Yellow Jacket

The Boneskins lumbered into the pit, six hulking silhouettes grinding their weight into the sand. Every step landed like a drumbeat, slow and relentless, bone plating shifting beneath stretched skin. They turned toward Warren in unison, eyes vacant, jaws slack. The air seemed to tighten around their approach, the simple promise of endurance pressing down. Each carried the weight of inevitability, as though the pit itself bent beneath their advance.

Warren did not meet them head-on. He slid sideways, blade low, shield angled, each measured step drawing them after him. The Boneskins followed, their mass dragging into a sluggish line. Then, with a sharp pivot, he cut across the pit. The front pair tried to turn to match him, but the last in line lagged, slow to react, left alone on the far edge. Warren's gaze fixed and his body moved before the gallery understood.

The gallery erupted as he lunged. His shield slammed into the creature's side, tripping its bulk. It hit the sand with a heavy thud, limbs flailing against its own weight. Dust plumed, bone grated. Warren drove the gladius down through its skull. The blade punched through with a wet crack. The corpse twitched once, then went still, its armor no defense against a precise, cruel strike.

He was already moving before the others could close, sprinting to pull them again. The slowest lagged, strung out and vulnerable. Warren drew them wide, then doubled back and isolated the next. Shield, trip, bash, blade through the head. The rhythm built, a brutal cadence of motion and collapse. The crowd's murmur shifted to a sharp hum as they recognized the pattern, each fall punctuated by the same dreadful certainty. One by one, the line thinned. With every kill, the spectacle grew sharper, more deliberate.

Ruby's voice carried from above, delighted and bright. "Do you see it, my loves? He pulls them as if on strings. He scatters, isolates, and then, strike, strike, strike. A rhythm of ruin, a song of bone and blood." Her laughter poured into the pit like fire, feeding the frenzy until hands hammered the rails and the gallery became a storm of noise.

The third Boneskin toppled, its skull shattered beneath Warren's relentless strikes. He left it pinned in the sand, blood pooling around its ruined face, and moved to the fourth. This one tried to brace, clawing for purchase with jagged fingers, but Warren was faster. He feinted, drew it forward, then smashed into its knee with the shield. The joint folded. The gladius split the skull clean. The crowd's roar peaked again, a wave breaking over the pit.

By the fourth kill, the gallery felt it too. This was not chaos. It was bait, dash, isolate, kill. The pit was his stage, the slaughter his beat. The last two lumbered toward him, slow and certain, but doubt had burned out of the room. Warren moved with purpose, his rhythm unbroken, his violence steady. Each step carried the same promise: he would take them apart the same way, piece by piece, until only he remained standing.

He baited the fifth, pulling it forward with a sharp feint before circling wide. The Boneskin lurched too slow to adjust, its back exposed. Warren crashed the shield into its spine and toppled it to the sand. It rolled, struggling to rise, but he planted a knee across its chest and drove the gladius down through its eye. The blade sank deep, shuddered through bone, and stilled the body. He tore the weapon free and rose without hesitation.

Only one remained. The last Boneskin lumbered forward, alone now, massive arms reaching clumsily for him. Warren circled once, twice, then darted in low. The shield cracked its knee and sent it crashing sideways. He pinned it with his weight and rammed the gladius down through the skull. The body spasmed and went quiet, armored shell defeated by ruthless precision.

Ruby's voice soared above the uproar, dripping with glee. "There it is, my darlings. The King in Yellow triumphant once again. Six Boneskins laid low by his hand. What a performance, what a rhythm of ruin." Her laughter rolled with the thunder of the crowd.

She let the cheers swell before cutting clean through them. "Thirty seconds, my loves. Thirty seconds, then the next round begins. Do not look away. The pit does not wait."

Her tone changed, sharp and gleeful. The gallery fell into an expectant hush. "My loves, you have had your fill of swarms and armor. Now comes the storm. Wave three is here, the Pack Hunters. Runners to cut the sand beneath his feet, Leapers to strike from above. Let us see if our King in Yellow can stand inside chaos."

The gates screamed open and the pit erupted. Runners burst across the sand in skittering lines, their long limbs twitching in frantic rhythm, while Leapers launched high, bounding off pillars and chains and shrieking as they arced down toward Warren. The gallery roared in answer, voices mixing with the thundering steps of the pack. Boots stomped against rails, fists hammered floors, and the sound built into a storm that rattled the glass.

The sound above was not horror, not hesitation. It was hunger. The gallery was alive, howling for death, pounding the rails with fists and boots. Some screamed bets, others hurled jeers, others confessed love in shrill cries. They wanted blood and did not care whose. Warren's triumph or Warren's ruin, it was all the same, so long as the sand stayed red. The pit was not spectacle to them. It was life, a religion made of violence and wonder, and tonight Warren was its priest.

