Chapter 364: End Of The Battle Royale
The Announcer immediately moved on to the next person, they had no time to waste at all.
"Next, Forged in the deepest industrial fires, coated in unyielding steel... HIS NAME IS IRONHIDE REX!"
A towering wall of a man stepped forward into the light.
He wasn’t just wearing armor... his entire skeletal structure and dermal layer had been surgically replaced with heavy riveted iron plating.
A jagged piece of broken rebar was literally impaled three inches deep into his metallic shoulder from the Battle Royale but Ironhide Rex didn’t even flinch.
"Heh."
He reached over, grabbed the rebar, and ripped it out with a spray of black synthetic blood, snapping the thick steel pipe over his knee like a fragile twig.
"RAHHHHH! WE LOVE YOU REX!"
"Why are only the men cheering...?" Rex wondered, were they all gay?
"The man who will surgically dismantle your favorite fighter... THE SURGEON!"
A tall unnervingly calm man stood amidst the carnage, he looked so creepy that Silas couldn’t help but feel a chin run down his spine as he looked at him.
How did someone manage to look so thin?
The Surgeon wore a pristine translucent vinyl medical apron that was now horrifyingly painted in fresh wet gore.
"Than– gh... Thank you Mr. Announcer."
He adjusted a pair of glowing multi-lens surgical goggles strapped to his face and with a delicate terrifying flick of his wrist, he snapped a mono-molecular wire whip through the air.
The invisible wire cleanly sliced a falling drop of blood perfectly in half.
"As for the next one, He who drinks the pain! He who praises the slaughter! Make way for the BLOOD-SAINT!"
The crowd went feral as the spotlight illuminated a terrifying zealot.
’Is he famous or something?’ Silas thought as he looked at the guy.
The Blood-Saint was literally lounging lazily on a makeshift, gruesome throne made of stacked dead Syndicate enforcers.
He wore tattered priest’s robes that were entirely soaked in red as he reached down, dragged two bare fingers through a thick puddle of fresh blood pooling on a corpse’s chest, and slowly painted a crude jagged cross directly across his own pale forehead.
"Hehehehehehe...."
He licked the excess blood off his fingers, smiling with manic delight.
’...Yeah, miss me with that shit.’
"Our next contestant is a machine built for one singular purpose! Eradication! GOLIATH-9!"
HISSSSSS!
A hulking nine-foot-tall monstrosity of raw hydraulic power stepped into the center of the ring.
He was more tank than man with thick plumes of white exhaust steam vented violently from the heavy brass pipes bolted to his spine.
A singular glowing red ocular visor locked onto the VIP boxes as his massive, integrated rotary chain-gun arm whirred with terrifying speed.
"Our next contestant... His blade burns brighter than the Shogitown neon! NEON-BLADE!"
A wave of blistering heat washed over the dirt.
A sleek athletic swordsman drew a high-frequency katana from a magnetic scabbard on his back.
The blade instantly ignited with a blinding searing pink plasma edge that hummed like an angry hornet.
Neon-Blade smoothly pulled a cigarette from his pocket, placed it between his lips, and casually lit the tip directly on the super-heated flat of his glowing sword.
’What’s with these people and smoking?’
"Next, He rules the scrap heaps! He is the king of the decay! THE RUST-KING!"
Clad in jagged tetanus-laced scrap metal that looked like a walking junkyard, the Rust-King stepped forward.
He ground his metallic teeth together as the sound scraped like sandpaper and he dragged a massive heavy iron meat hook attached to a thick, rusted chain directly across the packed dirt.
SKRRRRRRT!
The heavy grinding noise set the teeth of everyone in the stadium completely on edge.
"Whoo! We’re down to our last three contestants, The man who leaves absolutely nothing in his wake! NULL-VOID!"
A completely silent figure stood perfectly still.
He wore a featureless matte-black helmet that absorbed the stadium light however he didn’t flex or pose like other contestants.
He simply kept his heavy spiked combat boot planted firmly on the completely pulverized flattened remains of a fighter he had just caved in.
"A ghost in the machine! The cybernetic nightmare! And the most wanted Class-A criminal in Sector Four... CYBER-GHOST!"
The spotlight hit a sleek agile fighter wearing a highly advanced, matte-black stealth suit.
Cyber-Ghost casually reached up with a gloved hand and unclasped his visor.
He pulled the mask away to reveal a devastatingly handsome sharp-jawed face, accented by a single glowing silver cybernetic eye and a rugged roguish scar across his cheek.
