The deafening roar of the crowd echoed throughout the arena, a place shaped by blood, sweat, and screams of despair. In the center of the stone circle, the floor was marked by the scars of past battles—bloodstains that could never be erased, even by the fiercest storms.
The arena, called "The Abyss," was not just a stage for combat. It was an altar for those who worshiped violence, a celebration of human brutality. And tonight, the crowd didn't just want a fight. They wanted carnage. They wanted **Mad**.
Standing in the dark locker room, "Mad" tied the bandages around his wrists with terrifying precision. Each knot was a promise of pain, each movement a reminder of his reputation. His cold, empty gaze was reflected in the blade of the knife that twirled in his right hand, an object that seemed an extension of his body.
Mad was not just a man. He was a dark legend, a living myth that fed on fear. To him, the tournament was more than a game—it was a hunting ground, and he was the predator.
"It's time," announced one of the organizers, a short, nervous man who hardly dared look directly at Madman.
Without a word, Madman stood up and walked to the gate that led into the arena. Each step seemed to echo in the hearts of those present. The air seemed heavier, as if the atmosphere itself recognized the danger that was about to be unleashed.
When the gates opened, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. They didn't love him. They feared him. But fear was enough to fuel the frenzy.
Madman lifted his head, staring at the mass of faces distorted by excitement. He smiled crookedly, a smile that promised destruction.
"Today," he muttered to himself, "today the arena will drink more blood."
Across the arena, his opponent was already in position. He was a burly man, covered in scars and carrying a hammer so large it seemed inhuman. But Madman didn't care about size or strength. He knew they all bled the same way.
The referee stepped into the center and raised his hand, indicating that the fight would begin soon. The silence that filled the arena was almost as deafening as the shouts from before.
"May the gods have mercy," the referee shouted, "because Madman will have none!"
The gong sounded, and Madman advanced.
---
The gong sounded, but what echoed in the arena was something more primal: the sound of chaos about to be unleashed. Madman advanced, but not like a common fighter. His movement was predatory, silent, with calculated steps. His eyes, two empty slits, fixed on his opponent, who brandished the hammer as if trying to ward off a wild beast.
The crowd held its breath as Madman circled the man, a lion circling its prey. The opponent, whose name would be forgotten before dawn, screamed and struck first. The hammer came down with brutal force, splitting the stone floor where Madman had stood moments before. He dodged with almost inhuman grace, closing in on the man, the knife gleaming in his hand. But Madman took his time with the blow. He liked to savor the fight, to feed the fear that grew in his victims' eyes. "You think you can kill me, big guy?" Madman whispered, his voice low, almost an animalistic growl. "I am the end of men like you." His opponent tried again, swinging the hammer in a wide arc, but Madman was too close. He slipped under the blow, raising the knife and slashing a vicious arc across the man's arm. Blood spurted, and the crowd erupted in screams of excitement and horror. "More blood! More pain!" the crowd roared, feeding on the violence like starving dogs.
Madman stood back, admiring his handiwork as the giant tried to stem the flow of blood. He could tell the pain was beginning to eat away at the man's confidence. It was always like this. They were big, strong, full of bravado. Until the moment they realized that Madman was not just a man. He was a monster who lived to destroy.
"Is that all you've got?" Madman taunted, tilting his head like a curious predator. "I expected more."
The man roared, anger overcoming fear, and lunged forward with full force. But Madman had already won. He dodged again, quick as lightning, and with a single precise movement, he plunged the knife into the side of the man's neck.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost tangible. The knife slid out, and the gigantic body fell like a felled tree. Blood splattered across the ground, soaking the already red-stained stones.
Madman looked up at the crowd, his lips curled into a smile that was anything but human. He held up the bloody knife, letting the audience see his handiwork.
"You wanted a show," he shouted, his voice echoing across the arena. "Then enjoy it. I'm just getting started."
The crowd erupted in wild applause, euphoric shouts of approval.
They were entranced, fascinated by the violence that only Madman could provide.
As his opponent's body was dragged out, Madman returned to the center of the arena, wiping the blood from his knife with his fist. He did not look at the gates that opened again, announcing the next challenger. He did not need to. It did not matter who came. In the end, they all fell.
---
The crowd, like an insatiable beast, did not stop screaming. But the sound was not just worship; it was a collective growl, a demonstration of the deep pleasure they found in the pain of others. Madman looked at them, his empty eyes reflecting the darkness of a spirit that no longer knew limits. They were like rats, always hungry for more - more blood, more pain, more death.
The next challenger entered the arena, more cautiously, his eyes filled with a mixture of fury and fear. The man wore simple armor, but his body was muscular, prepared for whatever came. He knew, as did everyone who had faced Madman, that the only safe place to fight did not exist. The arena was a death camp, and there were no more heroes there. There were only victims.
"What have you brought to death?" Madman shouted, his voice sharp as a steel blade. The man did not respond. He was too intelligent to fall for the provocation, but his breathing was heavy, as if he felt the weight of fate on his shoulders.
