CHAPTER 468: BLOOD AND THUNDER

The roar of the crowd exploded after the steel gates parted.

Nikolai stepped into the pit, a hood covering his face and shoulders loose and steady. The stench of last night’s blood lingered, churning in the sand beneath his boots. Tonight, the crowd’s anticipation felt odd. A little harsh, like a sharp blade that expected him to fall.

He scanned the walls, searching each seat, trying to find the trace of the danger that made his skin crawl, but the bright lights blinded his vision.

Tsk...

Whatever, I’ll just focus then.

Across the pit, his opponent emerged. Not a beast. Not a hulking brute like Honey Bear. An old man. Thin, wiry. His body was wrapped in a dark cloth that clung to muscles like a taut rope. With cracked, pale skin and sharp eyes like knives, he faced Nikolai in silence.

The arena announcer’s voice cut through the noise.

"Tonight’s challenger... once known as the Butcher of Ashvale. An Elder of fifty years’ service. A man who has killed princes and priests alike—Velran!"

The old man didn’t react to the title. He glared at Nikolai, lips curling faintly.

"So, Ivan’s pup." His voice rasped like rust scraping iron. "You’ve made it this far at such a young age, impressive."

Nikolai didn’t like this old man, but forced a smile. "Big words for a bag of bones."

Velran tilted his head, sharp teeth opening and snapping shut. "Your father was just as infuriating, the same blood, same arrogance... Tonight I will get my revenge, on his precious little cub."

The crowd howled and screamed at their exchange.

No longer rushed to fight, the Arena enjoyed increasing the hype when fighters insulted each other.

Nikolai gripped tight, his bones cracking as the dull ache in his muscles brought a wave of pleasure, the night with Leona soothing all his wounds from the previous battle with Honey Bear. He watched the old corpse twist itself in silence, preparing for the battle.

"Come then," he said, shrugging off his cloak. "Let’s see if you can do what all the others failed to."

The horn sounded.

And Velran moved first.

Unlike his appearance, he moved with grace. He advanced in a blur, steps like smoke across the sand as a flash of steel glinted. Small knives fanned from his sleeves, a dozen at once, spinning like shards of moonlight.

"What!?"

Nikolai threw himself aside.

The knives cut through the space where his body had stood a heartbeat ago. Sand spread where they struck, each blade buried deep, a dangerous set of throwing daggers coated in a sticky green poison.

"Tch..." He ducked as Velran closed in with a lunge, a long dagger sliding into his hand. The blade hummed with a faint green sheen.

Nikolai caught the wrist mid-thrust, claws biting flesh. The old man’s grin widened even as blood ran down his arm. With his free hand, Velran slashed upward. A hidden clawed ring caught Nikolai across the ribs, ripping through skin and muscle in a hot, wet line.

"Gh—!"

He shoved Velran back, blood spilling down his side. The crowd roared at the sight.

The old man licked his lips, his tongue stained green from his own weapon’s poison. "Not so untouchable after all."

Nikolai’s regeneration shivered, sluggish where the poison burned, causing his muscles to convulse and tense, and the black blood fought against the poison to force the wound closed.

So that’s your trick.

His poison and blades were just to slow Nikolai down, grinding his endurance.

Velran came again, low and sharp, cutting for his knees. Nikolai shifted weight and stomped down, meeting blade with bone. Sparks leapt as the dagger scraped his shin. His counter was brutal.

An elbow aimed for the skull.

The old man bent like a palm tree, sliding under the strike, his blade carving up Nikolai’s thigh. Another line of blood. Another hiss of poison.

The crowd screamed in delight.

Nikolai’s aura exploded, a black flame that sizzled the air around him, boiling his skin as the wolf yearned to be free, to crush, to devour, and he stopped holding back.

I cannot grow stronger by holding back my true power.

He reached the limit in which pure physical power could bring him; the blood of his body churned and bubbled with ancient evil. His fingers lengthened into hooked claws, his shoulders rolling wider as muscle swelled.

Enough.

Velran’s grin faltered as the black aura wrapped around Nikolai’s frame.

"You’re quick, skilled... and the strongest i’ve faced in a while.... But!" Nikolai growled, voice lower, guttural. "I’m done holding back."

He lunged.

This time, the old man didn’t slip away. Nikolai’s claws caught his arm and wrenched, bone snapping with a sharp crack. Velran spat blood but twisted with the break, driving his dagger into Nikolai’s side even as his arm hung broken.

Blood oozed from both men; however, Nikolai’s muscles tensed, and they pushed the knife out with a pop and clang as it hit the floor.

