"The contestants have gathered completely, anticipation builds up, our heart, mind, soul everything is into this battle now, and we all are just as impatient as children who cannot wait for that favorite toy to be given to them." The commentator's voice echoed over the battlefield, a caress wrapped in amusement and thinly veiled malice. "My love for crimson tells me that now I should officially announce the commencement of the battle. Weapons ready? Muscles tight? Just one more thing, keep your dicks safe and... Assault!"
With a savage cheer, the masses surged. Steel and iron clashed as a tsunami of bodies threw itself into the fray. Griswa stood calm, distant as if half his attention had wandered elsewhere, his stance deceptively open. A machete-wielding warrior seized his chance, rushing in with a snarl, weapon raised high. And in that heartbeat, Griswa's arm moved.
Kapow!! His fist brushed the assailant's cheekbone—a light, effortless touch that belied its force. The man's face contorted, teeth splintered, his body twisted from the impact, spinning in mid-air, the shattered teeth hovered in slow-motion. His scream fractured the air as he landed, sand burst into a dusty halo around his crumpled form.
Fourteen million spectators screamed in unison, the sound assaulted Griswa's senses like a living thing. His gaze shifted, slowly sweeping the frenzied battlefield around him. The carnage began in earnest: swords met flesh, blades tore through muscles, hands, legs, toes, fingers, then guts, intestines and then finally the heads. Fountains of blood erupted with each scream. With the limbs sliced and severed, guts shredded, eyes gouged— the ground pooled with blood, a red so deep it seemed to merge with the horizon, also reflecting the blood-red atmosphere, casting a grisly, surreal haze across the chaos.
Oversized warriors lumbered through the melee, bringing down maces with sickening crunches that sent bone fragments and shattered skulls scattering. The drums hammered on the speakers, thumping in sync with each brutal strike, each desperate stab and parry intensifying the gore to the next carnage level. The battlefield itself had become a creature of madness and savagery indicating how low their desperation could sink, a gruesome reflection of the country's decay. This was no mere tournament; it was a grotesque arena of survival where poverty and hunger pressed people into madness, into murder for money.
Griswa stood still, his gaze narrowed. He understood these men fought out of desperation—driven by forces that left them no choice but to claw, to bite, to kill. An energy of frustration pulsed through the crowd, like heat emanating from the very earth. The weight of money meant little to Griswa; he had not come here to partake in senseless butchery. But he also sensed something else—a tension beyond hunger for wealth. A frustration that went deeper.
Then! From the edge of his sight, a wave-mass of killers advanced on him, their bodies forming an almost fluid mob. Blunt weapons were carried, like daggers, poniards, swords, axes, machetes, labryses, khandas, tsurugis, spathas, takobas, sweihanders—every blade possible, yet Griswa's eyes barely acknowledged them, his gaze was unfocused, as if it was unnecessary. A thought solidified in his mind: Just touch them, do not hit them, just touch them, power control.
And with that before those people could attack him, he hit them or precisely just touched them as if he was acting! First punch, a man tossed in the air and fell on the ground in slow motion! Second man was punched in the chest, his ribs shattered and he flew in the air impacted on the ground erupting sand clouds! Third man was attacked on the legs, his bone cracked, his face hit the sand and sliced roughly on the sand tearing the tissues of the face as he rotated and fell down! Fourth man was punched on his face and he simply hit the ground unconscious. Griswa's main motive was to just hit them unconscious or at least knock them enough so they couldn't get up anymore. He hit the fifth man and he flew in the air. Griswa caught hold of the dagger that the fifth man left from his hand when he was punched.
