CHAPTER 27: THE THRONE OF BLOOD

The first one didn’t warn anyone.

Not a word. Not even a louder breath.

She leapt.

A guttural growl rumbled in her throat, the bone armor cracking with each movement, her horns aimed like two blades. Her claws found the throat of her neighbor before the others even understood what was happening.

A wet, short sound, then a red spray burst across the circular table. The black stone drank it instantly, as if it had been thirsty for centuries.

— More! roared a demon with a broken jaw.

Others joined in, chanting the killer’s name: "Varka! Varka!"

The rhythm of fists pounding the stone grew faster.

The scream that followed wasn’t that of a victim. It was that of a predator who had just tasted blood.

Around them, the other twenty flinched — an animal reflex — and the very next second, everything collapsed into chaos.

Chairs scraped, some toppled. A shoulder shattered a backrest. Arms shot out for a throat, a jaw, a braid to yank. Claws scraped stone, found flesh, tore it open. The air filled with the metallic scent of blood, the acid tang of sweat, and hot dust. Every breath was a lungful of war.

I didn’t move.

I let them dive into this orgy of violence.

My eyes drifted from body to body, observing the details: the way a thigh tensed for a kick, the sway of hips before a charge, the reflex to lower the shoulders before striking. Even in this chaos, the flesh spoke.

A dark-skinned demoness, clad in scraps of leather, grabbed her rival by the jaw and slammed her into the table. The skull bounced once, twice, before splitting open like an overripe fruit.

Another, slimmer, dodged a blow, slid behind her enemy and strangled her with her own braid until she felt the vertebrae snap beneath her forearms.

The stands trembled under the roars. Two hundred males howled, growled, stomped their heels against the stone. Some leaned forward on the edge, eyes shining, as if the slightest weakness would grant them the right to leap down and join in.

A hot splash hit my cheek. I barely turned my head.

Two fighters were rolling on the ground, claws buried in each other’s bellies. They screamed in unison, face to face, lips almost touching, a thread of saliva and blood hanging between clenched teeth.

— Bite her! Bite her!

Raucous laughter erupted from higher up, followed by a long collective growl that rolled like thunder.

They weren’t just fighting to survive. They fought to dominate, to humiliate, to break the other down to the last heartbeat.

I felt my jaw clench. Not to hold back an order. To savor the show.

They had no names anymore. Just beasts.

Alliances shattered at the first spray of blood. Groups formed and dissolved in the same second. Every time a back was exposed, another set of claws dug in.

— Kill her, bitch! a female voice bellowed.

— Not yet! Make her suffer! another panted in reply.

Every time a body fell, two others pounced on it to rip away whatever it held.

To my left, a lithe figure with hips built for dancing had just disarmed an opponent. She had no weapon. She clung to her rival’s long black braid, wrapped it around her throat, and pulled.

The muscles of her back rippled under the strain.

Her breasts swelled with each breath, her thighs knotted like cables around the body thrashing beneath her.

Then, a sharp crack, and the head smacked the stone, again and again, until the neck bent at an irreversible angle.

Farther away, a giantess bare to the waist lifted her prey like a ragdoll.

Her heavy breasts, smeared with blood, swung with each brutal motion.

She locked her arms around the enemy’s torso and squeezed.

The sound of ribs splitting rang up through my feet. When she released her, the other’s legs still trembled, but her eyes were already lifeless. She tossed her like a sack of bones into the center of the table.

Another snatched up a shard of bone torn from a dead woman’s broken arm.

Without a word, she spun, slit one throat, then continued her motion to open another belonging to someone who hadn’t even seen her coming. Two red sprays crossed in the air before splattering across the black stone, splashing the feet of those still fighting.

The stands were in a frenzy.

Some males screamed themselves raw, others stomped the ground as if to shake the table. A few leaned dangerously far forward, hoping a body might fall within reach so they could sink their teeth in.

A heavier stench settled in: the mix of fresh blood, heated leather, and animal sweat. The heat rose, sticking to the skin, making every breath heavier. The cries mingled with groans of pain, sometimes with the dry laughter of those savoring a kill.

I stayed still. My eyes swept over each body. I searched for those who killed quickly, without wasting movement.

Those who knew where to strike, how to dodge, when to retreat to charge again.

In the center, two women rolled across the floor, their thighs tangled, hips striking the stone with every turn. They clawed at each other’s faces, tore out clumps of hair, blood gluing their mouths.

One rose astride the other, pressed her palms to her throat, and pushed until the arms stopped moving.

Her chest lifted one last time before sinking, soaked in a mix of sweat and blood that glistened under the red light.

Around them, the others kept going. Nothing resembled an ordered fight anymore. It was a macabre dance of spasms, sharp blows, and bites. The slowest fell. The hesitant too.

And me, in the middle of this chaos, I thought only of one thing: seeing which ones would survive long enough to deserve to keep breathing.

The noise waned. The violence did not.

On the table, the blood was already pooling thick. Bodies lay twisted, skin slashed, eyes frozen in expressions of agony or unfinished rage.

The stands hadn’t quieted — two hundred males in a trance, breathing hard, some with mouths half open as if tasting the scene.

Only five remained.

Five silhouettes still standing, flayed, panting, covered in blood that wasn’t always theirs.

One, tall and massive, had forearms drenched to the elbows. Her muscles rolled under her dark skin with each breath. She’d lost her top, her heavy breasts marked with fresh scratches rising slowly, as if to warn there was still strength left to give. She stood slightly hunched forward, chin low, like a beast ready to spring.

The second, slimmer, pale skin crossed with dark tattoos, still wore a faint smile on her lips. Her hips swayed barely as she turned to scan the others, but her eyes stayed fixed on her enemies’ hands, on how they moved. Her smooth, taut thighs betrayed a speed ready to explode.

