The air in Beastwell Town was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp fur.


    The pungent mix clung to the streets, carried by the wind that howled through narrow alleys lined with towering wooden structures.


    Fires flickered in iron braziers, casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the walls like lurking predators.


    No human walked freely here.


    This was a land of dominance, ruled entirely by beastmen—fierce, untamed, and unwavering in their authority.


    At the heart of this brutal society stood Korran, a towering tiger beastman draped in regal armor.


    Every piece of his golden-plated chest piece gleamed under the torchlight, and his piercing eyes—burning like molten gold—held an intensity that could shatter a man’s resolve with a single glance.


    Strength, authority, and ruthlessness coiled around him like an unbreakable chain.


    Walking beside him was his most trusted aide, Morales.


    Unlike the brutish warriors that filled the town, Morales was a sleek, sharp-eyed wolfkin.


    His movements were silent, his steps calculated, his gaze always searching.


    He was not a warrior—he was a shadow, a whisper carried by the wind, a dagger poised to strike from the dark.


    As they walked through the chaotic streets, Morales spoke in a low, measured voice, his tone betraying no emotion.


    “Our spies have noticed a group approaching, my lord.”


    Korran’s ears twitched, and his golden eyes flicked toward his informant, his sharp gaze cutting through the flickering torchlight.


    “Humans?”


    “Yes. A group consisting of humans, an orc, and…” Morales hesitated for a moment before continuing, “an elf.”


    Korran halted mid-step.


    A thick silence spread through the street as beastmen passing by instinctively moved aside, afraid of provoking their leader’s ire.


    The tension coiled around them like a predator waiting to strike.


    Then, Korran’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.


    “Hmm… could they be the heroe and his group?”


    Morales gave a curt nod. “Yes, my lord.”


    A deep, rumbling chuckle rolled from Korran’s throat, low and menacing, like the distant growl of a storm.


    “How long before they arrive?”


    “Approximately five days.”


    Though Morales’s voice remained composed, his tail flicked slightly, betraying a flicker of anticipation.


    Then, as if offering the final piece of a hunt to his master, he added—


    “The elf… is the princess of the Elven Kingdom.”


    For a moment, the flickering torchlight seemed to gleam even brighter in Korran’s golden eyes.


    A princess.


    The thrill of the hunt ignited in his chest, spreading through his limbs like wildfire.


    His grin widened, revealing razor-sharp fangs that glistened in the dim light.


    “Excellent. Let''s invite them."


    "Invite my lord?"


    Morales puzzled.


    "Yeah, I have a great show prepared for them."


    Korran said.


    Without another word, he resumed walking, his heavy steps leading them toward the heart of the city.


    Toward the colossal structure where the beastmen gathered in the thousands, waiting for the one thing that fueled their very existence.


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    Blood.


    The arena stood like a fortress carved from stone, towering over the rest of the city.


    Massive torches lined its walls, their flames casting a crimson glow over the eager crowd.


    The scent of metal and sweat filled the air, mingling with the guttural roars of beastmen who had gathered for a single purpose.


    To witness carnage.


    From the lowest-ranking beastmen to the highest warriors, they filled the stands, their voices merging into a chaotic, deafening symphony.


    Some barked out bets, their claws clinking against the coins in their palms.


    Others bared their fangs, saliva dripping in anticipation of the bloodshed to come.


    At the very front of the stadium stood the arena’s announcer—a flamboyantly dressed duckkin with a voice that could carry over the wildest of crowds.


    His feathered arms spread wide, his chest puffed out as he addressed the masses.


    “Welcome, ladies and gentlebeasts!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the uproar like a blade.


    The arena erupted with cheers, stomps, and howls.


    “Today, we have a most spectacular battle prepared just for you!”


    He gestured toward the very center of the blood-stained pit, where two fighters stood, their chains rattling as they were released from their bindings.


    “On one side! A wild, untamed orc—born in the depths of savagery!”


    The orc let out a guttural snarl, his muscles bulging beneath his thick, scarred skin.


    He slammed a massive fist against his chest, the impact echoing like a war drum, his teeth bared in unrestrained fury.


    His eyes glowed with the burning hunger of a caged beast finally unleashed.


    Pure, raw rage.


    “And on the other side! A former human soldier—once proud, now fighting for his life!”


    The human stood tall, though the weight of exhaustion pressed against his shoulders.


    His face was a mask of calm, yet his eyes held a storm of emotions—determination, regret, and the quiet acceptance of fate.


    His fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his rusted sword, the knuckles pale, his grip unwavering.


    He had seen too many battles.


    And perhaps, in the depths of his heart, he knew this might be his last.


    The crowd roared in response.


    “Place your bets, place your bets!”


    Coins clattered into the betting pools as beastmen eagerly shouted their wagers, voices merging into a chaotic frenzy.


    Korran leaned back against the railing, watching the fighters with interest.


    Then, he turned to Morales, amusement lingering in his voice.


    “So, Morales… who do you think will win?”


    Morales crossed his arms, his tail flicking lazily. “Hmph. I put my money on the orc.”


    Korran let out a deep, guttural chuckle.


    “Interesting. I bet on the human.”


    The announcer lifted his wing high, the tension thickening as the crowd held its breath.


    “Let the battle… BEGIN!”


    The chains dropped.


    The orc roared, a sound so feral it sent a shudder through the earth.


    The human exhaled, lifting his blade with practiced ease, his feet sliding into a steady stance.


    And then—


    The orc roared as he charged forward, his massive frame a blur of raw muscle and fury.


