CHAPTER 184: THE BLOOD AND FANG BEGINS

Aamir leaned back in the seat reserved just for him, beside King Zalmic’s throne. From here, the entire arena stretched out like a massive coliseum of blood-red stone, the stands packed with roaring spectators—vampires and werewolves separated into their own sections by tall iron fences.

King Zalmic stood, his long cloak swaying. His voice boomed across the stadium, amplified by his Super Sonic Voice ability, deep and rich with command.

"Ladies and gentlemen, predators and prey... welcome to the grand spectacle, the Tournament of Blood and Fang!" His words rolled like thunder, and the audience erupted in cheers and howls.

"Today, you will witness strength, cunning, and the will to dominate. Some of you came to cheer for your champions... some of you came to watch them bleed. And some of you," he said with a sharp smile, "are here because you lost a bet."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"But all of you—" Zalmic raised his hand dramatically "—are here for the hunt."

He began to pace slowly. "This tournament will have three phases. Three tests of skill, courage, and survival."

Phase One: The Trials of Blood

The king gestured to the massive stained-glass window behind him, the image of a blood-red moon glowing in the sunlight.

"A vast zone infested with Blood Beasts. Survive for three days without retreating, and you pass. The beasts are relentless, their fangs thirst for you... and the weak are devoured."

Aamir smirked. "Sounds like a warm-up."

Zalmic’s gaze was cold. "Many do not survive the first trial."

From inside Aamir’s mind, Luman’s tone sharpened.

"Host, do not underestimate them. These Blood Beasts carry ancient energy—some may rival demon-tier creatures."

Aamir grinned wider. "Even better."

Phase Two: The Hunt of Fangs

"Those who survive," Zalmic continued, "will enter the Hunt. Vampires versus werewolves, in a vast hunting ground. No killing is allowed... but crippling?" His grin sharpened. "Not forbidden."

The crowd howled and hissed in approval.

"Points are earned by capturing your enemies or defeating them in combat. The first team to reach the score limit wins. But beware... the werewolves excel at the Hunt. Their speed, their senses, their pack tactics... even my elite warriors struggle to match them."

Aamir leaned forward lazily. "Then it’s a good thing you brought someone who doesn’t play fair."

Phase Three: The Final Duel

"In the end," Zalmic said, raising his hand high, "the champion of each race will face the other in single combat under the Blood Moon’s gaze. The victor claims ultimate honor for their race... and dominance for the next century."

Aamir’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "Ah, so that’s where I come in."

The crowd stirred with whispers and shouts, sizing up the competitors.

"Is that the so-called ’King of Beasts’?" a vampire noble scoffed.

"He doesn’t even look undead," another muttered.

From the werewolf stands, a warrior barked a laugh. "I could snap him in half before breakfast."

"Careful," his companion replied with a smirk. "The quiet ones are the ones that bite hardest."

Zalmic gestured to the gates. "Now... behold your champions!"

From the vampire side, three figures emerged:

Gordan, the Northern Dominion’s hot-blooded juggernaut, his crimson armor gleaming like fresh blood.

Syran, the shadow-stepping tactician, his black cloak merging with the arena’s shadows.

And Aamir, the so-called King of Beasts, standing with an easy confidence that unsettled both crowds.

From the werewolf side came three more:

Fenric Bloodfang, a scarred brute with a necklace of silvered fangs, his yellow eyes locked on Aamir with the promise of a future kill.

Ralkor the Ironhide, a towering beast with fur like steel wires and claws that carved grooves in the stone floor.

Vexa Moonscar, lean and deadly, her movements like a hunting cat as she licked blood from her claws.

The arena vibrated with the force of the cheers, growls, and snarls.

Zalmic’s voice cut through the chaos. "Let the games... begin!"

"And now..." the booming voice echoed through the grand coliseum, its stone walls catching the sound and hurling it back like a living wave. "The moment you’ve all been waiting for! Your one and only, your best host, your forever stylish Vellarin Hosang is here!"

The crowd roared. Even the cold-faced vampires and the grim werewolves found themselves smirking at the sheer over-the-top theatrics. Vellarin was a show in himself—dark crimson suit tailored so perfectly it looked poured onto him, a matching fedora tilted at a daring angle, and a cane tipped with a silver fang. His grin was wide enough to rival the moon.

"Oh, you look good tonight, Dominion! And I know you came here for blood—" the vampires in the crowd hissed and cheered, "—and for glory—" the werewolves howled in unison, "—but most importantly, for the fight of the century!"