’This fucker looks like a noble... I’m still better looking though.’
He looked directly up at the luxury VIP viewing boxes, flashing a brilliant million-credit smile as he delivered a slow cocky wink.
High above the arena, a collective shrill scream of swooning female Managers, wealthy corporate heiresses, and elite sponsors echoed loudly through the colosseum.
The Announcer then hovered his platform away from the main cluster, pointing toward a dark shadowed corner of the Null-stone cage.
"And finally! The shadow of death himself! The harvester of souls! ZARCH THE REAPER!"
Silas blinked behind his Oni mask.
’ZarchTheReaper?’ Silas thought to himself, completely deadpan.
He stared at the cloaked edgelord.
That was quite literally the most cringeworthy twelve-year-old video game username he had ever heard in his entire life.
It sounded like a kid he used to body in first-person shooters back on Earth...
With the introductions complete, the Announcer waved his hand.
"FIGHTERS, YOU ARE DISMISSED TO THE LOCKER ROOMS! REST UP! THE BRACKETS BEGIN IN TWENTY MINUTES!"
The heavy steel hatches built into the arena walls groaned open.
Immediately, the designated Underworld clean-up crews flooded into the arena.
"Hup... Hup... Get a move on!"
They were dressed in heavy rubber aprons and masks, pushing massive metal carts and wielding high-pressure water hoses to handle the staggering pile of bodies and wash the thick blood out of the dirt.
Silas stood up from the mud.
He turned around and began walking toward his designated exit hatch.
As he moved, he could physically feel the heavy stares of the other eleven surviving fighters burning directly into his back.
They were all studying his gait, probably looking for weaknesses but he ignored them.
’It’s clear... they won’t be able to beat me, this whole thing is in the bag.’
He crossed the threshold into his own dark hatch and kept going down the concrete tunnel.
’I really hope she bet on me...’ Silas thought practically.
This was a massive illegal underground operation, which meant there was staggering amounts of gambling involved.
Evelyn was a bit of a genius so she would be stupid not to bet heavily on his initial survival.
The only issue with his terrifying performance was that the secret was out.
With this overwhelming display of strength, all the other spectators and Managers in the stands would undoubtedly begin to bet on him as well.
The house odds on his name were going to completely plummet.
’Is there some way to maximize the winnings to myself?’ Silas thought, stroking his chin beneath his mask.
He needed a way to manipulate the betting lines back in his favor.
As he reached the end of the tunnel and stepped back into the massive, sterile locker room, a figure was waiting for him.
It was a maid in the black-and-white uniform.
’What the hell is a maid doing here?’
She bowed deeply as he approached.
"Congratulations for reaching the Top Twelve, Contestant Onii-chan."
Silas gave her a single tired nod and sighed as the stress of the environment was finally getting to him.
"The table for the person you will be facing next is currently being prepared," the maid informed him smoothly. "As a Top Twelve finalist, you are officially free to roam around the designated fighter areas... However, I have been sent directly by your Manager to bring you up to her private suite."
The maid reached into her apron and handed him a sealed pristine plastic bottle of cold water.
Silas stared at the bottle and his paranoia instantly flared.
’Nope.’
He completely ignored the water, refusing to take it from her hand.
"Just take me there," Silas told her bluntly.
The maid smiled politely, unaffected by his rudeness, and turned around. She took him out of the main preparation room, leading him down a narrow guarded corridor.
Apparently, there was a secondary hidden side-way staircase that bypassed the teleportation wards and took the VIPs directly to the higher floors of the complex.
’Though it’s quite guarded... It’s not like anyone could have forced their way out, and also not to mention the snipers too.’
As they walked up the carpeted stairs and arrived in the upper Manager’s corridor, Silas witnessed the brutal reality of the Syndicate.
There were different people... wealthy Managers in expensive suits being aggressively escorted out of the viewing boxes by massive Black-Ash enforcers.
One Manager in particular was sobbing hysterically, pleading with the enforcers for more time to pay off his massive gambling debts.
"Please! I can get the credits!" the man begged, grabbing the enforcer’s vest.
CRACK!
The enforcer didn’t say a word.
He just grabbed the Manager by the back of the neck and drove a brutal, armored knee directly into the man’s face, shattering his nose and dropping him unconscious to the plush carpet.
The enforcers dragged his limp body away by the ankles.
Silas watched them go with cold eyes.
He could easily guess that these were the Managers who had bet on the Boss’s son and completely lost everything as well as their people, triggering the lethal debt-collection clauses in their contracts.
