Yellow Jacket

Ruby's voice cracked through the Ninth Layer, silk and steel, her tone sharp enough to cut. Her words were never merely announcements; they were the drumbeats that set the rhythm of blood and spectacle, the lifeblood of the pit itself.

"Darlings, tonight is Kill Night. And on Kill Night… we always remember the legend."

The crowd rose like a single throat, chanting in rhythm, pounding the rails with fists until the metal sang. The gallery shook with the weight of their voices, deep and thunderous:
"Demon Foot. Demon Foot. Demon Foot."

Ruby laughed, low and delighted, the sound curling like smoke as it slithered into every ear. "Yes, my loves. Demon Foot and the struggle. You hunger for it, don't you? The memory, the terror, the proof that we are more than flesh, that we are legend waiting to be born. You came here for blood, but blood alone is not enough. Tonight you will drink history itself."

The crowd answered her, stamping in unison, the chant swelling back:
"Demon Foot!"

She let the words stretch, savoring the hunger building around her, drinking in the roar as though it fed her own lungs. The chant beat like a second heartbeat through the pit, steady and relentless, shaking the sand beneath their feet.

"This royal is to remind us of that fable, the tale of his struggle. A being born of nothing, returned to nothing. In the primeval hells the devilkin walked, killing one another without end, their screams echoing in the dark."

The crowd howled agreement:
"Demon Foot! Demon Foot!"

"And none were better at it than the black-foot devil himself. His tread crushed spines, his shadow alone made warriors break and run. He turned the screams of his foes into music. The devilkin named him king of ash and marrow, yet he wore no crown, only death. His throne was made of corpses, his scepter of shattered bone, and when he rose from the slaughter, the air itself seemed to choke on his name."

The railings shook again under fists, the chant hammering back at her:
"Demon Foot! Demon Foot! Demon Foot!"

Ruby paused, smiling, letting the frenzy crest before she cut through it once more. Her voice cracked sharp, dripping with venomous joy, every syllable meant to pierce straight into the marrow of her listeners.

"All of you here tonight, only one of you will walk out alive. Just as Demon Foot slaughtered the devilkin, the lucky survivor will be marked by ash. As is the tradition. The mark is not a blessing, my darlings, it is a burden, a brand that ties you to his name. You carry it until you fall, and when you fall, the crowd will remember you not as a fighter, but as another page in his legend. The ash clings forever, black and bitter, and it whispers his story in your bones."

The crowd shrieked their hymn back at her, stomping until the beams above rattled:
"Demon Foot! Demon Foot!"

She leaned forward now, her words rolling like thunder across the pit. "Do you think you are killers? Prove it. Do you believe you matter? Then carve your meaning into the flesh of your enemies. Every strike you land, every drop of blood spilled tonight, is an offering to him. To stand in his shadow is to be measured against him, and most of you will be found wanting."

Her arms lifted high, and the Ninth Layer howled back, a storm of voices collapsing into one savage roar:
"Demon Foot! Demon Foot! Demon Foot!"

Ruby basked in it, eyes bright with cruel delight, her voice cutting through the frenzy. "Hear them, my loves! Hear the hymn you've made from his name. This is no mere chorus, it is worship. You chant because you remember, because you fear, because you long to taste even a shadow of his strength. Tonight, your screams will join that hymn. Tonight, your bodies will be broken in rhythm to the same chant you raise now!"

Ruby's smile cut like a blade, sharp and merciless. "So fight for the sand, fight for the ash, fight for Demon Foot's shadow. Tonight, Kill Night belongs to him… and to whichever of you dares to survive. Bleed for the story, my darlings. Bleed until your names are nothing but echoes, and only Demon Foot remains eternal."

If there was ever a role Warren was more willing to play, he did not know it. Every part of him thrummed with anticipation, a current running just beneath his skin, begging to be unleashed. The sensation was intoxicating, like standing at the edge of a cliff with the storm howling and the drop calling, daring him to jump.

He had been holding in the killer for far too long, forcing it down, silencing it when it clawed at the bars, pretending that hunger could be tamed. But the cage had weakened, the bars bent under pressure. Now the dam was cracking wide open, and there would be no stopping the flood once it broke loose.

The Daisies were barely a salad, garnish scattered across the plate, the kind of appetizer meant to whet the appetite rather than satisfy it. What waited beyond them was the true course, heavy, dripping, impossible to resist. He was starving, and the Ninth Layer had laid a banquet before him, a feast of violence served raw and writhing, promising no end but excess, no finish but ruin.