Warren planted his stance, eyes locked, every nerve lit with clarity. He saw everything. The sprinting Runners, the Leapers twisting in midair, the split-second timing of angle and reach. His vision stretched across the pit. Nothing hid. No attack went unseen. To the crowd it looked impossible, the chaos too thick to follow. To Warren, it was a map already drawn, every thread of motion a line he could read.

A Runner lunged low. Warren drove the gladius down through its throat, ripped free, and slashed upward. The arc met a Leaper mid-dive, split it from chest to groin, and spattered the sand. Another dropped from above. He pivoted, let it crash past, then hacked its head clean as it scrambled upright. He moved with blunt certainty, each motion backed by ruthless calculation.

More poured in. A Runner clawed at his flank; he slammed it aside with the shield and buried the sword in its chest. A Leaper screamed and came down directly at him. He met it with the shield, the impact ringing up his arm. He twisted hard, hurled the creature away, and drove the gladius into the gut of a Runner cutting in beneath. Blood sprayed across him from two directions, and the rails shook under the joy of it.

The pit devolved into layered madness. Runners snapped at his legs; Leapers rained from above. For most fighters, this was where courage failed. Most challengers never made it past this round. Warren carved through them as if engineered for it, blade flashing, shield smashing, rhythm unbroken. He ducked beneath claws, opened bellies, and smashed skulls flat with the shield's edge. Blood sprayed, bones cracked, bodies fell in heaps. He pressed forward, unshaken. For anyone else, a nightmare. For Warren, a cadence he already understood, a violent song he could play until the sand was red.

At last, the final Runner staggered back, then fell, its skull split by a savage downward stroke. The last Leaper hurled itself at him, shrieking with animal fury, but he was already in motion. He caught it midair with the shield, slammed it into the sand, and drove the gladius through its skull in one brutal, final strike. Silence hung for a heartbeat, a held breath, before the gallery detonated into thunder. Rails shook as men and women stamped, screamed, and tore at their throats in rapture.

Warren stood among the wreckage of the Pack Hunters, blood and gore soaking his armor, crimson dripping from his face and arms. He did not look winded. Every movement had been measured, efficient, controlled. He had spent exactly what was needed and not a drop more. The carnage lay at his feet and he stood untouched by exhaustion.

For the crowd, he lifted the gladius high. Blood streamed from the blade in a red arc as he brought it down and pressed it to his chest like a gladiator claiming the pit itself. The gallery howled, voices layered in hunger and adoration. Bets were shouted, praises cried, curses hurled, and all of it fed the storm above. The King in Yellow had endured, and the wave was his.

Ruby's voice cut through the thunder, velvet over iron. "My darlings, my loves, what a glorious spectacle. He has carved through swarms, through armor, through the chaos of the Pack Hunters. And yet this is only the beginning. This is the first fight of the night, and he may go all the way. But first, let us see what comes next."

The gates boomed open. Five figures thundered into the pit, the ground quaking beneath their steps. Brutes. Hulking, long-limbed, and fast despite their mass. Their arms dragged like clubs, their shoulders thick with coiled strength, their eyes rolling with animal fury. They did not hesitate, they did not posture, they simply charged, howling, fists ready to pulp flesh. The crowd howled with them; voices braided with bloodlust and joy.

Warren braced, gladius slick in his hand, shield heavy on his arm. Brutes were not Boneskins, and they were not a pack. They were power in motion, violence given shape. He had beaten them before by breaking joints until bodies stopped moving. Now he carried a blade. That changed the fight. Blunt tools could slow. A sword could open. A sword could end.

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The first Brute hit faster than its bulk should have allowed. Warren slipped, took a glancing blow on the shield, dropped low, and raked the tendon at its ankle. The leg buckled and momentum carried the body forward into the sand. He was already moving, the gladius driving into the back of its neck before it could rise.

Another roared and swung wild, its fist a hammer meant to cave his ribs. Warren slid under, sliced behind the knee, and sent it crashing. He realized it cleanly in that instant. The gladius was not only working; it was perfect for this. The Emperor had not been wrong. A good blade ended what raw power could only stall.

Blood sprayed hot over his hands. He pressed forward into the storm, carving tendons, cutting throats, using speed and precision to unravel strength. The gallery shook the air with frenzy. Ruby laughed above it all. "Do you see, my loves? Do you see him carve giants down to size? This is spectacle, this is glory, this is the King in Yellow made flesh."

