd stomping their feet, their voices a primitive howl of excitement and fear.

The announcer stammered, his voice shaking:

"We—we have a winner! And ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in history, we’ve witnessed a fighter end his opponent in under ten seconds!"

My eyes flicked to Natalya.

She was leaning forward, her lips moving. I focused, using

Telepathy

to catch her words:

"I want to know everything about him," she ordered her bodyguard, her voice low, dangerous, cutting through the noise like a blade. "Spare no detail. I don’t want any American spies."

A smirk tugged at my lips.

Cautious. Smart. Not just a pretty face.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

And that’s what made it so fucking thrilling.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, echoing off the bloodstained metal walls, cutting through the deafening roar of the crowd. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of sweat and blood hanging heavy in the stale underground heat.

"Next round..."

the announcer growled, his voice crackling over the speakers,

"now we have The Butcher—winner of the previous round—and Death!"

A wave of cheers and jeers erupted from the crowd, their voices mixing into a primitive howl. The announcer paused, letting the noise build, before continuing, his tone dark and promising.

"The winner will get to the last round!"

The crowd exploded, their voices a deafening wall of sound.

The Butcher stepped into the cage, grinning, twin machetes glinting in his hands. He was covered in blood—some his, most his victims’—his chest heaving, his eyes wild with the thrill of the kill.

"What’s wrong, kid?" he taunted, laughing as he twirled the machetes. "You scared? You should be."

I walked to the weapon rack—not because I needed one, but because I wanted to play.

I picked up a sword.

The crowd murmured, some laughing, others whispering in awe.

"He’s taking a sword—"

"He’s gonna die—"

I twirled it once, testing its weight, the blade gleaming under the harsh lights.

The announcer yelled: "

FIGHT—START!"