Episode 65: Death Is Just As Common As Life

(I skipped to the fun part directly, you know why;)

Echoing drumbeats 🥁 all over the stadium!! 🏟️

A public of over 14,630,000 grabbing their seats, roaring in awe and wonder of the greatness about to unleash.

"This is the clash of the G.O.A.T.S.!! The fighting maniacs breaking bones without even knowing how many bones are even there in the body. They smash up fantastically and we see that all here! Welcome me, your companion for commentary today, the name goes Bobber Goodmaniac. Warning: Don't take that name seriously, I am much more of a maniac for today, hahaha. So, come on! Let's discuss it all with my good friend here, Mr. Deater Poorie."

"I hate violence, I don't know why the hell am I here! Please let me go!!" Said Mr. Deater Poorie, who was brought here without his wish.

"Guess I'll have to continue on my own for today, Mr. Deater ain't in that good mood, it's alright Mr. Deater, Mr. Poorie, you can sit silent (someone can cut his tongue later)." Bobber continued in his sarcastic and efficiently engaging tone.

"Ahem... Friends, foes, and curious spectators who dare to tread the fine line between lunacy and thrill-seeking,

Welcome to The Eternal Twilight—where the sublime chaos of battle intertwines with the eerie whisper of destiny itself. You, fortunate or perhaps terribly misguided souls, have arrived to witness what can only be described as a symphony of violence conducted by fate's most twisted hand. And let me assure you, my dear reader, the overture is about to begin, and it promises nothing short of the most delicious chaos.

Picture it: a colossal arena suspended with the red atmosphere blurring the audience for the contestants but not its deafening roars, this red atmosphere is the wonder of the projectors above this realm to remind the contestants that they are in hell. This will not only reflect the color of blood on the ground but the haunt of that same hot blood that melts steel. Oh shit, I went a little too dark. 

But as a matter of fact, that's what gives the realm of The Red Arena, it's name! A realm where the sun and moons seem to have entered into an eternal staring contest—neither willing to blink, and frankly, who could blame them? If I had a seat this good, I too would hesitate to look away. What lies within this ominous red twilight is a sight so absurdly magnificent that even a Seer might hesitate before prophesizing its conclusion.

But do not fret, for we mortals can only revel in the uncertainty, the tantalizing edge where life and death dance a waltz of steel and blood. So sit back, relax (if that's even possible in a place where the air itself hums with impending carnage, oh my love for crimson), and prepare yourself for a spectacle unlike any other. Trust me, you won't want to miss the delightful brutality to come, unless, of course, you value your sanity.

And now, as your gaze drifts from the battlefield itself to the towering relics that encircle it, allow me to introduce you to the Pillars of Agony. Yes, those solemn, brooding columns of stone that form an unholy ring around the battleground—towers of hells of skies and grounds. Their surfaces, once pristine and unmarred, have long since surrendered to the relentless embrace of time. Layered with the dirt of forgotten eras, dust from distant lands, and sand that clings to them like a whisper of a battle long past, they stand... waiting. Always watching.

Now, let us turn our gaze upon the esteemed participants.

Our first act features the illustrious swordsmen, artisans of the blade—men and women who have dedicated their lives to the subtle art of not dying while also ensuring their enemies learn how very sharp their weapons are. If you thought fencing was an elegant sport, oh sweet child of naivety, prepare to be disillusioned. Here, swords aren't simply swung—they're wielded like vengeful instruments of fate, slicing through air, bone, and hope with equal grace.

The Eternal Twilight boasts sword fights that make you question the very fabric of reality. "Can a person's body really move that fast?" you might wonder. The answer is yes, and unfortunately for some, "Can a person's body survive being cut into such tiny pieces?" is another question that looms large. The answer to that one, of course, is usually no.

But oh, let's not forget the unarmed combatants.

Ah, the fools brave enough to face down swords, spears, and gods know what else… without so much as a butterknife. What they lack in weaponry, they make up for in fists that strike like the hammer of a vengeful deity. Their bodies are their arsenal, their knuckles ringing out like the toll of a death bell, announcing the end of their opponent's good fortune. These fighters have trained their hands to be as deadly as any blade. It's said that the Thunderstrike Fist of one competitor once hit a man so hard that he forgot his own name… and unfortunately for him, remembered it just in time to get hit again.

Picture this: two fighters locked in brutal combat, one barehanded, the other armed to the teeth. The unarmed warrior's knuckles meet the sharp edge of a blade, and the crowd winces, only to see the blade shatter into pieces. If you're not already enthralled, then perhaps you've lost your ability to feel joy—or perhaps you, too, were hit by the Thunderstrike.

Next, the mass combat, and oh, what an exquisite tapestry of disorder that shall be.

Imagine, if you will, a scene of perfectly orchestrated chaos—a hundred thousand combatants, each one with a vendetta sharper than their weapon, clashing like waves in a storm. The sounds of steel crashing against steel, the grunt of warriors as they hurl themselves into the fray, and the occasional unfortunate soul being launched across the arena like a sack of potatoes hurled by an angry grocer. It's the sort of pandemonium that would make even a Demoness of Unaging pause and admire the bedlam. What's that? Strategy, you ask? Ah, sweet innocence, such a quaint notion.