The maid ignored the violence entirely, maintaining her polite smile.
She guided him down the hall and stopped in front of a luxurious gilded oak door.
"Your Manager is inside, Sir," the maid said, bowing once more before turning and immediately dashing off down the hallway to tend to other duties.
Silas didn’t bother knocking. He just grabbed the brass handle, turned it, and opened the door.
FWOOSH!
Immediately, an incredibly thick suffocating wall of aromatic cherry-scented smoke rolled out of the suite and filled his nose.
"Gah!"
Silas coughed aggressively, furiously swatting the air in front of his face with his black-gloved hand to clear the toxic smog.
"Could you stop...?" Silas groaned, stepping into the room and quickly closing the heavy door behind him to trap the ventilation.
He looked around the private suite.
It was incredibly luxurious, featuring plush velvet seating, a fully stocked crystal bar, and a massive private holographic window overlooking the arena below.
Evelyn was seated comfortably on a luxurious, curved velvet sofa in the center of the room.
She had pushed her painted Kitsune mask up slightly, resting it on the top of her dark hair to expose her mouth and chin and she was still wearing the gray hoodie that swallowed her frame as her thighs were tucked beneath her on the cushions.
Evelyn held a burning Red-Lotus cigarette between her fingers, taking a deep victorious drag.
"Welcome back," Evelyn smiled, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "You sure were strong-headed down there... Come sit down. You should take one and smoke, it takes the edge off the adrenaline."
Silas stood by the door, glaring at her through the slits of his Oni mask.
He raised a judgmental eyebrow.
"If you hand me a cigar," Silas sighed. "I will stick it straight down your ass."
Evelyn violently choked on her smoke.
She coughed violently, her face instantly turning a bright burning crimson red that spread all the way down her neck.
"You—!" Evelyn sputtered, pointing her cigarette at him accusingly. "I take back my compliment! You pervert!"
Silas completely ignored her blushing outrage.
He walked over to the seating area and slumped heavily down into a plush leather chair opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees.
Evelyn cleared her throat, recovering her composure as she reached over to the crystal bar cart sitting next to the sofa.
"Congratulations on the win," Evelyn told him sincerely, grabbing a sleek aluminum can of water. "I know you didn’t take anything the maid gave you... I assumed everything provided by the Syndicate staff was spiked with paralyzing agents."
She held her hand over the can.
A pure white glow of purification mana pulsed from her palm, shooting into the aluminum to eradicate any poisons or foreign substances.
She tossed the purified can to him.
"Here, it’s good to drink."
Silas caught it effortlessly. He popped the tab, tilted his mask up a fraction of an inch, and drank the entire can down in three massive thirsty gulps.
"How were things going over here?" Silas asked, crushing the empty aluminum can in his massive fist and tossing it onto the table.
Evelyn smirked, leaning back into the velvet cushions.
"It was just fine being a Manager," Evelyn bragged, tapping a button on the wall console to increase the coolness of the room’s air conditioning and clear the smoke.
She reached down, picked up her personal glowing holographic datapad, and turned the screen around to show him.
She proudly displayed her live balance tab.
[Manager 155]
[Account: Anonymous Shell Corp]
[Balance: 5,500,000 Spirit Credits]
Silas looked at the staggering number glowing on the screen.
"Not bad," Silas nodded. ’Like the Announcer said, Always bet on Onii-chan...’
Evelyn took another victory puff of her cigarette, her dark eyes shining with greedy delight.
"This was a very generous payout from the house," Silas noted, leaning forward in his chair. "But it’s not going to be as easy to rob them next time."
Evelyn’s smile faded slightly as she nodded in complete agreement.
"Exactly," Evelyn said, tapping the edge of her datapad. "With your overwhelming performance in the Royale just now, every single surviving spectator and Manager in this entire stadium is going to bet on you to win your next match. You are the new favorite so the house odds on ’Onii-chan’ are going to tank completely. A million-credit bet might only yield a ten-thousand-credit return."
They needed to artificially manipulate the betting lines to make the crowd think Silas was vulnerable.
"Why don’t we fake a severe injury?" Evelyn suggested. "What if we fake that you have a very bad illness or suffered massive internal organ damage from the Boss’s son? If you stumble and limp down the tunnel to the cage, the crowd will think you are a dead man walking. The odds will skyrocket back in our favor, and I can bet the entire five million on a massive underdog multiplier."
They were similar in this regard... Both of them were thinking of how to multiply their money.