    His thunderous footsteps sent tremors through the ground, rattling the loose dust and sand beneath him.


    His fists, thick as tree trunks and hardened by the brutality of countless battles, swung with the force of a wrecking ball, seeking to crush his opponent in a single decisive blow.


    But the human soldier was faster.


    At the last possible moment, he twisted his body, sidestepping the deadly strike with only inches to spare.


    His boots scraped against the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the air as he fought to maintain balance.


    The orc, undeterred by the missed attack, let out another feral growl, his yellowed tusks glistening with saliva as he lunged forward once more.


    This time, the human was ready.


    He had studied the orc’s movements, the predictable shifts in his weight, the telegraphed swings of his fists.


    With precise footwork, he evaded the second charge and retaliated with a swift, calculated strike.


    His rusted sword, dulled from overuse but still deadly in skilled hands, sliced across the orc’s knee.


    The blade found its mark between thick muscles, severing tendons.


    The orc howled in agony, staggering as his leg buckled beneath him.


    Pain twisted his features into a grotesque snarl, but the human gave him no time to recover.


    He dashed forward, using the orc’s moment of weakness, and drove his sword straight into the creature’s throat.


    A spray of hot blood filled the air, spattering across the arena floor.


    The orc gurgled, clawing at the wound, his massive body swaying before finally collapsing with a thunderous thud.


    His lifeless eyes stared into nothingness, the fight drained from them forever.


    For a moment, silence blanketed the arena. Then—


    "The human wins!!"


    The crowd erupted into a chaotic symphony of cheers and curses.


    Coins exchanged hands as gamblers either celebrated their winnings or lamented their losses.


    Up in the stands, Korran chuckled, leaning back in satisfaction.


    "Look, Morales. I won the bet."


    The wolfkin standing beside him, though clearly displeased, gave a slow nod. "Yes, my lord… but how did you predict the outcome?"


    Korran’s golden eyes gleamed as he watched the victorious human stagger, exhausted but alive.


    "Humans have great potential, Morales. One should never underestimate them, no matter the situation."


    From his tone, it might seem admiration for humans.


    But it was far from the truth.


    The battle had ended, but the horror of Beastwell’s Blood Arena never ceased.


    As the next match was announced—human soldier was forced to fight another human—Korran and Morales left the stands, descending into the depths of the coliseum.


    The air grew heavier, thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and decay.


    Flickering torches lined the damp stone corridors, casting twisted shadows against iron-barred cages stacked atop one another like a grotesque slaughterhouse.


    Inside, the prisoners waited.


    Humans. Orcs. Dwarves. Elves. Captives of the beastmen, stripped of dignity and hope.


    They were chained like animals, their wrists and ankles bound in rusted shackles so tight that raw wounds festered beneath them.


    Some prisoners bore bruises, others carried the cruel marks of whips, their skin torn open, their blood dried into dark crusts over old scars.


    The air was alive with misery.


    Some wept, their sobs weak and hollow.


    Others clung to the bars of their cages, their skeletal hands trembling as they reached for food that would never come.


    The most unfortunate ones had lost limbs in the arena, yet instead of receiving care, they had been left to rot.


    The floor beneath them was stained crimson, old and fresh blood mingling in a sickening testament to their suffering.


    For these prisoners, there was no rescue. No mercy. No future.


    Only death awaited them.


    Korran walked past the wailing, the desperate pleas, his boots squelching against the filth-soaked ground.


    He barely spared the prisoners a glance—until he reached a particular cell.


    Unlike the others, this prisoner did not beg.


    He did not scream.


    He did not plead for food or freedom.


    He sat in the darkness, his back against the cold stone wall, his wrists bound in chains far thicker than the rest.


    Once, his silver hair had gleamed under the sun.


    Now, it was matted with grime, tangled from months of neglect.


    His pointed ears twitched ever so slightly as Korran approached, but he did not raise his head.


    Korran grinned.


    "How have you been, Prince?"


    Slowly, the prisoner lifted his gaze.


    Even in the dim torchlight, his emerald-green eyes burned with defiance.


    He was none other than the prince of the Elven Kingdom.


    And more importantly—


    He was Lily’s elder brother.


    But he said nothing. Not a single word.


    Korran’s grin widened.


    "I have good news for you." His voice dripped with amusement as he leaned closer. "Your dear little sister will be here soon."


    The prince did not react.


    But Korran could feel it.


    The shift in his posture, the subtle clench of his fists, the slight rattle of his chains.


    It was slight, almost imperceptible—but it was enough.


    The seed of despair had been planted.


    Satisfied, Korran turned and walked away, his laughter echoing through the dungeon like a lingering curse.


    The moment the beastman ruler was gone, the prince’s fist slammed against the stone floor.


    His teeth clenched, his entire body trembling with frustration.


    "Damn it…!"


    His voice was hoarse, worn from months of captivity.


    Rage and helplessness warred within him, burning through his veins like wildfire.


    From the next cell over, a rough, gravelly voice spoke.


    "Don’t lose hope, child. That bastard could be lying."


    The prince turned his head. In the dim light, he could barely make out the withered frame of an old dwarf.


    His once-powerful body was frail now, weakened by time and suffering, but his eyes—his eyes still held the fire of a warrior.


    This was no ordinary prisoner.


    This was the King of the Dwarves.


    The prince let out a shaky breath. "I know…" he murmured. But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.


    He pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall, whispering a silent prayer.


    "I just hope… Lily doesn’t come here."