If you're expecting well-thought-out tactics, you might be sorely disappointed, or more likely, pleasantly amused. Strategy here means knowing who to hit, when to duck, and how to avoid being trampled by a horde of berserkers swinging axes the size of your ego. Victory here isn't about finesse; it's about surviving long enough to be the last one standing. And perhaps, just perhaps, a bit of luck (or bribing the right deity beforehand) will see you through.

But what of the weapons, you inquire? Ah, where do I even begin?

To call the arsenal on display here "eclectic" would be an understatement so profound, even the Hermit would raise an eyebrow. From swords that shimmer with enchanted light to whips that crackle with lightning, we've got it all. Axes so large they make you wonder if the person wielding them is compensating for something, and spears so sharp they could slice through arrogance itself.

And let us not forget the more… creative combatants. The sort who, when asked to choose a weapon, reply with something like, "Why, my dear sir, the only thing sharper than my wit is this shovel I found out back." But I assure you, when you see someone wielding a common household item like it was forged in the fires of the Abyss, you start to question reality itself. Perhaps, in a twist of fate, it's not the weapon that's important, but the sheer audacity of the wielder.

Ah, and how could I forget to mention one of the most awe-inspiring, absurdly excessive, and, quite frankly, genius features of this magnificent coliseum, this titanic arena.

For you see, dear spectators, this is no ordinary battleground where one must simply rely on their two feeble eyes and a distant glimpse of flying limbs to catch the action. Oh no, the architects of this grand arena—likely madmen with far too much gold and time on their hands—decided that subtlety was for the faint of heart. Hence, The Red Arena has been outfitted with a staggering 100,000 screens!! Yes, you heard correctly, hundred thousand—so many, in fact, that if you were to somehow be struck blind by one of the more… enthusiastic warriors on the field, you could still sense the bloodshed from the sheer glow of the displays alone.

Each screen is crystal-clear, providing such an up-close view of the action that you might mistake it for reality itself. Every bead of sweat, every drop of blood, every oh-dear-gods-is-that-his-dick moment is broadcast with such excruciating detail, it's as if the arena itself is trying to burn the carnage into your very soul. Glorious, isn't it?

But wait—what good are 100,000 screens if you can't hear the sweet serenade of clashing steel and pained groans along the captivating BGMs?

Ah, my friends, worry not, for The Red Arena is equipped with a delightful array of 200,000 speakers, ensuring that no matter where you sit, stand, or attempt to cower from the chaos, you shall be immersed in the soundscape of destruction enhanced with thunderous BGMs, and do I mean Background Music? Nay nay, I mean Battle Ground Music! That's right, 200,000. More speakers than even the most pretentious of audiophiles could dream of.

The commentator's voice—my voice, as fate would have it—echoes through the stadium like a thunderous decree from on high. Every cheer, every gasp, and every sharp, witty quip I offer (and believe me, they are plentiful) reverberates across the arena, sinking into the hearts of even the most jaded onlooker. You, dear audience, will not merely watch the battle; you will feel it. Every shattering blow, every bone-crunching impact, every sick badass beat, delivered directly to your eardrums with the clarity of a divine proclamation.

In this arena, the very air vibrates with power. Your pulse will quicken, your senses sharpened to a razor's edge, as though you, too, are one step away from the battlefield. The Red Arena doesn't just show you the battle—it demands that you become a part of it.

So lean in, won't you? The madness is about to begin.

In conclusion, my dear spectator,

If you're not already trembling with excitement, on the edge of your seat, biting your nails (or someone else's—no judgment here), then I suggest you check your pulse. The Eternal Twilight promises no safety, no certainty—only the sweet embrace of chaos, violence, and the ever-present question: "What in the name of the Lord of the Mysteries could possibly happen next?"

Grab your seats, your swords, and perhaps a helmet. You're going to need it."

The preparation room was vast, illuminated by the cold, sterile glow of red and blue lights that cast long shadows across the floor. Contestants, each an incarnation of different fighting styles and techniques, bustled about in various states of readiness. Some were testing their swords, others warming up with bare-knuckle strikes, while a few sat quietly on drum-like seats, eyes closed, mentally preparing for the brutality that awaited them in the arena.

In separation, Griswa, Yesdar, Malaes, and Virumi sat off to the side. Their relaxed, almost casual demeanor stood out against the backdrop of nervous anticipation that filled the room. While other fighters readied themselves with sharpened weapons and energy drinks, the trio remained unworried, their calmness betraying their experience and power.

Malaes, being the strategic thinker, leaned forward with a stern expression. "First things first, don't do something reckless that'll get you disqualified. And second," she added, her eyes narrowing slightly, "don't let them see the full extent of your power. No commanding techniques. No showing off. We can't afford to be exposed."

Yesdar sighed in irritation, leaning back against the glass. "Yeah, yeah. We know." He rolled his eyes as Malaes continued, but the seriousness in her voice kept his attention.