He spun the cane in his fingers, pointing toward the massive circular stage in the center of the arena. "Now listen up, all you eager little combatants, because ol’ Vellarin’s got the rules for ya. And trust me—break ’em, and you’ll be kissing the ground before you can blink."

The cheers died down just enough for his voice to slice through the air.

---

Tournament Rules – As Read by Vellarin Hosang

1. No killing in the opening rounds. He jabbed his cane toward the stage. "We save the dramatic death scenes for later, people. Keep it clean... or at least cleaner than usual."

2. Stay in the arena. Step out of bounds? You’re done. "And no, shadow-stepping outside doesn’t count as clever—it counts as losing. Except the first round because it’s going to happen in blood valley"

3. No outside interference. "Your buddies can cheer, they can cry, they can throw roses... but they can’t throw knives. Looking at you, row twelve."

4. Final duels? All bets are off. "That’s right, once we hit the grand finale, the gloves come off, the claws come out, and... well, I can’t legally finish that sentence."

5. Respect the host. "Yes, that’s an official rule. Don’t test me."

"Now!" Vellarin clapped his hands together, and the giant iron gates at the far side of the coliseum began to grind open. "You’ve met the champions, but I bet you’re wondering—who else has the guts to step into this pit of teeth and claws? Let me introduce the rest of our bold, beautiful, and possibly brain-damaged contestants!"

The crowd laughed, but all eyes turned to the gate.

---

Additional Participants

First out was a tall vampire in a sleek black dueling coat, his pale skin almost glowing under the torchlight. Vellarin twirled his cane toward him. "From the Eastern Dominion, master of the dagger dance, and a man who claims to have never lost a duel—Serik Draevin!"

The vampire gave a curt nod, his crimson eyes cold and assessing.

Next came a broad-shouldered werewolf, fur already bristling though he was still in his humanoid form. "From the Northern Dominion, the howling hammer of the battlefields—Brak Stonehide!" Brak raised his fists to the crowd, drawing deep, guttural cheers from the werewolves in the stands.

Following him was a slender vampire woman in crimson silks, her every step measured like a dance. "Ahh, the rose of the West, the lady whose smile is deadlier than her blade—Valissa Korven!" She bowed slightly, eyes scanning the crowd like she was picking her next victim.

Then came a scarred werewolf with a missing ear, his armor mismatched but clearly well-used. "Korr the Unbroken!" Vellarin shouted. "The man who fought an ogre bare-handed and lived to tell the tale—though not very well, he slurs a bit."

The spectators chuckled.

---

The introductions continued—fighters of various builds and temperaments stepping forward, each met with either roars, hisses, or deafening silence depending on their Dominion. Vampires in regal coats, werewolves in battle leathers, a few mysterious hooded figures whose very presence seemed to darken the air.

And then...

The gates rumbled again, but this time the atmosphere shifted. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind over water.

"And finally," Vellarin drawled, his grin sharp as a knife, "the only one of his kind in this entire tournament. The wild card. The unknown. The King of Beasts—Aamir!"

The cheer wasn’t immediate. First there was that moment of curiosity—many in the audience had never seen a beast kin before, let alone one standing tall among vampires and werewolves. Then came the murmurs, then the rising noise—some cheers, some jeers, and a few outright growls from the wolf side.

Aamir stepped out with steady strides, his posture relaxed but radiating quiet strength. His golden eyes swept over the arena—not in challenge, but in assessment. To him, this wasn’t about showmanship. This was about winning.

Vellarin gave him an exaggerated bow. "Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes—because I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot more of this one before the night is over."

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Crowd Reactions

In the stands, the spectators murmured among themselves.

"A beast man? Here?" a vampire noble scoffed. "This will be over quickly. The werewolves will eat him alive."

A werewolf youth leaned toward his elder. "You think so? Look at his stance. He’s not nervous. Not even a little."

A cluster of younger vampires whispered excitedly. "What’s his Path? Does he even have one?"

In the werewolf section, a scarred veteran crossed his arms. "That one’s dangerous," he muttered. "He moves like he’s already seen the end of the fight."

Even a few of the champions, waiting in the fighter’s row, found themselves glancing at him more than once.

---

Vellarin spun his cane one last time. "Well, well, well... looks like we have ourselves a full house. Fighters! Tomorrow at dawn, the tournament begins. You’ve got one night to prepare, sharpen your claws, drink your fill—whatever it is you do before trying to punch someone unconscious in front of ten thousand people. Sleep tight!"

The crowd erupted again, the sound carrying into the night like the heartbeat of the Dominion itself.