Chapter 12: Making a Grand Entrance
Two days had passed since the Clepsydra resistance’s sudden raid. Chrome-plated repair robots crawled up and down the blood arena, using mechanical tentacles to weld steel pillars and haul away debris. Within a single day, they had managed to restore the colosseum to pristine condition.
Through the glass window of his private lounge, Monkey Face watched the octopoid robots scurry about. He cradled a glass of Scotch whisky, letting the smoky flavor of the amber liquor coat his tongue.
Tomorrow, a live-or-die duel would take place right here.
The recording drones were fully prepared, their dense clusters of lenses—resembling the compound eyes of a massive insect—trained directly on the ring. Up in the digital forums of the upper spiral city, rumors ran rampant, and countless pairs of eyes were locked onto the blood arena’s every move. If he secured a victory in this duel, it would undoubtedly bring him monumental prestige—perhaps even enough to guarantee a promotion to the 2035 branch, Monkey Face calculated with a smug grin.
The duel was structured as a best-of-three match. Aside from Monkey Face himself, he had prepared two battle-hardened veterans of the colosseum to ensure an absolute victory. The resistance possessed no fighter more formidable than the “King of Boxers,” and there was absolutely no way Hearts could win.
Memories drifted through his mind like a lone boat navigating the past. Monkey Face recalled their showdown from many years ago. Back then, he and Hearts had crossed paths, engaging in a lethal duel amidst the fires of combat. Ultimately, it was that devastating punch—the one that cost him 30 years of his own lifespan—that had shattered Hearts’s original body.
When Hearts re-emerged later, he had transformed into a cyborg surviving solely on an eclectic assemblage of disparate cybernetics. His body had become a grotesque amalgamation of machinery and beast-like parts, and his core personality seemed to have grown freezing cold. Even when he put on the facade of a polite, gentle gentleman, his eyes remained perpetually overflowing with pure hatred.
Assembling outer limbs was a relatively simple task, but internal organs were an entirely different story. Organs circulating on the black market commanded astronomical prices and bore distinct serial numbers from the Chrono-Entropy Corporation, meaning their exact distribution was meticulously tracked. Monkey Face had intended to use these logs to pinpoint Hearts’s hidden stronghold and deliver a fatal blow to the resistance. Curiously, however, he had never been able to trace the distribution of those organs—where on earth did the internal vitals keeping Hearts alive actually come from? To this day, it remained an unsolved riddle for Monkey Face.
Right then, a sharp knock rattled the lounge door. A Corporation employee stepped inside to report on the operational progress. After nervously explaining the arena’s repairs, the employee hesitated before asking:
“Director, why are you organizing this life-and-death duel in the first place?”
Monkey Face shot a cold glance toward him. The employee trembled like a leaf under the crushing weight of a mountain, but he still mustered up the courage to speak:
“The rewards you’ve promised them are far too generous. Releasing all the slaves… wouldn’t that completely destabilize the very foundation of our branch?”
After a long silence, Monkey Face replied smoothly, “The bigger the bait, the greater the attention it attracts. Right now, the eyes of the entire spiral city are focused on us. Our 2030 branch has always handled the grittiest, frontline labor at the very bottom. Within the Corporation, we are constantly looked down upon.”
“But as long as we claim victory in this globally televised duel, stepping over the heads of the 2035 branch will no longer be a foolish pipe dream!” Monkey Face’s tone surged with intense ambition as he slammed his glass onto the table, glaring at the employee. “Employee 1458, you’ve been at this branch for a long time, haven’t you? Don’t you want to stand out, make a name for yourself, and get a hefty raise?”
The employee broke into a cold sweat. “Chief, I wouldn’t dare harbor such wild thoughts.”
“It’s not a wild thought! Rest assured, the other two combatants I’ve selected are elite veterans forged through a thousand trials in the arena.” Monkey Face slammed his hand onto the oak desk, a low chuckle bubbling up from his throat, though it sounded more like a series of disjointed gasps. “The resistance is nothing but a collection of deformed, useless scraps. They can’t possibly win, just as they have repeatedly crumbled beneath our boots in the past.”
“What if they don’t show up to fulfill the agreement?”
“Then they can spend the rest of their miserable lives as gutter rats cowering in the dark! Their absence will only solidify our 2030 branch’s dominant prestige among the lower districts.”
“This is a duel where lives are on the line, Chief. Isn’t it a bit reckless for you to personally step onto the canvas?”
“Stepping onto the canvas myself is the absolute best advertisement,” Monkey Face replied. What he didn’t tell his subordinate was that to secure his ascent from the 2030 branch, he desperately needed to be bathed in the absolute center of the spotlight. Before that, he still required the unyielding support of his staff. With that in mind, he took on an uncharacteristically warm and approachable tone: “Employee 1458, your performance has been exceptional. Once we claim victory in the duel and wrap up this month’s tournaments, you may take a period of paid vacation. I will personally increase your performance bonuses and holiday perks.”