He would eat, and he would not stop. The thought filled him with a strange, electric calm, like the silence right before a lightning strike tears open the sky. The promise of impact. The inevitability of it.

As soon as Ruby called, the blood would flow, hot and certain, spilling across the sand like wine poured from an endless jug, rich and unstoppable. He pictured the streams soaking into the dirt, the metallic scent rising thick enough to choke, the spray hitting his skin like rain, the way the crowd would scream louder at each drop, their hunger feeding his own.

There was no hesitation, not even the faintest flicker of doubt in him. Doubt was for others, for the weak who lingered at the gates and wondered if they should step forward, who wondered if maybe tonight wasn't their night. He had none of that hesitation. These people were here to kill, just like him. They had the choice to leave, and none of them did.

That meant they all had to be thinking the same thing: victory through slaughter, survival through dominance. But where their thoughts were tangled with fear, with hope, with desperation clawing at their ribs, Warren's mind was clear, still as glass. He could shape the chaos or drown it in his hunger. Both choices belonged to him, and the knowledge was liberating, exhilarating even.

That was the difference. He could choose how the symphony played. He could raise his hand like a maestro, controlling every note, guiding the tempo with sharp precision, orchestrating carnage until it became not just violence but art. Every scream would be an instrument, every spatter of blood a beat in the song, every collapse a crescendo swelling higher.

He could conduct the chaos until it reached something greater, something transcendent, where the Ninth Layer itself would feel like it was being played as an instrument beneath his fingers, vibrating with his command. Or he could do the opposite, he could drop the baton and let the orchestra collapse into madness, shatter all rhythm, let the hunger howl. Then it would not play music but tear sound itself apart, raw and untamed, ripping through the pit like a storm that cared nothing for harmony, only destruction. That, too, was a kind of performance, a brutal improvisation that left no room for mercy, no space for beauty except in the ruin.

And tonight, he knew, it was the hunger's turn to sing. He could already hear it in his head, a chorus without melody, a voice without language, building with every heartbeat, pulsing in time with the crowd's restless roar. Tonight it would not whisper, would not croon its cravings like it had in the past when he caged it, when he tried to act the part of restraint. It would roar, shrieking its song until the Ninth Layer drowned in its music, until the crowd could do nothing but answer back with their own screams, until the walls shook with it, stones trembling under the force.

He could see it already: sand stained black, broken bodies twitching in rhythm, the chant of the gallery folding into the hunger's song as though they had always belonged to it. He could see the echoes of his own violence magnified by their mouths, their cries turning into verses to match his chorus.

Tonight, the pit would become its stage, the blood its instrument, and Warren would not just play the role. He would conduct, he would release, and in the end, he would be the one who let it loose. The hunger would not simply be fed, it would be celebrated, exalted, its music climbing the rafters until nothing remained but its terrible echo resounding in every throat that dared to scream his name. Tonight, it would not stop until the Ninth Layer itself became part of the song.

The pit master looked at the group of degenerates gathered before him, their eyes burning with hunger, their bodies coiled tight as they waited to be loosed into the slaughter. His voice was flat, carrying the weight of a man who had seen this play out too many times to care. The scars on his face caught the dim light, a road map of old fights and close calls. He leaned on the wall, arms folded, gaze sharp as he measured them one by one, his tone carved from gravel and contempt.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"The rules of the royal are simple," he said. "Anything goes. The only thing that matters is if you can win. The pit doesn't forgive, and neither will your opponents."

Warren stepped over to his case without a word, hands steady as he began his preparations. His movements were calm, deliberate, each strap and buckle tightened with ritual certainty, as if the act itself was a prayer to focus his mind. Around him, others fumbled with their gear, nerves making them clumsy. A few laughed too loud, mania bubbling from the edges of fear. They adjusted weapons scavenged from countless dead, stretched aching limbs that already knew pain, spat curses into the dirt as if words could drive the dread away. Every sound, every breath, was weighted. Each one tried to shake off the fear before stepping into the pit, but it lingered thick in the air, a fog none of them could escape.

A voice cut through the low murmur, sharp and uncertain. "What happens to the gear of the dead?"

The pit master's expression didn't change. "Winner claims it, if they're still breathing at the end."

That stirred a ripple of unease, a nervous shift through the crowd. Another fighter barked from the back, his voice cracking with bravado he didn't quite feel. "What do you mean?"

The pit master's gaze swept over them like a blade, cold and without pity. "It wouldn't be the first time everyone dies in one of these. Sometimes there's a victor who bleeds out moments later, too broken to crawl to the gates. Sometimes the sand takes them all, drinks every last drop. Don't assume there'll be anyone left standing to loot the corpses. If you think the pit owes you survival, you've already lost." His words settled like a shroud, burying whatever hope they carried.