His wound has fully healed.

Nikolai slammed his forehead forward. Skull met skull with a brutal crack. The old man staggered back, blood pouring down his face.

"Come on old man!" He howled.

"Arrogant pup..." Velran spat blood, his broken arm twitching unnaturally before snapping back into place with a wet pop. His body shuddered, bones cracking as he hunched lower. His skin rippled, pale muscle twisting into something sharper, leaner.

This revealed the old man’s true form.

A shapeshifter.

Someone who supported the Silver Clan!

The crowd surged to their feet as Velran’s body contorted, claws sprouting from his hands, his jaw stretching into a half-beast snarl.

Nikolai licked blood from his lip, amused by the sudden change as he grinned at the disgusting monster.

"Finally showing me your true face?"

Velran’s eyes gleamed. "I’ll wear yours when I’m done."

Their bodies vanished, clashing again—Wolf against butcher, beast against monster.

Poison against black flame.

Thier strikes lost pretence, every attack aimed to wound, kill or maim.

The sand churned red.

And in the VIP booth, Anya whispered his name again and again, her fingers trembling as she gripped the glass, eyes glowing faintly.

She touched the screen, unable to look away.

Their clashes made the entire booth tremble; the screen hummed with each brutal blow.

Anya’s chest raced, her breathing unsteady as she heaved and panted, her wine glass rolling on its side as she leaned forward, one hand pressing against the cold glass of the viewing screen, her eyes focused on Nikolai’s figure.

Blood already spilt down Nikolai’s ribs.

The way it glistened under the harsh arena lights twisted her stomach—half from worry, half from excitement. She could smell him through the glass, even from this far away. That intoxicating scent. Her thighs pressed together, restless.

"Idiot..." she whispered in a sweet yet shaking voice. "Why do you keep wasting your blood like this...?"

Anya couldn’t look away; she refused to.

Velran was faster than she imagined, even after watching dozens of arena fights and her father in the past. However, this felt different. Each strike wasn’t performative, but the old man was trying to kill her beloved.

Each blade dripped in poison, which pierced Nikolai and made her veins throb as if suffering in Nikolai’s place...

And yet the moment Nikolai fought back, her womb became hot, her breath sweet and seductive... as if she was nothing but a beast lusting after the male she marked, a side-effect of becoming half werewolf that Anya couldn’t control.

The overwhelming violence she had only glimpsed before. His black eyes gleamed on the screen, no longer the gentle or teasing man who kissed her in the hallways. This was the predator—the killer.

Her throat dried as her fangs pressed hard against her lip.

"Yes... That’s it..." she hummed, her hands slipping off the glass and over her body, squeezing and pinching her mounds. "Show them, show me...."

Every brutal exchange left her gasping. When he snapped Velran’s arm, she almost moaned as her fingers circled her entrance, the hot sticky juices coating her fingers. When Velran stabbed his side in return, her nails cut crescents into her breasts, furious at herself for enjoying the sight of his blood so much.

It hurt to want him this badly.

She couldn’t help but thirst for his blood, enough to destroy herself.

She thought of Leona, smug and secure. Of Clara, shy and pure. Of Selene and Lunaria, noble and untouchable. Did they feel this madness too? Did they watch him tear men apart and want to sink their fangs into his throat the moment he walked off stage? Or was she alone in this sickness?

Desperate to throw herself into the pit and throw herself at him naked... whether to be eaten, fucked or tossed aside.

On the screen, the two monsters collided again.

The sound of bone and steel filled the arena. The sand turned darker, wetter. Nikolai’s lips curled into that wolfish grin, even with poison dripping from his wounds.

"Don’t smile at her!" Anya hissed, though no one else could hear, as she curled her finger inside, stroking the spoke that Nikolai taught her... Her voice broke into a desperate and blissful laugh. "Smile at me... only me..."

The announcer’s voice broke through the chaos:

"Velran reveals his true form! Can the young wolf survive this clash!?"

After the old man transformed, Nikolai’s scent increased explosively. Anya gripped the table and groaned, her throat bulging as she released a deafening howl.

"Nikolai..."

Then it happened.

Her fangs cut her lip, blood trickling down her chin as she knelt on the floor... a wet streak staining the carpet below as she convulsed and shuddered with erratic jerks. Sweat was dripping down her temple.

Something inside her snapped.

Jealousy, fear, hunger, all twisted into one unbearable knot.

And in her booth, alone, the vampire princess smiled with fangs bared, eyes gleaming like a crazed woman.