Chapter 195
The hydra’s enraged roars reverberate through the arena, shaking the water and rattling the very bones of the fighters. Khale stumbles back, clutching his shoulder where venomous ichor seeps from the hydra’s bite. Blood trails behind him, spiraling into a dark, ominous cloud that spreads like a taunt through the water.
My hands clench the stone edge of my seat so tightly I fear the rock might crack beneath my grip. The crowd erupts into frenzied chaos, their cheers and gasps blending into an indistinguishable cacophony, but all I can focus on is Khale’s faltering form and Wake stepping forward to shield him.
Wake’s spear glints in the dim light of the arena, a beacon of hope amidst the gloom. He moves with precision, parrying one of the hydra’s smaller heads as it lunges, fangs bared. Each motion is deliberate, yet even from this distance, I can see the strain in his movements. His shoulders are tense, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. The hydra senses blood in the water—it always does.
Two more heads strike at once, and Wake is forced to twist and lunge, barely managing to deflect the attack. Khale, meanwhile, struggles to stay upright, his tail sluggishly pushing him back toward the coral outcropping at the arena’s edge. The venom is spreading; I can see it in the way his limbs tremble and his usually fluid movements falter. The sight of him so vulnerable sends a pang of helplessness through me, sharp and unforgiving.
The smaller sea creatures swarm into the chaos, their sleek, mutated forms darting through the hydra’s massive coils like shadows come to life. They strike at the isolated fighters, their jagged fins and needle-like teeth slicing through armor with ease. One warrior, broad-chested and wielding a jagged blade, tries to hold his ground.
But three of the beasts descend on him at once, their razor-sharp fins carving through his defenses like they’re paper. His blood spills into the water, a dark bloom that seems to energize the monsters further. The crowd roars, reveling in the carnage, but the bile rises in my throat. Each scream, each gurgled cry that cuts through the water, feels like a dagger twisting in my chest.
“He’s losing too much blood,” I whisper, barely audible over the deafening roar of the crowd. Cora sits stiffly beside me, her green eyes fixed on the scene below. Her hands tremble where they rest in her lap, a mirror of the tension and fear roiling inside me. She doesn’t respond, but the sharpness of her gaze speaks volumes. She sees it too—Khale’s fading strength, the mounting chaos, the looming specter of failure.
Khale’s body finally sags against the jagged coral outcropping, his breath coming in short, labored bursts. Wake steps forward, his spear striking out to drive back another of the hydra’s snapping heads. He’s relentless, his movements a blur of efficiency and ferocity. But even Wake’s skill can’t mask the grim reality: the hydra’s heads continue to grow back, each severed appendage replaced by two more, writhing and thrashing with renewed fury. It’s an impossible fight, and the fighters are tiring. Their movements grow slower, less coordinated, and the hydra seems to toy with them, its regenerating heads a cruel mockery of their efforts.
From the royal box, Raif watches with an unsettling calm. His hands are folded neatly in front of him, his expression unreadable. He’s a stark contrast to the frenzied crowd, their bloodlust reaching a fever pitch. Even the water feels heavier, charged with a palpable tension that presses against my chest like a weight.
“Fight together!” Wake’s voice rings out, cutting through the chaos like a beacon of hope. His words carry across the arena, desperate yet commanding. “We can’t win alone! Rally to me!”
Several fighters pause, their gazes darting between Wake and the hydra. They’ve seen it too—the futility of their individual efforts, the inevitability of failure if they continue to fight as lone wolves. Slowly, a handful of them begin to move toward Wake, forming a loose circle around him and Khale. Their faces are grim but resolute, their weapons raised in a fragile yet unified front. It’s a small glimmer of hope, faint but not extinguished.
But not everyone responds to Wake’s call.
“Don’t listen to him!” Kota’s voice booms, dripping with disdain. He strides forward, his trident glinting as he points it accusingly at Wake. “He just wants to steal our victory! We’re warriors, not cowards hiding behind teamwork. If you’re strong, fight like it!” His arrogance is palpable, his smirk daring anyone to challenge him.
Several fighters hesitate, their loyalty to Kota evident in their uncertainty. A few step toward him, their expressions conflicted but resolute. Kelis, still bleeding and battered from his earlier encounter, stands beside his brother. His usual bravado is muted, but his presence still commands attention. The arena splits, the fighters dividing into two factions: those who rally to Wake and Khale, and those who follow Kota’s reckless lead.
The hydra doesn’t wait for them to organize. It surges forward, its heads snapping and coiling with terrifying speed. Wake’s group moves in unison, their strikes coordinated as they focus on one head at a time. They target the base of the heads, where the regenerative process is slower, and for a moment, it seems to be working. One head falls limp, its movements stilled, and the fighters press their advantage. But the hydra’s strength is immense, and even their combined efforts barely hold it at bay.
Kota’s faction, meanwhile, descends into chaos. Their lack of coordination leaves them vulnerable, and the hydra exploits every opening. One of its heads lunges toward a fighter who strays too far from the group, its fangs sinking into his torso. The man’s scream is brief, cut off as the hydra flings his lifeless body into the arena floor. The crowd cheers, their bloodlust undeterred by the carnage.
Kota himself fights with reckless fury, his trident flashing as he strikes at the hydra’s thick scales. But his blows lack precision, and his arrogance blinds him to the danger. One of the hydra’s heads snaps toward him, its venomous fangs inches from his throat. Kota twists away at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the strike, but the flicker of fear in his eyes betrays his confidence. For the first time, his smirk falters, and the sight of it sends a ripple of satisfaction through me—however fleeting.
Wake’s group gains ground, their coordinated strikes weakening the hydra further. Another head falls, its regenerative process temporarily overwhelmed. Khale, despite his injury, directs their efforts with sharp commands, his voice steady even as his body trembles.
He’s a pillar of strength in the chaos, and without him, I’m certain they would falter. But the smaller creatures continue to swarm, their relentless attacks picking off the weaker fighters. One by one, Wake’s group dwindles, their losses mounting even as they inch closer to victory.
The arena floor is a graveyard of bodies, the water thick with blood and debris. Every victory feels hollow, the cost too high. The hydra’s remaining heads thrash violently, their movements more frenzied as the creature grows desperate. The smaller creatures circle like vultures, their eyes gleaming with predatory hunger.
“Phoebe,” Cora whispers beside me, her voice trembling. “They won’t last much longer.” Her wide eyes glisten with fear and determination. I’m about to respond when another roar from the hydra silences every thought in my head.
The hydra rears back, its remaining heads coiling tightly together in a horrifying display of predatory intelligence. The water churns with its movements, sending shockwaves through the arena and forcing even the bravest fighters to brace themselves. Its glowing eyes fix on the chaos below, as if calculating its next move.
Kota stumbles slightly, his trident raised defensively as one of the hydra’s heads snaps in his direction. He manages to dodge, but his footing falters, and for the first time, the confidence in his expression fractures. His gaze locks with Wake across the battlefield, a volatile mix of defiance and desperation etched into his features. For all his bravado, the danger of their situation is unmistakable, and Kota knows it.
Above it all, Raif remains motionless in the royal box, his hands folded and his expression eerily calm. His gaze is fixed on the carnage below, cold and unyielding, as if the lives being lost are nothing more than pieces on a game board. The crowd roars louder, their bloodlust feeding the rising tension, but I can only watch as the hydra coils tighter, its massive form looming like an inevitable disaster about to strike.
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