222: The Fridge
“BOOO!!” the spectators booed and cursed at the cowardly attitude of the other volunteers. The spectators came here for fights, blood, and death. Such pitiful attempts a weaseling out of combat were unacceptable to the riled-up citizens of Klapsus.
Beatrice looked up to the crowds and wondered if these were the people she was so determined to save. Were everyone’s morals so irreversibly corrupted in this city? Or was this just a particularly deplorable minority of people that had spiraled down over the years into deeper and deeper depths of contemptible thrill-seeking.
Number Seven stopped next to Number Fifty-two and stood over him ominously and silently. Every volunteer held their breath, waiting for the announcement that it was finally over.
“She did say ‘two minutes’,” Number seven said, raised his foot, and slammed it down hard on Number Fifty-two’s chest just as the terrified man realized what was coming.
Despite the distance from the fighting, Beatrice clearly heard the cracking of a dozen ribs and could imagine all too vividly how the poor man’s inner organs were turned to mush as liquids spurted out of Number Fifty-two in all directions.
The crowd rejoiced once again in near unison. With their fears of a bloodless resolution having been erased, they now gleefully enjoyed the bloodbath in its gory detail that was displayed in high definition in the giant magical sphere above the arena.
The walking refrigerator then turned to Number Sixteen who broke down and bawled.
Before another life was extinguished, one more sneak attack was attempted as Number Thirty-six swung The Cleaver from behind Number Seven, attempting to slay the unstoppable killer. The giant man grabbed the hilt of The Cleaver with such force that it not only stopped the swing dead in its tracks but also stopped the attacker who ended up running into the hilt of his own weapon.
“Guh!” Number Thirty-six gasped as the air got knocked out of him when he flew chest-first into the dead-stopped steel handle.
“You’re too weak for such a weapon,” Number Seven said and snatched The Cleaver out of his opponent’s hands.
“Guh!” the goatkin instantly leaped back to increase the distance between himself and Number Seven but was cleaved clean in half from head to groin with a single, proper swing of the mighty weapon.
The crowds cheered once more as the two lifeless, bleeding halves of a goatkin collapsed to the ground and their contents poured out onto the rocks, forming a gory pile of meat and liquids. Unlike the spectators, Number Seven did not seem to care about the bloody show he put on, and simply walked forward to dispose of his next target, the wounded Number Thirty-five.
“Somebody, help!!” the wounded begged as he crawled backward, away from Number Seven. “Don’t you see that he will kill everyone at this rate!? You’re happy as long as it’s not you!? COWARDS!! Watching others die!! He will pick you off! One by one, you will die while others stand there, cheering on your deaths!!!”
But none of the other participants moved to help. Some seemed indeed horrified at the methodical slaughter. Some even looked away, covering their faces. Many others calmly watched as the weaklings were disposed of.
Beatrice clenched her fists as she realized how bloodthirsty so many of the citizens of Klapsus really were. While it did not surprise her at all that desperate people would seek any diversion to forget their own suffering, the level of joy they seemed to gain out of specifically the brutal deaths of these hopeless people was repulsive.
“No!! Stop! Time’s up! The time is up!” Number Thirty-five screamed and cried as he crawled backward. He screamed at the top of his lungs pleading to the giant man, to Thelicia, to the masked staff. “The two minutes have surely passed already! It’s over! You win! Please!! HELP!! He’ll kill you all if you don’t stop him now!! SOMEBODY-GHRUAAAHHH!!”
Number Seven did not hack and slash his victims like a maniac. His movements were brutal, devoid of hesitation or compassion, but efficient. A single swing into the chest and through the heart of Number Thirty-five ended the man’s life instantly.
“NOOOOOO!” Number Sixteen cried as she got up and ran toward the nearest bridge off the arena after witnessing such brutal and one-sided slaughter. “I give up! I don’t-GHA—”
The beastkin girl’s wide-eyed, lifeless body flew forward and slid face-down two dozen yards, all the way to the masked men at the bridge with the cleaver lodged deep in her back. Number Seven ended the girl’s life with a single, powerful throw.