The weak

"I'm going to make sure you suffer, you bas-," Sierra choked out, her voice strained and desperate, before her words were abruptly cut short by the sickening sound of her own neck snapping.

"Tell it your mother," Azrael sneered, his grip releasing her lifeless body, which fell to the floor with a hollow thud, marking the end of Sierra's ill-fated challenge.

Amidst the thunderous cheers of the crowd, their fervor reignited by the savagery they had grown to revel in, sat a young lady and a man in the VIP section.

The lady's beauty surpassed even that of Sierra, whose lifeless form lay discarded on the ground, while the man possessed a rugged yet captivating countenance.

Azrael, basking in the attention and relishing his role as the tournament's merciless executioner, continued to taunt the assembled fighters, his words dripping with provocation.

"My dear lady, shall I go forth and put an end to his wretched existence?" the man asked, his voice laced with a hint of eagerness.

"Hmm, not just yet," the woman replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Let him make it to the final. Decapitating him there will serve as the perfect crescendo to this tournament."

"Do not fret, my love. You will soon dispose of them all, and then we can finally escape this suffocating palace and be together," she whispered softly.

Azrael, standing defiantly at the center of the arena, found himself faced with an unanswered challenge. The absence of any formidable opponent led him to conclude that this tournament was indeed populated by weaklings.

No one had yet tested his mettle, and even his previous encounter had required no more than the barest exertion, his sword untouched by the crimson stain of battle.

Azrael paused in his stride, his mind resonating with the voice of Ava. The presence of formidable individuals had not eluded him; he had sensed their potent auras permeating the arena. Yet, their refusal to engage in battle had puzzled him.

"I'm guessing that the truly strong ones see no need to fall for such blatant provocation. They have nothing to prove," Ava's voice echoed within Azrael's consciousness.

"Yes, you're right," Azrael conceded, a tinge of anticipation lingering in his voice. "Hopefully I will have the opportunity to face them later on."

Turning to depart, Azrael had already begun to make his way towards the exit when a voice, resonating with unwavering confidence, shattered the air.

"And where do you think you're going? I have yet to humble you, masked one," the man's voice declared, capturing Azrael's attention.

Curiosity piqued, Azrael turned to behold the source of the assertive challenge. His gaze locked onto the man, who exuded an aura of undeniable confidence and determination.

"Well, well, what do we have here? It seems that Votile, the man slayer, has stepped forward to accept the challenge," the announcer proclaimed, igniting a raucous eruption of cheers from the crowd.

Votile's confident words hung in the air, his voice dripping with arrogance as he issued his ultimatum. Azrael's piercing gaze swept over Votile's form, meticulously assessing his opponent from head to toe. There was something peculiar about Votile, a sensation that tugged at Azrael's instincts.

"Ava, this man... He's deliberately suppressing his power, isn't he?" Azrael's voice resonated with a mixture of perplexity and suspicion.

Ava's response carried the same perplexity, laced with an underlying confusion. "No, it appears that he truly is as weak as you perceive. His aura matches his apparent lack of strength."

Azrael released a long, exasperated sigh, his frustration evident. "Can you please just leave? I really don't want to indulge in such a pointless fight."

Votile seized upon Azrael's apparent reluctance, taunting him with the accusation of fear. "Ah, it seems the masked merchant trembles at the thought of facing me. Very well, this will be recorded as your defeat by forfeit."

"The masked merchant is set to lose his third challenge by forfeit," the announcer's voice reverberated through the vast expanse of the arena, echoing the anticipated outcome.

Azrael's masked face sank into the palm of his hand, a gesture of exasperation and disbelief. With a shake of his head, he lifted his gaze to meet Votile's eyes, determination flickering within his own.

"Fine, prepare yourself. I will end this swiftly," Azrael declared, his words laced with a steely resolve.

Votile unsheathed his sword, his unwavering gaze locked onto Azrael. The tension in the arena reached its zenith as the fight was officially signaled to commence.

In the blink of an eye, a sickening thud shattered the silence, resonating throughout the arena. The sound was born from the sheer force of Azrael slamming Votile's head into the ground with such speed that Votile couldn't fathom the swiftness of his defeat.

Azrael's grip tightened around Votile's head, his fingers intertwining with blood-soaked strands of hair as he lifted him from the shattered ground. The audience, initially reveling in Votile's humiliating defeat, transformed their amusement into bloodlust, their voices morphing into a cacophony of demands for Votile's demise.

"Finish him! Finish him!" The chilling chant reverberated throughout the arena, echoing the crowd's dark desires as they yearned for Azrael to deliver the fatal blow.

Amidst the clamor, Votile, his consciousness waning, managed to mumble his surrender, his feeble voice barely reaching Azrael's ears through the palm pressed against his face. The fervent crowd, however, was unyielding in their thirst for blood, unwilling to accept Votile's plea.

Azrael released his grip, understanding that extracting any significant amount of dark ki from Votile's lifeless form would not be possible.

Resisting the primal urge to succumb to his usual bloodlust, he turned away, walking steadfastly from the scene. The collective disapproval of the arena manifested as a chorus of boos, but Azrael paid no heed to their discontent.

His footsteps carried him further, each stride drowning out the unrelenting clamor of the crowd, until he could faintly discern the distant tolling of church bells, their somber melody a stark contrast to the violence that had unfolded.