Raised From The Wild-Chapter 450: The End Game

The instant Marx, Valdez, Ren, and Ava stepped into the transport car bound for the hidden coliseum, every digital device they carried went dark. Screens flickered once, then died, as if swallowed by the air itself. Somewhere within the vehicle, a powerful jammer hummed—silent but absolute—rendering even the most hardened technology useless.

Marx frowned deeply as shifting profiles of the contenders flashed across the car’s windows and windshield, the glass transforming into living screens. They were not blindfolded, yet they might as well have been. The outside world was erased, replaced by curated images and data they had no choice but to absorb. A persistent, disembodied voice accompanied each profile, droning on with clinical precision. It drilled into Marx’s skull, each syllable tightening into a dull, relentless headache.

This time, Marx wore no wig nor disguise. His hair fell long and natural, dyed jet black to match his beard and mustache. Obsidian contact lenses concealed the true color of his eyes. He had learned the hard way that masks invited scrutiny. So he, Valdez, and six other trusted guards came as themselves, altered only enough to pass unnoticed.

Officially, they were handlers for the two spider mutants, Renzor and Avazar—contenders in the once-in-a-decade Battle of the Mutants.

What Marx had not anticipated was the sheer scale of the security. For a country as impoverished as Ra-iya, the infrastructure was staggering. Surveillance was seamless, layered, and omnipresent. Through careful observation, Marx realized the underground coliseum was not powered by conventional electricity. The energy source was far more potent—either a compact nuclear reactor or something rarer still: the mysterious metal known only as XX.

Upon arrival, Marx and Valdez were escorted to a private viewing box high above the arena. Ren and Ava were taken elsewhere—downward—into the Hypogeum, where the combatants were kept in holding cells beneath the arena.

Focusing on his goal, Marx fabricated an excuse and slipped out of the box in search of a restroom. As he walked, he mapped the structure in his mind, tracing corridors, counting turns, memorizing distances. There had to be another way out, an auxiliary structure. A place to keep dignitaries—or prisoners.

He had just exited the restroom when the announcement echoed through the corridors: the tournament had begun.

Marx looked up at the nearest screen broadcasting the live feed of the arena.

An icy terror seized his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. For a heartbeat, he could not breathe.

...

At the arena, the horn sounded, and the war drum was beaten.

Its call was not merely loud—it was primal. A long, reverberating blast tore through the coliseum, echoing off stone and steel, announcing blood before it was even spilled.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer purred, her voice smooth and hypnotic, "brace yourselves and relive the glory of our ancestors—when gladiators fought to the death against wild beasts and condemned criminals."

The words flowed like a spell.

"There will be twelve rounds. Twelve groups. The final three victors from each round will advance to the final round. You have fifteen minutes each round to place your bets."

Her bewitching voice flooded every tier of the coliseum, followed by a deep, ancient note that rolled downward into the Hypogeum. The sound vibrated through bone and stone alike. Dust rained from the ground as massive iron cells appeared from underneath the ground scattered around the arena, their chains shrieking as wounded beasts were dragged toward slaughter.

Torchlight erupted along the walls, flame after flame bursting to life, bathing the pit in a violent orange glow.

The crowd exploded.

They howled in delirious delight, intoxicated by the spectacle—by the illusion of an ancient arena resurrected for modern cruelty.

Amaya stepped forward into the vast circular pit. The floor beneath her boots was scarred with claw marks, gouges from blades, and stains of dried blood that centuries had failed to erase. She was no longer sure whether what she was seeing was special effects or reality.

Tier upon tier of shadowed alcoves loomed overhead, packed with spectators roaring like madmen. The air reeked of rust, sweat, and fear—the kind that soaked into stone and never left.

Across the arena, cages began to rise.

The first gate slammed open.

A man—enormous, towering, built like a living battering ram. To Amaya, he looked like a giant. His eyes burned red with madness, veins standing out along his neck as he sucked in air like a starved animal.

Another gate opened.

Then another.

And another.

Men spilled out—convicted felons who had volunteered for this slaughter, trading a death sentence for hope of freedom. Shackles clanged and pooled beneath their ankles as they staggered out of their restraint and into the light, some snarling, others already trembling.

The first round was for humans branded as gladiators. They were as good as dead—slaves to the arena, meant to entertain the crazed crowds.

Sofia staggered back, her confidence finally splintering. "No..." she whispered, horror creeping into her voice. "These are opening combatants. They’re meant to kill each other."

Amaya didn’t look away from the gladiators. Her jaw tightened—not with fear, but with resolve."No," she said quietly. "They’re meant to remind everyone what happens when power goes unchecked."

Another horn blast ripped through the air.

The men surged forward, charging toward a pile of weapons placed at strategic locations. Chaos erupted instantly—shouts, fists, bodies colliding.

Amaya was slender, quick on her feet. Sofia was the same—built for speed rather than brute force. Sofia reached the weapons first, snatched up a knife, and fled from the oncoming madness as fast as she could and made herself inconspicuous at a corner.

Amaya grabbed a whip and the sword beside it. Even the weapons were chosen to match the ancient theme—leather, iron, and steel stripped of anything modern. Like Sofia, she put distance between herself and the cluster of raging men already tearing into one another.

Sofia took the opportunity. She yanked back her hood and began waving frantically, her movements desperate. She was facing the main VIP box—where she should have been seated beside King Ralden.

In the box, King Ralden shot to his feet.

The beautiful woman perched on his lap cried out as he shoved her aside. His face drained of color as recognition struck.

"What in hell is she doing down there?" he roared. "Get Sofia out. Now!"

"Your Majesty," an aide said urgently, "the battle has already begun. The round cannot be stopped. We can only retrieve the princess once it ends."

Rage twisted Ralden’s features, but his protest died when his eyes caught another figure in the arena.

One contender stood apart. He was too slender to be a man, too clean looking to be a criminal. The hood and the mask made him unrecognizable.

Something about the figure set Ralden’s instincts screaming. A cold, foreboding sensation settled in his gut as he leaned forward, unable to look away.