Four Brutes remained, each step a quake, each swing a promise of death. They closed on him at once, a storm of fists pounding the air. The pit filled with their roars. Strikes cracked like thunder as they tried to crush him into the sand. Warren moved between them with impossible precision, weaving through the hailstorm of blows. He was not only fast, he saw it coming. Every strike, every lunge, every attempt to smash him flat, he read a heartbeat ahead. His body answered before the impact, sidestepping, ducking, twisting just out of reach.

One blow came too fast, both fists together, a strike that would have crushed him if he had stood his ground. Warren snapped the gladius up and turned the flat into the oncoming fists. The impact cracked like stone splitting, force roaring up his arm. The edge chipped and the spine bowed, steel protesting under the brute force. It bought him what he needed. The shock launched him backward out of the kill zone. He hit the sand on his feet. The blade held, scarred but unbroken.

To the crowd, it looked like madness, a mortal man standing in the eye of five storms and never touched. To Warren, it was rhythm, thought made action. A fist shattered the sand where his head had been a breath earlier. He slashed the tendon behind a heel and darted clear as another swing tore through the space he had vacated. One toppled, leg useless, and he drove the blade into its throat before springing away.

Three remained. Their frenzy rose. Fists like boulders ripped the air. Warren spun between them, the gladius carving arcs of red. A cut across an arm severed control, another slash at a knee sent one crashing. He vaulted over its fall, slammed the blade into the back of its skull, and rolled clear as the last two tried to pound him flat.

Blood drenched him, gore painting armor and face, but he moved with the same measured grace. His breathing did not falter; his steps did not waver. He read their anger, their violence, and answered with movement already chosen. The last Brute roared, swinging with both fists, but Warren was already inside its guard, slipping beneath the arc to drive the gladius deep into its chest. He ripped free. The creature fell and thrashed once before going still.

The pit fell into roaring madness. The gallery shook the air with frenzy, cries of love, wagers shouted, curses hurled in delight. Ruby's voice rose over the chaos; laughter poured like wine. "Yes, yes. The King in Yellow stands untouchable. Five Brutes laid low, not a single blow landing true. This is glory. This is triumph."

Warren stood amidst the carnage, drenched in blood and viscera, the gladius gleaming wet in his hand. A chip scarred the edge, proof of the storm he had weathered, but it had endured. He did not look winded. He had not wasted a breath. Every movement had been precise, efficient, intent carried straight into violence. As the gallery screamed devotion, he lifted the gladius high and pressed it to his chest. The frenzy became deafening. The wave was his.

Ruby's voice purred over the gallery, rich and merciless. "My darlings, my loves, we have come to our final veil. One more wave, one more offering to the sand. You have seen him carve; you have seen him crush. This is the one you came for. Do hold your breath with me. Wave five begins."

The far gate did not simply open. It groaned apart like a wound. Something slid out of the dark on too many points. The Nidian Strider kept its human torso, twisted backward, head canted as though trying to look over a shoulder that no longer aligned with its spine. Its ribcage had ruptured and grown outward, eight pale spars stabbing into the sand like spider legs. Each rib flexed with a harsh, insect rhythm as it scuttled, puncturing and lifting, puncturing and lifting, fast enough to draw a jittering circle around the center of the pit. What had once been legs were fused into twin tail-whips, boned and studded, the ends glistening wet. When they lashed, thin arcs of acid sprayed outward and kissed the sand with a hiss and a curl of white vapor.

The gallery howled like an animal let off its chain. Bets tumbled over the rails. Names and curses tangled midair. Someone screamed that this was the end, another promised a month's pay on the King in Yellow, and a dozen voices swore they loved him more than their own lives. The pit answered with its own music: chain links ticking high above, the wet rasp of the Strider's teeth opening and closing, the steady thrum of the gallery lights.

Warren stood in the wreckage of the last wave and did not move. He let the thing circle. Blood slicked his armor and forearms, drying in sheets. The gladius in his hand carried a small chip along the edge, scar from the Brute's double-fisted hammer that he had slapped aside with the flat. The shield was scored and pitted where acid had kissed it earlier, and the leather understrap was dark with sweat. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady. His eyes took everything in.

Ruby's laughter rippled down. "Oh, my loves, look at it, look how it dances. Ribs for legs, tails for stings. Does our King in Yellow still smile?"

The Strider lunged without warning. Rib-limbs stabbed forward in a staccato burst and the creature vaulted across a third of the pit in a single, hideous scuttle. Warren slid aside and the nearest rib punched into the sand where he had been a heartbeat earlier. The thing used the impaled rib as a pivot, whirled, and one tail cracked at him like a whip. He threw the shield into the arc. Acid spattered and ran, sizzling where it touched metal and soaked leather. Steam burned his throat. He drove into the haze and chopped at the tail as it recoiled.