The employee appeared deeply moved, yet he stammered nervously:
“D-Director, I actually have one more detail to report to you.”
“What is it?” Monkey Face’s brow furrowed. Since a moment ago, he had begun to feel that this particular employee was a bit too talkative. His pleasant mood evaporated, and he began calculating whether he should revoke the man’s bonuses.
“The truth is… I’m not Employee 1458,” the employee said, meticulously rubbing his hands together. “I’m 4158.”
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The mechanical mainspring slowly uncoiled, driving a set of four gears to rotate the hands beneath a brass hunter-case pocket watch. A man whose skin was map-lined with angry red blotches stared down at the timepiece in his palm.
The man’s name was Sally, known throughout the circuit by his moniker “Rusty Bone,” a figure of minor renown within the blood arena. He had once been a military-grade tech soldier manufactured by the Corporation—an early batch number who had personally suppressed numerous riots in the lower districts.
Back then, Sally took immense pleasure in using longswords to impale rebellious lower-district citizens onto stone pillars, creating grotesque tableaus that mimicked religious depictions of a martyred holy son. Watching those desperate souls writhe and weep would elicit a twisted sense of artistic satisfaction within his chest, akin to admiring a collection of pinned butterfly specimens.
It wasn’t until his old model was officially decommissioned, his advanced cybernetic limbs stripped away, and his income drastically slashed, that he finally realized he was nothing more than expired cargo to the Corporation. Sally was forced to settle for recycled, low-grade scrap-aluminum cybernetics—the kind of limbs that fractured easily, rusted at the joints, and caused metallic ions to dissolve rapidly when exposed to sweat. Ultimately, he contracted a severe bone-corrosion syndrome, forcing him to endure a perpetual, agonizing ache that left his flesh bruised, purple, and deeply pitted.
To treat the debilitating condition, he was required to pay an astronomical sum of lifespan. Now, Sally found himself exactly like one of his own pinned butterflies, forced to trade away his remaining life in the arena, entertaining upper-district spectators with his desperate, agonizing struggles for survival.
Suddenly, a broadcast blared through the lounge speakers, an inorganic electronic voice echoing like a haunting specter: “The Blood Arena’s Apricot Month Tournament Duel is about to commence. All fighters, please take your positions.”
Sally straightened his spine as the heavy iron gateway leading to the colosseum ground upward. Stepping out of his lounge, he entered a long corridor constructed from rusted steel panels. The walkway was lined with triple-layered bulletproof glass, reinforced by an outer layer of electrified iron fencing designed to prevent any slaves from escaping. Through the barrier, the full layout of the arena unfolded before his eyes.
As a competitor in the second match, Sally was in no rush to step onto the ring. While his official track record didn’t seem as fearsome as the other fighter, Marion “The Flesh Engine,” Sally was far more adept at the pure art of slaughter. The Corporation had frequently deployed him onto the canvas specifically to publicly execute captured resistance members. To date, he had personally savored the agonizing final wails of over a hundred captives.
This time would be no different. Sally ran a rough tongue over his teeth. If the resistance actually showed up to fulfill the agreement, they would be walking straight into a slaughterhouse, completely at his mercy. Yet they had no choice but to come, because the bait dangled before them was simply too irresistible.
Perhaps the resistance would merely send a few low-level lackeys to serve as sacrificial lambs. With that thought in mind, Sally focused his gaze on the ring below.
The ambient lights dimmed completely, leaving only a series of alternating yellow and purple floor lamps to cut through the dark, resembling a predatory beast narrowing its eyes from the shadows. A sharp, snake-like hissing sound rattled through the facility as massive clouds of dry-ice fog rolled outward. Through the dense mist, Marion “The Flesh Engine” made his grand entrance.
Marion’s muscles were immensely deformed and coiled, causing him to resemble a lumbering mountain of pure meat. Thick, engorged veins mapped across his skin like the ring lines on an ancient tree stump. Every step he took onto the canvas sent a tremor through the facility, his heavy footfalls striking a primal chord of dread in the hearts of the onlookers. By sacrificing a staggering 48 hours of lifespan per day, he had acquired colossal physical strength—once even using his bare teeth to bite down on a tow rope and pull a heavy truck weighing a massive 5 tons. He was an absolute nightmare to every competitor in the circuit.
Directly opposite him, the dry-ice machines hissed through two or three additional cycles, yet there was still no sign of an opponent. Seated in the VIP tiers, the masked upper-district spectators erupted into a chorus of complaints and jeers:
“Is the resistance even showing up today?”
“Like hell they are! They’re far too cunning to walk straight into a trap.”
