287: Death by a Thousand Cuts
Through the old man’s screams of pain, as he bled from his destroyed knee which had a curved dagger impaled through it, nobody could hear the soft reaction of the figure that stood directly under the trickle of blood and welcomed it as it fell on her white mask.
“Ah~” the masked girl moaned when droplets of blood finally seeped through the holes in her mask and hit her face.
But even if the girl’s moans could not possibly be heard by anyone else through the screams of Number Four and the cheering of the invigorated crowds, the girl’s blood-welcoming posture betrayed her intentions, which became apparent to not only Beatrice, Olivia, and many other participants, but also to several people in the crowds.
“Do it again, Ruby!!” one of the beastkin in the crowds laughed.
“You better not let him off easy after all the waiting we had to endure!” some girl shouted.
Ruby could not see the remaining time she had as she stood directly before the fiery countdown, but the announcer was kind enough to inform her.
“After a little more than a minute of resistance, Number Four is already at the mercy of miss Ruby!” Thelicia commented. “What shall she do? Number Four is woefully short of his five-minute survival goal. Will miss Ruby Spare his life anyway for such a commendable all or nothing effort and wait out the time limit?”
“Hell no!!” was the sentiment among the merciless spectators.
“Well, you heard it directly from the fans, miss Ruby, Number Four!” Thelicia passed on the verdict to the duelists, implying that her and everybody else’s hands were tied.
Ruby giggled and—suddenly and roughly—guided her dagger out of Number Four’s knee, sending a fresh dose of mind-tearing pain into the old man’s brain while rewarding herself with a fresh stream of blood pouring down on her body.
“At a loss for words?” Ruby asked as she guided her dagger, flying it up and down past the old man, grazing his body in each pass through, creating narrow but deep cuts. Left shoulder, right forearm, left thigh, left calf. The dagger flew at an ever-increasing speed, delivering more than a cut per second. “Aren’t you going to ‘fuck off’ me again? What about begging for your worthless life?”
Ten cuts. Twenty. Thirty. Another zap of the dagger severed two fingers clean off from the old man’s right hand.
“I can save you, remember?” Ruby asked as she continued multiplying the small wounds across her opponent’s helpless body. “Just beg for it like a dog!”
“Yeah, sure! Beg and live!”
“What’s with those bitch ass pussy cuts!? Cut an artery or two!”
“Yeah, there’s barely three minutes left anyway!”
Many among the spectators laughed and cheered them both on—the girl to keep pushing and the old man to beg for his life.
“Not that they want him to be saved,” Olivia commented. “Him tearfully agreeing to do anything and beg for his life before getting executed anyway is what they truly hoped for.
Instead of pleading for mercy, the old man reined in his emotions, struggling through the pain. His last defiance: denying both the blood-thirsty girl and her growing fanbase the satisfaction of hearing him cry or beg.
There was one person however who not only wished for the opposite but barely held herself from jumping in and killing the masked bitch. Number Forty’s pale fists trembled with rage. Ruby’s back was facing her. Even from fifty feet, she could—
“Don’t,” said a girl with long, gory red hair when she put her hand on Number Forty’s clenched fist. “She’s obviously baiting you in.”
“Fuck off!” Number Forty shook off Number Fifty’s hand. “You think I don’t know that?”
The announcer chuckled and said, “Looks like Number Four’s niece abandoned him! That’s what you get for leaving a girl unsatisfied. She already went and found someone better! Let this be a lesson to you, folks!”
The spectators laughed while Ruby intensified her attacks, increasing their depth, striking closer and closer to vital organs, pouring more warm blood on herself.
“Scum!” Olivia cursed. “If that girl intervenes, the announcer will instantly refer to the rules of a one-on-one duel and the girl will be killed. If she does nothing, ‘she’s a coward and a traitor’.”
“You’re probably right,” Beatrice said quietly and looked for Bob among his masked companions.
Though many of the shirtless men had a similar figure, Bob’s kilt was far more wrinkled than any of the others after his adventures with Beatrice and her friends. Their eyes locked and Bob barely shook his head, urging Beatrice not to intervene, confirming Olivia’s theory.