The moment the pit descended into madness, the audience erupted into confusion.
From the stands, it looked less like a battle and more like an execution.
Warriors had jumped in unannounced, weapons drawn, circling Ash like a pack of wolves. Norman stood at the center, his massive frame, while Ronny—Champion Brawler Bull himself—smirked like he had already won.
The audience didn't know what to think.
Some were on their feet, shouting in outrage. Others were too stunned to speak, gripping the edges of their seats as they tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding below.
The announcer, a lanky man with an oversized feathered hat, was sweating bullets. His voice, once booming with confidence, cracked with uncertainty.
"U-Uhh, ladies and gentlemen, we seem to be experiencing… an unexpected development here in the pit!" He forced a laugh, trying to regain his composure. "It appears… that several unregistered fighters have entered the arena! Hahaha! What a—what a surprise!"
Nobody was buying it.
The murmurs of the crowd grew into shouts, a mixture of excitement and concern. Betting slips were being thrown, drinks spilled. Some spectators were on their feet, demanding explanations.
"What the hell is going on?!"
"This isn't part of the fight!"
"This is boring that's not what I paid my ticket for!"
Now, the Slaughterhouse was a brutal place. It had no rules—fighters killed, maimed, and destroyed each other for sport. But even in the lawless Underpaths, this was beyond acceptable. This was supposed to be a one-on-one fight, not a goddamn ass-whooping.
Up in the VIP section, high-rollers and influential figures exchanged tense glances. Some whispered among themselves, others leaned forward, waiting to see how this would unfold.
One particularly irritated merchant slammed his fist on the railing. "I put fifty thousand gold on Norman winning clean! What is this nonsense?!"
Below, the announcer tugged at his collar, clearly panicking. He turned toward the figures sitting in the higher booths—those who actually controlled the pit. He needed guidance. A signal. Something.
But no response came.
A cold chill ran down his spine.
Something was very, very wrong.
Desperately, he turned back to the crowd, gripping his microphone with clammy fingers. His voice wavered, but he pushed through.
"A-And let's not forget, ladies and gentlemen, that surprises are what make the pit exciting, yes? Who knows—perhaps we're about to witness a legendary moment in history!"
The crowd was not convinced.
The tension was palpable, the air thick with unease. The longer the fight dragged on without explanation, the closer things got to an all-out riot.
And deep down, the announcer knew—if this chaos wasn't contained soon, there wouldn't be a Slaughterhouse left to fight in.
The pit reeked of blood and sweat, the air thick with tension.
Ash could feel it—the way his body trembled, the way his muscles screamed under the weight of Norman's Dominion. Every fiber of his being told him that he was trapped, that there was no way out. His instincts were raging, fighting against the pressure crushing down on him. But no matter how much he struggled, his body wasn't responding the way he wanted.
Ronny's smirk didn't help. His entire existence was like a bad omen, a reminder of the worst moments. He wanted to rip that smug face apart, to make Ronny pay—but he wasn't thinking straight. The sheer number of warriors, Norman's suffocating Dominion, the distorted world pressing against his mind—it was all too much.
Not like this…
A deep growl rumbled in his throat, clawing its way out. His vision blurred, the sounds around him becoming distant echoes. And then, something happened.
His body lurched forward, his muscles tensing as the transformation overtook him.
Bones cracked, shifting. Skin hardened, taking on a deep, swampy hue. Thick scales rippled across his arms, his chest expanding, his height rising. Clawed hands dug into the earth, his tail unfurling behind him, heavy and dangerous. His red-flaming hair now danced wildly like a living inferno, his eyes glowing like molten orange. Like a true swamp drake.
Silence fell over the pit as warriors took hesitant steps back, their instincts screaming at them to flee.
But it was too late.
"Beast Will—Bleak"
Every single fighter who had received even the slightest scratch from him suddenly froze. Their bodies twitched, small cracks forming along their skin. It started as tiny fractures, spreading across their limbs, their faces—until, in a horrifying instant, their bodies burst.
A sickening crack echoed through the arena as poisonous liquid exploded from within them, dissolving flesh and bone alike.
Screams filled the pit.
Some warriors didn't even get the chance to react before they collapsed into bubbling pools of acid. The sickly purple poison seeped into the ground, hissing like a boiling substance.
Ash stood at the center of it all, his breathing slow, controlled. The poison that had torn through his enemies didn't harm him—instead, it coated his wounds, solidifying into a protective rigid armor that pulsed like a living entity. His scaled arms glistened under the flickering torchlight, his entire upper body now fully visible in its draconic form.
He towered over them now. Even Norman, clad in his storm-forged armor, had to tilt his head up to meet Ash's gaze.
Norman stood still, unfazed by the carnage unfolding around him. The storm he commanded still howled above, yet in that moment, it felt like even the thunder itself hesitated. His grip on Stormcaller tightened as he turned his head slightly, his closed eyes somehow piercing through the veil of chaos. Then, he spoke.
"I've done what I was tasked for," Norman said, his deep voice cutting through the distant screams. "I tested him. Broke him down. Just like you asked."
Ronny chuckled, rolling his shoulders as he watched Ash, now towering in his full draconic form. The Swamp Drake had been forced out of his shell, and damn, It was a sight to behold.
"And?" Ronny tilted his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his grin widening.
Norman's fingers flexed over his weapon. "My work is done here."
Ronny exhaled through his nose, amused. "Yeah, no shit. Do whatever you want."
Norman nods. "Then I'm going to sit aside."
"I want entertainment too."
Ronny took a slow step forward, then another. His entire demeanor shifted. The amusement, the smugness—it was still there, but underneath it now lurked something heavier, something sharper.
"I want to know what he is made of," Ronny murmured. "What's really squirming under all that scaled flesh."
A low rumble echoed from Ash's throat as Ronny walked toward him.
Then, in an instant, the air around Ronny shifted.
"Beast Will—Brawler's Dream"
His arms covers in a flexible yet hard covering, his body becomes slimmer then usual and legs shrinks.
The ground cracked beneath his feet, the space around him distorting with pure, unrestrained fighting spirit. It wasn't magic. It wasn't Dominion. It was something else entirely—something primal.
A battlefield's hunger.
A tyrant of fists waiting to be thrown.
Ronny's knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists, his smirk turning feral.
"Alright, big guy," he muttered, locking eyes with Ash.
"Let's see what you're made of."