The slaughterhouse hall erupted.
A wave of deafening cheers, shouts, and frenzied roars crashed against the stone walls, a chaotic storm of voices, some thrilled, others horrified, but all too overwhelmed to stay silent.
People shoved against each other, warriors slammed their fists against tables, and some even jumped onto their seats, unable to contain the sheer madness of what they were witnessing. The sheer energy in the hall was suffocating, like the whole building might crack under the pressure of the crowd's reaction. And why wouldn't they?
Because on the arena screen, Meave stood—barely holding herself together, covered in blood and exhaustion—while Litch… Litch still moved. Trembling.
Despite his limbs being ripped away, his arms and legs impaled into the stone slabs like some grotesque offering for some unholy entity, his torso still trembled, still twitched, still tried to fight.
"NO WAY!" someone bellowed, gripping his own hair. "HE'S STILL MOVING?!"
"The hell is this guy made of?! Did you see what she did to him?! That should've ended it!"
"It's a damn nightmare…" a lower voice muttered, shuddering.
Meanwhile, a small pocket of the crowd wasn't cheering. They were simply staring. Not in shock—no, this was something else. Among them was Ash.
He wasn't gawking like the rest, nor was he speechless. He was simply… watching. His usual unreadable expression was in place, though his gaze flickered over every detail on the screen. He saw the exhaustion in Meave's stance, the trembling in her fingers—but her eyes?
Her eyes were burning.
She wasn't scared. She wasn't hesitating. She was pissed.
Litch's single, remaining eye rolled wildly in its socket, locking onto her. His lips split into a bloodied grin. "Not… enough…"
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, NOT ENOUGH?!" a man in the hall shouted, slamming his mug onto the table so hard it cracked. "YOU'RE IN PIECES, YOU PSYCHO!"
But Meave didn't react to his words. She didn't flinch at the impossibility of what she was seeing.
Instead, she lifted her staff which turned into sword.
Her knees nearly buckled under her, but her will didn't.
"Sit down," she spat and she stepped forward.
The arena exploded in noise once more. The slaughterhouse warriors whooped and howled, voices rising to feverish heights.
"AGAIN! GET HIM AGAIN!"
"THIS IS INSANE!"
"GIRL! JUST FINISH HIM OFF!"
Ash exhaled slowly, shaking his head slightly. He didn't comment, didn't add to the chaos of voices. He simply watched.
A chilling stillness descended upon the Slaughterhouse Pit. The blue flames, which had flickered with an eerie luminescence, suddenly extinguished, not with a gust of wind, but with a silent, almost predatory consumption. A palpable darkness, not smoke or illusion, but a void that seemed to steal the very color from the world. It was as if the spectrum of reality itself had been stripped away, leaving only shades of gray and the stark contrast of black and white.
In this monochrome world, only Maeve remained distinctly visible, her form a stark silhouette against the encroaching darkness. Her lips moved, her voice a low, guttural chant that resonated with an unsettling power. Her gaze, fixed on the lich, held a chilling intensity. The lich's skeletal form began to glow, a pulsating, crimson light emanating from its core, a macabre beacon in the encroaching darkness. It was an offering, a sacrifice, a ritual unfolding before their very eyes.
Then, in the sky above the pit, a colossal red skull materialized disturbing very fiber of reality, its empty sockets burning with malevolent energy. Its jaws opened, revealing a gaping maw of souls crying in the darkness as if wanting to be set free from the misery, and it began to inhale, drawing the lich towards it with an irresistible force.
"No!" the lich shrieked, its voice a hollow, echoing rasp. "You can't do this to me. I served! I obeyed!"
"You have served your purpose," skull replied, her voice a low, chilling whisper that seemed to come from the very depths of the darkness. "Now, you are mine."
The lich, its crimson glow intensifying, thrashed and writhed, its silent screams echoing through the void. It begged, pleaded, but there was nothing it could do, no escape from the insatiable hunger.
With a final, sickening gulp, the skull consumed the lich, its crimson glow fading into the all-consuming darkness. The skull vanished, leaving behind an unsettling silence. Then, a trickle of blood, dark and viscous, leaked from Maeve's eyes and nose, staining her pale face. As the world of the Underpaths regained its vibrant hues, the darkness receding like a retreating tide, Maeve collapsed onto the bloodstained stone, her body limp and unresponsive.
The Dravian mage, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension, immediately halted the projection, the screen flickering and dying. He rushed towards the pit, his clawed hands trembling as he checked Maeve's vital signs. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. She was alive, barely, but alive.
"She… she lives," he stammered, his voice thick with disbelief. He looked back at the crowd. "She has won!"
He announced her victory, his voice strained, and carefully carried her back to the hall, where a few minor healers rushed to her side. Their efforts, though crucial, were secondary to the Dravian mage's initial, life-saving intervention. They worked quickly, their hands moving with practiced efficiency, their faces grim. A palpable sense of unease settled over the hall, a collective understanding that Maeve's power, her capabilities, were far greater than anyone had anticipated.
"By the essence," one healer whispered, his voice trembling. "What did she do?"
"I don't know," another replied, his eyes wide. "But I've never seen anything like it."
Then, as Maeve lay unconscious, her body still recovering from the immense strain, a caped figure, one of the warriors, suddenly lunged forward, a dagger glinting in the dim light. He aimed for Maeve's exposed throat, his movements swift and deadly.
But Ash, his senses heightened, his reflexes reacted instantly. He moved with a speed that surprised even himself, his fist slamming into the caped figure's gut with a sickening thud. The figure crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, his dagger clattering against the stone floor.
For a moment, Ash stood frozen, his fist clenched, his breath ragged. He couldn't believe what he had just done. He had intervened, protected Maeve, even though it went against his strategic calculations. He knew that by revealing his intervention, he was increasing the likelihood of a confrontation with Maeve, a fight he wasn't sure he could win. He knew he was putting his plan at risk.