Gradually, the complaints dissolved into loud harks of derision. Right at that exact moment, however, a sudden shift rippled through the dense fog. A thunderous, ground-shaking thud echoed through the arena, and a heartbeat later, a magnificent snow leopard materialized before the audience.
The leopard’s coat gleamed like polished satin, her shoulder blades shifting fluidly as she glided forward like the wind. As she leapt gracefully onto the stage, a collective gasp rippled through the grandstands. In her presence, Marion’s hulking frame suddenly appeared clumsy and disproportionate.
“You… you are… the competitor from Clepsydra?” Even the naturally brutal Marion found himself stammering over his words.
The snow leopard opened her jaws, delivering a response in human tongue—the sharp, vibrant voice of a young girl: “Yeah, what about it?” She paused, huffing lightly, “To be completely honest, this lady didn’t want to come to such a filthy place in the first place. The stench of engine oil and raw blood is absolutely revolting!”
Marion let out a booming laugh. “Haha, I simply didn’t expect the blood arena to turn into a zoo today.”
The snow leopard curled her tail lightly. “You’re right. Today, we’re going to put on a live performance of the classic play, Beauty and the Beast.”
Marion smirked. “Well, I’m certainly no beauty.”
Suddenly, a violent gale sliced across his face. Before Marion could react, a claw strike struck his head with such colossal momentum that his skull spun, sending his entire body flying backward like a discarded rag straight into the lower spectator tiers! Debris and dust erupted into the air. Amidst the frantic shrieks of the audience, the snow leopard elegantly licked the tips of her claws:
“What absolute nonsense! I am the beauty. You are the beast.”
The crowd erupted into utter chaos. Although the resistance had arrived exactly as agreed without deploying any hidden reinforcements at the entrances, no one had anticipated they would field such an unorthodox competitor. The snow leopard grumbled under her breath, “I’m supposed to be a technical engineer handling backend logistics. If it weren’t for that Diamonds kid coaxing me into this, I wouldn’t have set foot in here!”
Before her words could settle, a deafening crash echoed as Marion leapt high into the air like a bolt of lightning, crashing back down onto the canvas. He drove a fist forward, the incoming strike packing the raw concussive force of a heavy artillery shell.
The snow leopard leapt nimbly into the air, a claw striking downward to firmly lock onto his wrist while her tail swayed like a fluid wave. “You half-baked cyborg. How do you expect a soft, sluggish punch like that to contend with my genetic modifications?”
Marion, who prided himself entirely on his unmatched physical strength, roared with furious indignation at being pinned. Infusing his muscles with maximum power, he unleashed a torrential barrage of blows toward the leopard. The snow leopard soared gracefully into the air, landing nimbly right behind his back before clamping her jaws onto his boxing shorts, hoisting his massive frame up, and slamming him violently into the floor.
The impact left spots dancing before Marion’s eyes. Before the match, Monkey Face had explicitly informed him that the promise of “releasing all the slaves upon a resistance victory” was merely a deceptive political tactic. If he lost this match, not only he but his entire family would be locked away inside iron maidens, facing a slow, agonizing death impaled by ten thousand spikes. He had no choice but to fight to the bitter end.
Right then, the snow leopard pounced onto his torso once more, unleashing a furious flurry of claws and bites. Gaping lacerations tore across Marion’s body as blood sprayed across the canvas. He swung his fists wildly in retaliation, yet the leopard evaded every strike with effortless grace.
As loud jeers began echoing from the grandstands, Marion grew increasingly frantic, leaving his guard completely exposed. Right at that critical juncture, a specialized anesthetic dart shot out from a hidden aperture lining the upper walls of the arena, burying itself deep into the snow leopard’s quadriceps.
The leopard yelped, “Which mosquito just bit me!” Within seconds, however, her limbs grew entirely heavy and sluggish, until her body finally collapsed onto the canvas.
The dart mechanism had been triggered from the interior wall panels, a safety countermeasure designed to neutralize out-of-control combatants. Corporation drones rapidly rolled onto the stage to haul the unconscious leopard away, while the host drone turned to the audience to announce:
“The Clepsydra resistance has committed a rules violation by fielding a non-human competitor. This round goes to the 2030 branch!”
The audience let out another collective wave of jeers. As the drones carried her off, the snow leopard managed to let out a weak, muffled protest: “Unfair! Every single one of your fighters is a cyborg hybrid! This lady has a genuine human brain—my human content is at least 4%!”
Inside the lounge, Monkey Face stepped away from his desk. He was the one who had just pressed the hidden button to activate the anesthetic dart mechanism. Looking down at the arena floor from his vantage point, a sinister smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he muttered to himself:
“Heh… Clepsydra truly is amusing. I can’t tell if they’re just here to make a scene, or if they genuinely think they can claim the rewards.”