Malaes wasn't done yet. "Third," she emphasized, her voice low and almost deadly, "try to avoid injuring them too badly. Miss their vital parts. We're here to win the money, not leave a trail of corpses behind. You two are strong—too strong for this. A little force from either of you and they could die. Even if killing is allowed, we're not here to slaughter for no reason."

Virumi, sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow at the sternness of Malaes' tone. "True extent of power?" she asked, confused by what Malaes had just implied. "What are you talking about?"

But she received no answer, just silence. The trio exchanged a knowing look, leaving her question hanging in the air.

"I'm saying this for safety reasons," Malaes continued, her eyes softening slightly but still holding an edge.

"Yeah, I guess she cares about you guys," Virumi interjected, trying to add a light-hearted tone, "that's why she's asking you to be careful."

Malaes shot back without missing a beat. "I don't give a damn about their safety. They don't need it. I'm talking about the poor bastards who are about to face them."

A sweatdrop formed on the back of Virumi's head. Wow... okay then.

They sat in one of the many preparation rooms scattered throughout the massive arena complex. The space was filled with the sound of clashing weapons, hushed conversations, and the occasional cheer from someone hyping themselves up drinking too many, just freaking too many energy drinks!

Griswa and Yesdar, however, needed none of it. They sat confidently, each with an air of calm dominance. They had already scoped out the rules: there were two main events—The Duel Competition and The Mass Fight. The winner of the duel would take home 170 million wafferions. The duel competition could be fought with both swords and bare handedly. Both the contestants could use a sword or fight bare handed depending on their wishes and convenience.

On the other hand, the victor of the mass fight—a colossal battle royale where only one could remain standing out of hundreds of thousands—would win a staggering 1 billion wafferions just like what Maayaz had said.

The room felt alive, charged with the energy of anticipation, excitement, and fear. And as they looked out through the massive, soundproof glass window that dominated the room, they could see the sheer size of the crowd outside. Even though the glass was soundproof, the roar of the spectators, the hum of excitement, reverberated through the walls. The energy was undeniable.

The first rounds of the duels were already underway. Contestants were being called up, one by one, their names displayed on the screens throughout the arena. It wouldn't be long before Yesdar's name was called, and he would take to the stage.

Malaes handed over the digital nameplates—small, sleek badges with a touchscreen interface. "You're both already registered. All you need to do is enter your names and get verified," she said, glancing at the two.

Yesdar stared at the small badge, his brow furrowed. There was just one tiny problem—they had never really learned how to read and write the common tongue. In all their training with Fheniz, this was a skill that had somehow slipped through the cracks.

Yesdar's face twisted in embarrassment. "Virumi, can you... uh... type in our names for us?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady as he handed her the badge.

Virumi's face lit up like a billion suns, hearts practically dancing in her eyes. Yesdar-sama... asked me... for help?! Nooooooooiiiiiiiii!!!!! Her inner voice squealed with delight, but she maintained her composure as best she could, despite her mind spiraling into a romantic whirlwind. "Sure, Yesdar-sama!!" she replied, beaming.

"What exactly did you register as?" she asked, her fingers hovering over the badge.

"Jesdala," Yesdar answered, scratching his head. "I don't know why, but that name just... popped into my head instinctively."

Virumi nodded as she typed, her face glowing with admiration. "It's almost like your name, but with different syllables. Jesdala..." She pressed the final key, and the name appeared on the badge, a confirmation tick glowing next to it.

"Done," she said with pride, handing it back to him.

Next, Griswa handed her his badge. "Can you do the same for me?" he asked casually, "I registered as Helezar."

"Sure, why not?" Virumi replied with a dramatic flourish, typing in the name as quickly as she had for Yesdar. The name appeared on the screen, confirmed with another tick mark. She handed the badge back to Griswa, who gave her a thankful nod.

"Thanks," Griswa said as he pinned the badge to his coat.

As they sat back down, Virumi's expression shifted, her gaze serious for once. "Are you sure you guys are going to win?" she asked cautiously. "In tournaments like these... death is just as common as life."

Griswa, with his trademark cocky grin, leaned back and crossed his arms. "Who do you think we are?" His tone was light, but the confidence behind his words was absolute.

Virumi smiled back at him, her eyes soft with genuine fondness. "A bunch of weirdos... but good weirdos noi," she said softly. That smile said more than any words could. She never regretted meeting them, and that was clear to all of them.

Griswa chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Hehe, that's right. So, I think you know the answer. What Malaes said is true—we're not here to kill, but don't doubt us either." He shot her a knowing glance. "But if you still have doubts, then all you need to do is... keep watching."

Suddenly, the commentator's voice boomed throughout the arena, cutting through the noise like a blade. It echoed through the preparation room, sending ripples of excitement through the air. "JESDALA!" the voice called out, clear and thunderous.

Yesdar stood, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. It was time.

Pronunciations:

Maayaz Somia: [MAA]+[YAAZ]+[SOW]+[MYAH]

Deater Poorie: [DEE]+[TAR]+[POO]+[REE]