Chapter 93: The Grand Melee
Clang!
The iron gates slammed shut behind him.
Holden stood at the edge of the pit, his black cloak hanging still around his body. His mask reflected the spotlight in thin, pale lines. Above him, the crowd roared. Hundreds of voices screaming bets, insults, and excitement.
Inside the cage, Fifty fighters sized him up.
Every one of them was Rank 2. Some were 1-Star. A few were 3-Star. All of them had survived the underground long enough to be dangerous.
A massive man with a shaved head and a spiked club stepped forward.
"The masked freak," he said, loud enough for the whole cage to hear. "Asura. You think you’re special because you killed Varga?"
A wiry man with two daggers laughed. "Varga was old and slow. You got lucky."
"Lucky," a woman with a jagged scar across her throat repeated. "That’s all he is."
The fighters moved as one. No words were spoken between them, but the message was clear. They spread out in a loose semicircle, weapons raised, all facing one direction.
Toward Holden.
They weren’t going to fight each other. Not yet. They were going to swarm the champion first, take him down together, and then split the grand prize among the survivors.
Smart plan.
Holden tilted his head slightly under the mask.
Then he cracked his neck.
Crack.
The shaved man grinned. "Scared now, are ya?"
Holden stepped forward.
The shaved man swung his spiked club in a wide arc aimed at Holden’s skull. The weapon whistled through the air with enough force to shatter stone.
Holden didn’t dodge.
He raised his left arm.
Clang!
The spiked club hit his forearm. The impact rang out like a bell. The club stopped dead. The spikes scraped against his skin and left nothing but faint white lines that faded in seconds.
The shaved man’s eyes went wide.
"What the—"
Holden punched him in the face.
Crunch!
The man’s nose flattened. His head snapped backward. He flew off his feet and crashed into two fighters behind him, taking all three of them down in a heap.
The wiry man with the daggers lunged. Both blades came in low and fast, aiming for Holden’s chest.
Holden didn’t even look down.
The daggers hit his side.
Tink. Tink.
The tips snapped off like they had struck solid steel. The wiry man stared at his broken handles in disbelief.
Holden grabbed him by the throat and threw him into the scarred woman. They hit the cage wall together and slumped down, unconscious.
The crowd noise died.
In the span of three seconds, five fighters were down. And Holden hadn’t drawn a weapon.
"Kill him!" someone screamed.
The remaining forty-five fighters charged all at once.
A sword swung at Holden’s neck. He leaned forward and let it hit his collarbone. The blade shattered into fragments.
Clang!
A war hammer slammed into his back. He didn’t flinch. He turned around and kicked the wielder in the chest so hard the man’s ribs caved in.
Thud!
Two fighters came at him from opposite sides with spears. Holden caught both spear shafts with his bare hands, snapped them, and used the broken halves to club both men unconscious in a single spinning motion.
Crack. Thud. Thud.
Inside the cage, he was a blur of motion. Every punch dropped a man. Every step put him in perfect position for the next strike.
A massive ax cleaved toward his shoulder.
Holden caught the blade edge in his palm. The ax stopped. The edge couldn’t cut his skin.
He squeezed.
The metal crumpled like foil.
The ax-wielder tried to run.
Holden caught him by the back of his armor and slammed him face-first into the ground.
Bam!
One minute in. Twenty-one fighters down.
The remaining twenty-nine stopped charging.
They stood in a loose cluster near the far end of the cage, breathing hard, staring at the lone figure in the black cloak. Bodies littered the ground between them. Broken weapons, shattered armor, and groaning men covered the floor of the pit.
"He’s not human," someone whispered.
"That’s impossible. Nothing stops a Rank 2 blade with bare skin."
"Let me out," the woman with the scarred throat said. She had crawled to the cage bars and was clawing at them. "Let me out! I surrender! I quit!"
More fighters dropped their weapons. Swords and clubs dropped to the floor.
"Please! I surrender!"
"Don’t kill me! I have money! I can pay!"
Holden walked toward them.
The crowd above had gone completely silent. Hundreds of people staring down at the one-sided slaughter, too shocked to make a sound.
Under the mask, Holden’s expression was blank.
He did not slow down.
A man tried to climb the cage wall. Holden grabbed his ankle and pulled him down. The man hit the ground hard, and Holden stepped on his chest until he stopped moving.
Thud.
Two fighters tried to run past him toward the gate. Holden grabbed one by the head and the other by the belt. He slammed them together.
Crunch.
The survivors scrambled over each other, screaming, pushing, trampling their own allies to get away.
"NO! PLEASE! I DIDN’T EVEN HIT YOU!"
Holden caught the screaming man’s fist. He squeezed until bones cracked. Then he headbutted him.
Crack.
One by one, the remaining fighters fell. Some tried to fight back. Most just tried to run. Holden hunted every single one of them down with the same precision.
The last fighter alive was a tall man with a mohawk who had curled into a ball against the cage wall, sobbing.
Holden stood over him.
"Please," the man whimpered. "I just needed the money. My family—"
Holden kicked him in the head.
Thud.
The cage was full of bodies. Fifty fighters. Every single one unconscious or worse. The floor was stained with blood.
And in the center of it all, Asura stood still.
Not a single scratch on him.
[Ding!]
[50 Rank 2 Cultivators Defeated!]
[Base Reward: 24,500 KP]
[Grand Melee Champion Bonus: +5,000 KP]
[2x KP Booster Applied!]
[Total: +59,000 KP!]
[Current Balance: 133,390 KP]
Holden stared at the number.
Six figures. He had crossed the hundred-thousand mark.
The bookmaker appeared at the cage gate, his gold-toothed grin completely gone. His hands trembled slightly as he pushed a heavy leather bag through the bars.
"Your winnings," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Holden picked up the bag. It was heavy. He didn’t count it. He didn’t need to.
He turned and walked toward the exit.
The crowd parted for him. Nobody cheered. Nobody clapped. They just stared at the black-cloaked figure walking out of the pit with a bag of gold in one hand and fifty broken bodies behind him.
The iron gates opened.
Holden stepped out into the rainy night and disappeared into the dark.