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive, like a lid pressing down on a boiling pot. Fighters glanced at one another with quick, sharp looks, gauging allies and enemies alike, calculating who might be cut down first, who might stab them in the back. Some flexed their weapons as though reminding themselves they still held power. Others whispered to themselves, muttering half-prayers or promises. The shuffle of feet, the clink of chain, the hiss of breath, all of it fed the tension coiling through the chamber until it vibrated in the air. The place stank of sweat, oil, blood, and nerves, ready to ignite the second the gates opened.

Warren's eyes stayed steady. He closed the latches of his case, his thoughts already past the warnings. He could feel the hunger building in the room like static before a storm, a restless energy that demanded release. He flexed his hands once, testing the weight in his muscles, and felt the calm spread through him. He welcomed it. The storm was almost here. He meant to walk right into the center of it.

Ruby's voice broke the tension, smooth and merciless, filling every corner of the Ninth Layer with her song. Her tone rolled like velvet laced with razors. "Dears, it is time for the royal. Sixty-three combatants, one victor, one Demon Foot."

The crowd beyond the gates erupted, their roar shaking the walls. Ruby let it wash over her for a heartbeat, then struck again with venomous glee. "Who will it be? Which of you wretches will carve your name into the ash? Who will rise screaming, who will fall silent, whose bones will be left in the sand? Will you become a feast for the pit, or will you feast on those foolish enough to stand in your way? Let us see, my darlings. Let us watch the bloodbath unfold together. Tonight the pit is hungry, and it demands to be fed, and you, oh, you poor souls, are the banquet it craves."

The gates thundered open and the flood began. Sixty-three bodies spilled into the pit, desperate for glory and desperate for survival. Each one knew the odds were against them, but they ran forward anyway. Hesitation was death.

They had thirty seconds to clear the gates. Warren wasn't waiting. He was the second man through, a stride behind a brute who bolted like a mad bull. The man's chain was already swinging, his mouth foaming with the madness of anticipation.

The brute's scream was still in the air when Warren caught him. A single, fluid motion. So clean it was almost invisible to the eye. The truncheon's spike drove up through the jaw and into the brain. There was no struggle, no delay.

The man folded before his charge was even finished. His body collapsed mid-stride like a puppet with strings cut. The skull crunched with the sick snap of inevitability. His momentum carried him forward half a step before gravity finished the work, dragging him face-first into the sand where he twitched once and went still.

For a fraction of a second, silence fell. The pit seemed to hold its breath. The crowd was a sea of frozen faces waiting to exhale. The spectacle had barely begun, and already a body lay cooling in the sand.

The crowd inhaled as one, shocked at how fast the first life had been snuffed out. Then the eruption came. The roar of thousands slammed into the arena like a tidal wave. Feet stomped iron. Hands battered rails. Voices broke into a frenzy at the offering of blood.

Dust shook from the high beams as the stands themselves trembled under the force of their hunger. Ruby's voice twined through the cacophony, velvet and venom. Her tone was drunk on spectacle and cruelty. "Blood already, my darlings! The pit itself, yes, the very name he gave it, hungers for blood! Did you see? Did you savor it? That is how legends are born. That is how eternity remembers the bold!"

Warren stood over the corpse without pause. He didn't look down. He didn't savor. He simply existed as if the kill had been inevitable, a step as natural as breathing. He didn't shift his stance. He didn't twitch.

Around him, space opened for a heartbeat, a strange hush in the chaos. It was like predators circling a predator, waiting to see if he would lunge. His hood shadowed most of his face, but when the pitfire caught the gleam of his teeth, the crowd saw them flash pale and sharp.

A wolfish grin cut through the darkness. He looked like something otherworldly, smiling not with joy but with hunger. It was as if he had been starving and the Ninth Layer had finally laid a banquet before him. He radiated inevitability. It was as if every drop of blood yet to fall had already been promised to him.

The pause ended. The swell broke. The rest of the combatants surged from the gates in a tide of violence. Boots hammered sand. Chains rattled. Knives gleamed under the searing lights.

Dozens of eyes fixed on Warren. They saw him as a threat, a prize, or both. Their steps clashed and staggered against one another, a stampede without rhythm. Rage and desperation drove them forward.

The roar of the crowd thickened, stamping in time, a drumbeat of violence that shook the pit floor beneath their feet. Tankards tipped. Bloodlust drowned reason. Wagers were screamed into the night.