The third limped, but her eyes burned. Her blood-matted hair framed a face carved from hatred. She held a rib torn from a corpse, using it as an improvised dagger. Every step left a red print behind her.

The last two seemed opposite:

One, soaked in blood, short hair spiked, tongue running over her lips as if still tasting her prey.

The other, almost untouched, just a red streak across her belly, muscles firm and torso upright, as if she’d come from training, not a massacre.

They sized each other up. Five living statues in the middle of a still-warm slaughterhouse.

I slowly swept my eyes over them. Only two deserve to live. I knew it. So did they.

The stands roared louder, demanding the next act. Fists hammered the stone, the rhythm climbing. A sharper scent mingled with the blood: the animal tension, the body’s scent when ready to kill or to mate. In the air, everything vibrated, ready to erupt again.

The next instant, the first move was made. And I knew the three who would fall would do so quickly... and badly.

The first blow struck like lightning.

The tall, dark-skinned one crossed the space to the tattooed pale woman and slammed her shoulder into her so hard the air seemed to compress around them. The impact drove the tattooed one back, but she pivoted instantly, using the momentum to throw a spinning kick that cracked against a third woman’s jaw.

That one staggered back two steps, her face splattered with her own blood. She growled, clenched her jagged rib in hand, and charged without thinking. Her breasts bounced with each stride, eyes locked on the tattooed woman’s throat. But the tall one stepped between them, grabbed the wounded one’s wrist, and with a sharp twist, bent her arm into a grotesque angle. A scream tore out.

The stands roared.

The tall one didn’t give her time to retreat: her hands clamped on her jaw and neck, and with a sharp jerk, she broke everything. The body went limp instantly, legs still twitching with nerve spasms. She tossed it to the ground like useless meat.

— One, she growled, eyes locked on the tattooed woman.

The latter didn’t answer. She simply circled her, slow, feet sliding almost silently over the bloodstained stone. Her silver tattoos seemed to glow under the reddish light, tracing the supple curve of her hips and the narrowness of her waist. Her eyes gleamed with a mix of excitement and calculation.

The tall one stepped once, then again. The muscles in her thighs rippled, her chest rose in a steady rhythm. The tattooed woman waited for the exact moment her opponent charged to duck, slip under her arm, and sink her nails directly into her flank, just under the ribs. The tall one growled in pain, but her hands were already closing on the tattooed woman’s forearms.

Their bodies pressed together, chest to chest, hot breath mingling with the blood flowing between them. The tattooed woman tried to pull away, but the tall one dragged her closer, arms like vices. They rolled together in the blood, overturning several times. Every contact was a fight for breath, every brush of skin was coated in sweat and fluids.

Then, in a flash, the tattooed one hooked her legs around the tall one’s neck and, in an inverted arc, pulled her down while driving her fingers into her eyes. A raw scream exploded, muffled in a gurgle.

A final crack. Silence.

The tall one collapsed to the side, chest still twitching in spasms. The tattooed woman sat up, breathing heavily, her tattoos marbled with black and red blood, her breasts covered in claw marks, lips parted as if still savoring the moment.

Only she remained. And another.

The two I wanted.

They stood there.

Face to face, bodies covered in blood and sweat, still rooted in the stance of predators.

The first — the silver-tattooed one — straightened slowly, as if knowing every movement would draw eyes. Her pale skin was marbled with dark marks from claws and bites.

Her tattoos still gleamed in places, following the lines of her ribs, the curve of her hips, the stiffness of her taut thighs. Her hair, long and silver like her markings, clung to her damp back.

Dried blood traced the shape of her breasts, two diagonal lines running down to her waist. She breathed hard, each inhalation lifting her fine ribs and pacing the tension in the air.

Opposite her, the second survivor looked like a female colossus carved from ash and fire. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark skin veined with molten red as if magma flowed beneath the surface.

Her black hair, tightly braided, whipped against her neck with every move. An old scar crossed her lower lip, giving her smile a feral edge. Her high, firm breasts were splattered with fresh blood, and her muscles, lean and sharp, still seemed to vibrate from her last kill.

Every time she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her thighs flexed like jaws ready to crush.

They stared at each other, and even the stands had dropped in volume, as if the two hundred males were holding their breath.Neither trembled.

Their gazes said the same thing: I will not bow.

The ground beneath them was a carpet of corpses and clotted blood. Every step made a wet sound, every movement released another wave of metallic, animal scent. The tattooed one tilted her head, an almost imperceptible smile on her lips. The tall one cracked her knuckles, letting the silence thicken.

I stopped in the center, slowly turned on myself. My gaze slid over every face, every tense jaw, every pair of enraged eyes in the stands.

— Males... of my tribe. Yes... my tribe. You belong to me.

A growl rose instantly from the stands. Fists pounded chests, claws scraped stone.

— You have seen your females fight like beasts. Me... I will make you more than beasts. Stronger than stone, faster than fire, hungrier than the night.

The murmur swelled. Some leaned forward, panting, as if my words lit something primal deep in their guts.

— Under my name, you will become superior predators. Not just to kill... but to take. Everything. Strength. Glory. The females.

A shiver rippled through the crowd. Guttural cries burst out.

— Bring me the strays. The wolves without a pack. The males who think they are useless. Here, I will break them... to reforge them.

The stands began to quake under the chants:

— SORA! SORA! SORA!

I raised my hand. Instant silence. Not a breath.

— What you saw... was only the warm-up. The first bite of this feast.

I smiled. Slowly. Heavily.

— Now... let me show you how a true dominant male takes what is his.

Behind me, the three survivors panted. Their thighs still knotted from the struggle, their gazes charged with defiance... and a burning impatience.

They knew. The crowd knew.

I took a step forward.

The real show was about to begin.