The gladius bit. Not a clean sever. The tail was bone-hardened and stringy, but the cut went deep. The whip writhed and flung bright droplets that hissed on the sand. The Strider screeched, a sound like a saw in a pipe, and sprang backward on its ribs, keeping distance. Warren pursued two steps, then checked himself. The other tail lashed from the side. He dipped under it, felt its heat pass his ear, rose, and took the same tail on the backswing, one hard downward stroke backed by his full weight. This time the blade went through. The end of the tail hit the sand and writhed like something separate while acid chewed a smoking divot into the floor.

The gallery went feral. Ruby's voice cut through the roar, bright as a knife. "Yes, yes, darlings. He takes the stinger, he takes it clean."

The Strider did not retreat. It went up the nearest pillar in a blur of stabbing ribs, clung there sideways like a grotesque crustacean, then launched. It came not at his chest but across his line, teeth jabbing spear-fast at his face while three ribs stabbed low to skewer his legs. He stepped into the teeth instead of away. The shield smashed the jaw aside with a hollow crack. His blade chopped the nearest rib-limb just below the joint. Bone split. The Strider's landing went crooked and it crashed shoulder-first into the sand, skidded, then righted itself on six points with horrifying speed.

Another lunge, faster. He gave ground, not panic but calculation, drawing it past one of the pillars. A rib stabbed for his thigh; he let it scrape armor and hacked downward at the joint. The rib snapped and the monster dipped. In that opening he went for the second tail. He cut from beneath and out, a butcher's angle, taking the whip clean at mid-length. The severed half flailed and spat itself empty as it died. The stump still pulsed and jetted a short, hot spray that striped his shoulder. Leather smoked and curled. Pain licked along the skin beneath, but he did not slow.

It adapted. The Strider widened its circle, tried to use glare and reflection, tried to bury rhythm under hiss and scrape. He tracked the tells, the lift of the third rib before commitment, the tightness in the tail stump before a spit, and shifted to put a pillar between them. When it sprang, the pillar took two ribs like a spear-shield. Bone stuck and splintered. Warren slid around the far side and chopped two hard strokes into the creature's shoulder as it wrenched free.

He wanted it maimed. He wanted it slow. He wanted its neck whole when it finally stopped moving.

The Strider feinted low and came high. Two ribs whipped over the pillar and stabbed at his back while the jaw snapped for his throat. He twisted under the ribs and felt them rake sparks off the shield rim. He drove the gladius upward in a brutal thrust for the base of the jaw. Steel rang on bone. The tip skated off the palatal ridge with a jarring shock. The Strider recoiled, teeth clicking a furious rattle.

"Hungry thing," Ruby sang, drunk on the violence. "He bleeds it, and still, it wants him whole."

It came again, closer than before, all ribs at once, a sprawl of white spars, a net thrown over him. He cut left, then right, then stepped in. The near rib punched for his hip. He took it on the shield and shoved, feeling the point drag a bright line across metal. A second rib stabbed for his gut. He saw the angle, saw the follow-up, saw the corner waiting if he yielded. The only door was ugly.

He snapped the gladius across his body and met the rib with the flat.

The sound cracked the pit open. Force slammed his shoulder. Steel bowed and screamed. The old chip whitened into a running stress line. He let the impact throw him backward, boots carving two trenches as he bled speed. The rib skated past his belly by inches. The Strider overcommitted and crashed down on its remaining points where he had stood.

He landed in a low crouch ten feet back, breath steady. The gladius looked wrong in his hand. It felt wrong. He lifted it toward the gallery lights and saw the hairline split that ran from the chipped point halfway down the blade.

The Strider saw none of that. It spun, tail stump spitting a furious rain that hissed around his feet, and came on. Warren surged to meet it, aimed for the last intact tail-root, and swung. Edge met bone with a bell note.

The blade gave.

Not a theatrical shatter. A dull, sick snap as the crack ran its course. Two-thirds of the gladius sheared away and pinwheeled into the sand, biting point-first and quivering there like an accusatory finger. The stump in his hand was a jagged knife, sharp but perilously short. Shock climbed his wrist and elbow. A sting of metal flashed at the back of his tongue.

For a heartbeat, the whole arena inhaled. Rails went still. Boots paused mid-stomp. Even the Strider seemed to hesitate, ribs clicking as it recalculated the world.

Ruby's voice slid into the silence, velvet and vicious. "Oh, my loves, did you see it? His blade breaks." She let the hush stretch, a smile audible. "Is this it, is this the end for the King in Yellow?"