The referee, an insignificant figure in Madman's shadow, raised his hand, and the sound of the gong sounded again, deep and menacing, like the call for doom. The challenger, without hesitation, ran towards Madman, wielding a sword that looked more like a piece of iron, with the sole purpose of blocking the inevitable death that was approaching.
But Madman did not run. He did not need to. Every step he took, every movement he made, was a dance. It was as if he were in control of something much bigger than the man in front of him - as if the fight was a play he had already known how to play before it even began.
The first blow came quickly, with the steel of the sword cutting through the air, but Madman simply ducked, dodging it so fluidly that it seemed he wasn't there. The man, now without a point of balance, tried to regain his composure. And it was in that moment of desperation that Madman attacked him.
The blade flashed, and before the man could react, Madman plunged the knife into the side of his abdomen. The sound of the metal entering the flesh was cruel and definitive. Blood gushed, hot and dark, like a river of death that spread across the filthy floor of the arena.
The challenger, with a hoarse scream, fell to his knees, his hands trying to staunch the blood flow that was gushing from the wound. But Madman didn't give him time for one last thought. With a swift movement, he picked up the fallen man's sword, spinning it in his hands as if it were an extension of his own body, and with one brutal movement, he slit the challenger's throat.
The body fell with a dull thud. Blood began to spread rapidly, dyeing the arena an even deeper red. The crowd erupted in delirium, a collective scream of animal pleasure.
Crazy stood in the center of the arena, the now bloody sword in his hand. He looked up, looking at the mass of faces contorted with euphoria. He could feel their energy, the power he gave them by taking the lives of their enemies. It was a simple exchange: their pain for his adrenaline. And Crazy loved the smell of blood.
"Who's next?" he asked in a low, gravelly tone, his voice booming through the air like distant thunder.
The next man entered, faster and fiercer, perhaps smarter. But Crazy knew what that meant. No intelligence could prevent what he was. No strength could defy his thirst for death. All men who approached the arena were the same: mere shadows, mere toys for the Fool's game.
And so the dance of death continued. Each movement, each blow, each death was just another step on the dark road that the Fool was tracing. He did not tire. He did not know what tiredness was. His soul was worn out, transformed into something that no longer feared death - because he was death.
The arena was no longer a battlefield. It was his home. His dwelling. He was the king, and the others, the mere pawns, were nothing more than meat waiting to be ground under his power.
---
The next challenger, a strange and menacing-looking man, was no ordinary warrior. He wore an iron mask, and his muscles were like rocks, carved by a lifetime of war. The black cloak he wore swayed in the wind as he walked to the center of the arena. His imposing presence caused a momentary silence among the spectators. They were still in shock from the death of their last opponent, but the sight of the masked man brought new life to the crowd, eager for more destruction.
Crazy looked at him with disdain, an expression of pure indifference. He had seen men like this before. Fighters who thought brute force would save them, but to Crazy, strength was just another ingredient for sacrifice.
"You're next," Crazy said, his voice unruffled, a whisper filled with death.
The masked man advanced, a large blade in his hand, its icy glow cutting through the darkness of the arena. Crazy did not move. He simply watched the movement, studying every posture, every gesture. The smell of sweat and blood was already permeating the air. With a roar, the challenger swung down with the blade, aiming for Madman's head. The blow was so fast that the blade seemed like lightning about to tear through flesh. But Madman, with his almost supernatural skill, dodged in one fluid movement. The blade cut through the air with the fury of a gale, but found no flesh. Madman advanced, his eyes shining like beasts on the hunt. He spun his body, tripping the masked man. The impact made the arena floor vibrate with the weight of the fallen body. The challenger rolled, trying to get up quickly, but Madman did not give him that chance. With a fierce movement, he jumped on him, his hands now firmly gripping the knife, which shone in the air like a cruel star. He plunged it straight into the man's shoulder, who screamed, the sound of pain tearing through the stillness of the arena. But Madman didn't care about the screams. He wanted more. He wanted to see the fear in his victim's eyes. With the blade still buried in the challenger's shoulder, Madman pulled him towards him, forcing him to his knees. The man, sweating and panting, tried desperately to pull the knife out of his body, but blood was gushing out, running down his skin, transforming the arena into an even more macabre scene. "You are strong, but your strength will not save you here," Madman whispered in a grave tone, before pulling the knife upwards, tearing the flesh, opening the muscle and tendons, with a dirty and merciless movement. The masked man screamed, his face contorted in pain, but the scream was drowned out by a cruel laugh that Madman let out. He knew what happened when a man reached this point: fear took over, the fight turned into a desperate attempt to survive, and the body began to fail. But Madman didn't want the man to die immediately. He wanted more. He wanted to prolong the agony. The body was just beginning to give in to the shock, and Madman knew that pain was a form of power. He quickly stepped away and picked up the fallen warhammer of one of his previous opponents, a heavy, brutal hammer. Without hesitation, Madman swung the hammer above his head, with deadly precision. The sound of impact was horrible as the hammer came down and crushed the man's knee. A sharp crack, like wood breaking, was heard throughout the arena. The man fell face down to the ground, unable to move, and black blood began to pool around him. The crowd screamed, some in ecstasy, others just in sheer pleasure at the sight of suffering. Madman looked at them, his face impassive, and then, in one swift movement, he lifted the man by his hair, forcing him to look at the faces in the stands. "This is your fate," Madman whispered. "You all meet the same end." With a movement as swift as a cat, Madman brought the hammer down squarely on the challenger's head. The sound was deep and gruesome, and the man's head exploded upon impact, scattering bits of skull, blood, and chunks of flesh across the arena. The body fell limp, the inorganic mass of flesh and bone now a monument to Madman's brutality. The arena was silent for a moment, but soon the crowd erupted in an explosion of cheers, applause, and viscera. The smell of blood filled the air as Madman stood over the body of his enemy, the hammer heavy in his hand. He was not satisfied, but he knew that the game would never end. There were always more fighters, more meat to slaughter. Always more deaths to be caused. "More," he muttered, looking toward the next gate of the arena, where a new challenger was preparing. ---
The arena still shook with the echo of the screams, but Madman could no longer hear them. The crowd, with their thirsty eyes and mouths wide open in excitement, was just a distant blur to him.