He activated his desk microphone, directing his voice to the arena’s sound system: “Commence the next match.”
The heavy entrance gates to the colosseum slowly ground shut, while a wall of security drones lined up along the perimeter, effectively trapping the remaining resistance members inside the venue. The house lights dimmed completely. Suddenly, a series of vibrant laser lights cascaded down from the domed ceiling, casting a chaotic grid of crimson and neon-blue lines across the floor. Accompanied by a wave of heavy metal music powerful enough to shatter eardrums, the host drone announced with manic enthusiasm:
“The second match of the Apricot Month Tournament’s life-and-death duel is about to begin! The victor will be awarded a full century of lifespan along with an exclusive mystery reward, while the loser will face immediate public execution on stage! Dear audience members, simply tap your time terminals against the top of your right armrests and spend your lifespan to pre-order the exact body parts you wish to see executed! Whether you want to see long steel spikes driven through the eyes, the mouth, or the heart—the choice is entirely yours!”
“Now, let us welcome our combatants to the stage! Presenting ‘Rusty Bone’ Sally—a former military-grade tech soldier who borrowed a total of 2,777 hours of lifespan to treat a severe bone-corrosion syndrome brought on by low-grade cybernetic implants! Holding an impressive record of 26 victories!”
It was his turn to fight. Sally walked through the iron gateway as it slowly ground upward. Ahead of him, a pathway illuminated by floor lamps carved through the darkness, while a thunderous roar of cheers erupted from all four sides of the arena, echoing like a mountain valley storm.
Though his total match count wasn’t exceptionally high, his cold, merciless execution style on the canvas had left an indelible impression on the circuit, prompting thousands of spectators to shout his name. Next came the introduction for the resistance’s fighter. Suddenly, the host drone’s audio feed began to stutter violently, its mechanical voice crackling through the speakers:
“Representing the resistance faction… the competing fighter is… H-Hearts!”
In an instant, a profound silence draped over the entire colosseum.
A heartbeat later, the arena erupted into a buzzing hive of frantic whispers and speculation. Inside the private lounge, Monkey Face slammed his palms onto the oak desk, his face draining of all color as he bolted to his feet.
“H-Hearts?!”
Virtually everyone had been under the impression that the resistance leader, Hearts, had sustained catastrophic damage during their prior encounter, his body shattered into pieces and rendering him entirely unfit for combat. Even if he had managed to patch his frame together, he should have logically debuted as the final anchor. Sally had never anticipated facing the absolute strongest fighter of the resistance in his very first round, freezing completely in his tracks.
A crimson spotlight cascaded down from above, soaking the stage in a color resembling fresh blood. Amidst the rising crescendo of heavy metal music, the opponent made his entrance.
To everyone’s absolute astonishment, the figure stepping onto the ring was a slender youth. He wore an oversized white T-shirt adorned with a hand-drawn heart pattern, paired with a pink apron that bore the authentic signature of the “King of Boxers,” Anvil. The youth possessed a tall, graceful frame, his face concealed behind a sleek black mask, his hands completely bare, and his grey eyes radiating a chilling, razor-sharp focus.
Sally stared blankly at him.
After a long pause, he demanded, “Who… are you?”
He wasn’t the only one; that exact question was currently running through the minds of every spectator in the building. The youth replied in a completely detached, icy tone:
“Are your eyes just for decoration? I am Hearts.”
“Absolute nonsense! Hearts doesn’t look anything like you!” Sally vividly remembered Hearts as a towering, heavily muscled powerhouse standing over two meters tall, his frame a patchwork of various heavy cybernetics—a stark contrast to the slender youth standing before him.
The youth replied flatly, “I had a botched plastic surgery, so I ended up looking like this.”
“What absolute garbage! What kind of plastic surgery completely replaces a person’s entire skeletal frame?”
“That’s exactly why I said it was botched.” The youth locked a freezing gaze onto him. “You talk too much. Are we fighting or what?”
“You’re a blatant imposter—”
Before his sentence could leave his lips, Sally suddenly felt the entire world spin out of control.
His body was violently launched into the air before crashing heavily back onto the canvas floor. A mouthful of teeth shattered instantly, blood spraying wildly from his jaw. In a fraction of a second, the grey-eyed youth had driven forward with terrifying velocity, delivering a devastating, lightning-fast uppercut straight to his chin.
As fresh blood poured from his lips, Sally scrambled to his feet, his jaw completely fractured and his words slurred into an incoherent mumble.
The youth stood perfectly composed, looking down at him with an aura that could freeze the air solid:
“I am Hearts. The one and only.”
He tilted his chin slightly, a mocking edge cutting through his cold gaze:
“What did you just say a moment ago? If you have the guts, say it to my face again.”