It was a storm made of bodies and fury, rushing forward to drown him. They wanted to claim him. To make a trophy of the hooded killer who had stolen the first breath of blood.

Warren did not move. He stood still, letting the hunger come, letting the pressure build. The suffocating weight of his field deepened with every still second. The invisible force thickened the air like a storm waiting to break.

It pressed into lungs, needled against skin, ate at the nerves of those closest to him. The first wave of fighters didn't even realize what was happening. They charged straight into it.

Their hearts raced faster. Their breaths came shallow. Their balance faltered before they even touched him. Their chains whipped short. Their knives cut wide. Their feet stumbled on sand that had not shifted.

By the time they swung, they were already half broken. Their lungs were failing. Their rhythm was gone. They didn't understand it. They couldn't name it. But the weight crushed them all the same.

Warren's blades were waiting, hungry for them, gleaming with promise under the pitfire light. And as he smiled into the storm, it was clear to every watching soul that the banquet had only just begun.

The flood came, and Warren swam in its gentle flow as if the chaos had been made for him alone. With strokes of violence sharper than any current, he broke limbs and severed arteries, his movements precise and merciless. He even axe-kicked a woman's throat as she tried to unleash a voice-based skill, her words dying in her mouth before they could take shape. The sound that escaped her was no spell, no weapon, only the hollow rattle of air through a shattered windpipe. She dropped in silence, and he was already gone, shifting through the tide of bodies like a phantom of violence, already hunting for his next target before her body hit the ground.

A fighter lunged, clawing for Warren's hood. Fingers caught fabric for a heartbeat, yanking his head sideways, but Warren twisted into the grip, breaking the man's hand against the motion. Knuckles cracked like snapping twigs. Warren slammed the truncheon across his jaw, shattering bone, and left him collapsing in the sand with a mouthful of teeth.

Another rushed him, blade swinging in a wide arc. Warren stepped inside, the edge grazing his ribs as his boot slid on blood-slick grit. He fell forward into the man's chest, shoulder crushing ribs with the impact. Momentum carried him through, and he drove steel into the fighter's throat before the stumble could turn into failure. The kill was messy, desperate, but the precision never faltered.

Chaos surged in. A woman lunged with a knife, but Warren caught her wrist and snapped it until bone tore through skin. She screamed, high and piercing, but he didn't let go. He swung her like a club into the next attacker, her broken body smashing into his face with a wet crunch. Again and again he drove her into him, her shrieks cutting shorter each time until the sound stopped altogether, her throat breaking under the force of impact. When the man collapsed in a twitching heap, she sagged limp in his grip, neck bent wrong. He let her drop without a glance, already moving on.

One man came at him low, trying to sweep his legs. Warren nearly toppled when his boot caught on another corpse, but instead he dropped all his weight onto the man's skull, grinding it into the sand until it burst wet beneath his heel. Blood sprayed across his calves as he tore free, moving before the body finished twitching.

The gallery fed on it. A drunk tumbled from the rail and vanished under stomping boots. A gambler screamed odds until someone broke his nose with a tankard, blood spraying as the chant rolled on unbroken. Another woman clawed at her own skin, streaking her arms red while shrieking Warren's name until her throat shredded. The Ninth Layer wasn't just watching the slaughter, it was a frenzy of its own, a mirror to the chaos in the pit.

There were others in the sand who might have been dangerous in another place, another night, but not here. Not against him. They swung wildly, but his yellow jacket burned through the storm like a phantom flame, vanishing and reappearing with every sudden shift. The crowd's eyes locked onto him, transfixed, unable to look away even when they wanted to. He stood out in every way, not just for the brutality of his strikes but for the rhythm in them, the strange, balletic certainty of his slaughter.

The sand drank deeper with every heartbeat. Blood painted arcs across the pitfire light as bodies fell. Those near him felt it first, the crushing weight of his presence, the inevitability of his rhythm. Fighters lunged only to be caught, broken, or punctured before they could cry out. Even when they tried to retreat, the invisible pressure pulled them into mistakes, slowed their limbs, left them open. The pit had become his river, and he swam through it with the ease of someone born in carnage, a current of destruction dragging everything else down.

None but those who truly knew him understood how hopeless the pit had become. They had come expecting a cage match, a desperate clash of equals. What they got instead was something else entirely. A meat grinder in the shape of a man. A predator wrapped in human skin, moving too fast, too clean, too certain to be stopped, too merciless to even consider hesitation. To the crowd he was no longer just another fighter, his jacket was a warning, screaming: look at me, don't you dare look away. If you do, you're done. I am poison. I am fear. And you walked in here with me.