The blood, warm and sticky, covered his hands and face, and he felt the pulse of life escaping from the victims he was dragging into the abyss of death. It was an eternal cycle, and he was above it. He was the center of it all, the conductor of a symphony of destruction.
The next challenger did not approach with the same impetus. This one was older, his hair gray and his body marked by time, but his eyes shone with a flame that Madman recognized well: that of someone who had been forged in pain and struggle. He carried a long sword, with a sharp blade, and his posture was solid, implacable.
The man, unlike the others, did not seem intimidated. He looked directly at Madman, and something in his pupils traced a thread of defiance. Like an old wolf, he knew the end was near, but he was not willing to succumb without a fight. He knew what awaited him there, but he seemed willing to pay the price.
"You have courage," Madman said with a wry smile, his tone slightly admiring but no less cruel.
The old man did not respond, but his hands were firm on the hilt of his sword. He breathed with a calm, inner strength that Madman rarely saw in his enemies. He was, in a way, different.
When the gong sounded, the sound once again reverberating through the bones of the arena, the man advanced with surprising speed for his age, his sword slicing through the air in a straight line, aiming for Madman's head. Madman only smiled, leaning his body back with an almost ethereal lightness. The blade passed millimeters from his face, and the crowd shuddered at the proximity of the blow.
But Madman was already in motion. He spun with preternatural agility, his movements fluid like a predator on the hunt. He advanced with speed, and before the old man could react, Madman plunged the knife into his side, the metal piercing flesh with bloody precision. The man screamed, the sound hoarse with pain and surprise, but he did not fall. He backed away, his body bent in pain, but his eyes were steady, defiant. He knew the fight would not end like this. "Do you still want to fight?" Madman asked, the eyes of a monster reflecting the fragile humanity of his opponent. Without hesitation, the old man struck again, the sword now in an arc of forged iron, visibly stronger, more desperate. Madman only laughed, defying the blow with an easy evasion. But this was what he wanted. He wanted the old man to exhaust himself, for his fury to be drained until there was nothing left but a beaten body, ready to be consumed. And that was exactly what happened. The old man, more tired with each movement, began to show signs of weakness. His breathing became heavier, the blood gushing from his side wound already beginning to form a red river wherever he passed. But he did not stop. He would not stop until the last drop of his strength was drained.
Crazy, seeing his chance, approached with deadly speed. In one fluid movement, he disarmed the old man, making the sword fall to the ground with a metallic sound that cut through the tension in the arena.
The man tried to fight, but his hands were weak, his eyes blurred with pain. Crazy watched, almost with amusement, what was left of the warrior. His body, weakened by pain and fatigue, bent towards death, without any real resistance.
"Do you still think you can fight me?" Crazy asked, his voice now somber, almost a whisper.
The old man tried to stand, but could barely raise his body. Crazy crouched beside him, his knife in hand, still bloody from his previous victims. He placed the blade to the man's neck, his eyes fixed on his opponent's face.
"I am not like the others," the old man muttered with difficulty, his mouth bloody. "I am the end of many, but... but..."
"But you are the end of yourself," Madman finished, without mercy. "Everyone here is."
With a quick, decisive movement, Madman slit the old man's throat, the blade sliding smoothly through flesh and veins. The sound of death was a cruel whisper, and the man fell, his life flowing like a red river that stretched across the entire arena. The body fell limply to the ground, but Madman's gaze remained impassive.
The crowd, as always, exploded into a frenzy. The screams were wild, almost animalistic. Adrenaline coursed through the veins of everyone present, as if the spilled blood fed an insatiable hunger.
Madman stood and raised the bloody blade, his lifeless eyes now shining with an even more terrifying coldness. He knew that nothing else mattered. Death was his constant companion, and he was its master. He wanted more. Always more.
The arena was bloodied, but the fight would never stop. The next challenger would come, and the Fool would be ready. Because he knew: as long as there was flesh, he would always be standing, ready to crush, tear, and consume. He was the embodiment of the end, and all who entered were merely fuel for his empire.