Fear [part 1]

**This chapter is only for readers 18+ and contains disturbing scenes. Please read it at your own risk.**

**The Path to the Center of the Arena**

The roar of the crowd was a wave following me as I moved through the arena, but the sound was distant, like an echo that couldn't truly reach me.

I was immersed in my world, a world made of blood, pain, and power.

Every step I took brought me closer to the center of that field of death, and I felt the ground beneath me pulse, as if the Colosseum itself recognized my path, as if it was breathing along with me.

The fresh blood on my sword still sparkled in the light of the green flames that danced on the walls, creating shadows that seemed alive, like demons ready to emerge from the darkness.

I couldn't see the expressions on the faces of the other participants, but I could feel their terror.

I sensed it in the way they moved, in their furtive glances, in their hesitant steps.

They knew what I had done, they knew what I would do again, and they didn't want to be the next ones to meet that fate.

It was fear, the fear I had sown with every blow, every inflicted torture.

A visceral, primal fear that crawled inside them like a slow poison.

And I was satisfied, very satisfied.

My plan had worked perfectly.

I didn't need to take them all down at once.

There was no need to rush toward the massacre and risk unexpected blind spots or have my guard down.

I was more patient than that, more cunning.

Every blow, every scream of pain, had been calculated to achieve exactly this: terror.

And now, as I approached the center of the arena, I felt that terror grow around me, fueled by my slow, deliberate movements, by the image I knew I projected.

A living shadow, a predator prowling in the night, waiting for the right moment to strike.

I watched them from behind my mask of darkness, and I saw how they recoiled, how they hesitated.

Their strength, their rage, were still there, but there was something new in them, something I had instilled with every drop of blood I had shed: doubt.

The doubt of being able to win, the doubt of being able to survive if they dared to challenge me.

And that doubt would doom them because it made their movements slower, their decisions less certain.

I was satisfied because I knew I had already won half the battle.

I had turned the arena into a hunting ground, and they were my prey.

I would make them run, I would make them despair, I would take them down one by one until no one was left.

I knew their fear would drive them to make mistakes, and those moments of hesitation would be their downfall.

I would strike at the moment when they let their guard down and hesitated, and at that point, my sword would be there, ready to break their lives like fragile twigs.

There was no rush.

There was no need to race toward victory.

I had time to enjoy myself.

And they would suffer for every single second they had to face me, knowing their fate was already written in the red sand beneath their feet.

**The Path to Death**

I paused for a moment at the center of the arena, and the world seemed to slow down around me.

The green flames reflected off my armor, casting shadows that danced with a life of their own, as if the fire itself was recognizing my nature.

Everything in this place seemed to converge towards me, every glance, every cry, every drop of blood spilled.

I didn't need to look around to know that all eyes were on me.

I could sense their terror, a pungent and sweet smell in the air, like iron in fresh blood.

The other participants, those wretches, moved cautiously, desperately trying to avoid my gaze.

But I knew they couldn't escape the fate I had prepared for them.

They were already dead; and they knew it, so they decided to organize.

One of the participants, a man with a massive build, his face marked by scars and bloodshot eyes, turned towards the group.

His appearance was wild, with disheveled hair and a rough beard, more like those of a beast than a man.

He wore light armor, leather reinforced with metal plates, leaving the tense muscles of his arms and legs exposed, marked by old wounds and tribal tattoos.

In his calloused hands, he gripped a double-bladed axe, large and heavy, that seemed to pulse with a dark energy.

His breath was labored, the tension making his hands tremble, and the others watched him closely, knowing that a single misstep could be lethal.

But he no longer seemed capable of enduring that pressure, that terror that was devouring him from within.

"Screw it, I'm going!" he shouted, with a hoarse voice full of desperation. "I don't care if you agree or not!"

The group froze, surprised by his sudden decision.

Some took a step back, while others looked at him with wide eyes, torn between the desire to follow him and the fear of facing me alone.

**Flashback: The Participants' Dilemma**

A little earlier, when I had started moving towards the center of the arena, the other participants had realized the imminent danger.

In a desperate act, they had decided to temporarily halt the fight among themselves.

It had not been an easy choice.

Each of them was driven by their own lust for power, by their own thirst for blood, but my presence had changed everything.

The ebony-skinned colossus, whose mace had already shattered several lives, was the first to speak.

"If we don't join forces, he'll tear us apart one by one," he said, with a deep and resonant voice, filled with an authority that no one dared to challenge immediately.

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood that stained his dark skin.

"Serpent," a slender and lethal warrior, who until that moment had moved in the shadows, hissed with contempt.

"Join forces? And who guarantees me you won't stab me at the first opportunity? There's no trust here, only death."

"Trust or not, we have to stop him," said a third participant, a woman with hair as red as fire, her eyes burning with determination.

Her armor was shiny, almost untouched, a sign of her skill in fighting without being hit.

In her hands, twin swords gleamed under the light of the flames, ready to defend her at any moment.

"I don't know," interrupted a fourth participant, younger and visibly frightened. "Maybe we can avoid him... let him pass."

But the young man's words fell on deaf ears, and the tension in the group grew.

Voices rose, opinions clashed, and in the end, no unanimous decision was made.

They were too suspicious, too selfish to find an agreement.

And while arguing seemed to be the only thing they could do, they felt my approach ever closer, with their fear growing, and with it, their desperation.

**Return to the Present**

The warrior with the axe decided he couldn't wait any longer.

With a fierce cry, he broke away from the group and charged at me, the axe raised above his head, ready to strike with all the strength he had left.

His companions watched him go, without moving.

Some were paralyzed by fear, others perhaps hoped that his desperate act might succeed, but none dared to follow him.

I stood still at the center of the arena, waiting for him to arrive.

Every muscle in my body was tense, ready to respond to the threat, but not with fear.

I was calm, serene, like a predator who knows that its prey is about to fall into its trap.

The crowd held its breath, the drums stopped for a moment, and the entire arena seemed suspended in time.