Another One
A deathly silence fell.
In the box, the second company commander's hands clenched tightly.
"Blasphemy... this is extreme blasphemy."
Sicarius's voice was terrifyingly low, coming through the helmet's megaphone like the suppression of a volcano about to erupt.
"If it weren't for the Holy Bearer's prior orders, I'd jump down right now, without weapons, and tear this heretic's skin off piece by piece."
Beside him, Cole, clad in a black robe, remained silent, but his red electronic eyes beneath his hood flashed wildly. The guard's halberd in his hand rose slightly, the hum of the disintegrating force field becoming shrill and piercing.
On the other side of the stands, young master Lars, the instigator, slumped in his chair like a lump of mud.
Although he was a psionic Muggle and couldn't understand the operation of power armor, his biological instincts were screaming warnings.
He felt like he was sitting right next to the jaws of a raging ancient beast.
The blue giant in the arena remained motionless, yet a palpable killing intent seemed to lower the temperature of the arena.
"Ding—!"
The referee's trembling hand pressed the starting bell.
The bell hadn't even reached the last row of the stands.
The blue figure moved.
For heavy equipment like the Terminator power armor, the usual impression is of a slow, cumbersome, and impenetrable mobile fortress.
But in this instant, this veteran of the First Company demonstrated the explosive power of Astartes.
The power backpack emitted a sharp roar, and the servo muscle bundles overloaded at full power.
That blue iron mountain traversed the arena's distance in less than 0.5 seconds.
A blue afterimage remained in the air.
The opposing gladiator hadn't even had time to raise his power axe, nor had he had time to retract the taunt on his face.
A massive power gauntlet, covered in adamantite armor and still crackling with electricity, appeared before him.
He didn't use his right-hand power sword.
For this unusually arrogant heretic,
he chose the most primal, the most violent—
his fist.
"Thud—BOOM!!!"
It wasn't the crisp sound of flesh striking flesh.
It was the sound of a watermelon being smashed by a hammer, followed by the deafening roar of compressed air exploding.
Under everyone's horrified gaze, the head wearing the iron mask, along with his neck, left shoulder, and half of his chest, vanished instantly.
No, not vanished.
It exploded into a red mist.
The remaining half of his body, propelled by the immense kinetic energy, flew high into the air like a kicked soccer ball, crashing into the arena's ceiling before falling back down with a thud.
The entire arena was silent.
That's… the end?
One second? Or, half a second?
However, it wasn't over.
For this veteran of the First Company, who valued honor above all else, this was not the end for those who had desecrated the sacred relic.
It was far from enough.
He didn't look at the flying corpse, but strode to where it had fallen.
He sheathed his power sword back into the magnetic lock.
Then, he raised his massive power boot and stomped heavily on the mangled body on the ground.
"Bang!"
The entire arena trembled violently.
"Heretics!!"
The veteran roared.
Then, he raised his massive power gauntlets and began pounding the ground with a frenzied, pile-driving force.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Each punch sent up clouds of dust and blood mist.
The hard stone slabs shattered, the bedrock beneath crumbled.
"Filth! Scum! How dare you blaspheme the blessing of the Holy One!!"
The veteran roared an angry prayer in High Gothic as he smashed.
This one-sided, pure venting of violence lasted for a full five minutes.
During those five minutes, no one dared to speak, no one dared to move. Lars had buried his face in his hands, not even daring to peek through his fingers.
Until five minutes later.
The Terminator veteran finally stopped.
He slowly straightened up, the servo motor emitting a soothing exhaust sound.
He glanced at the ground.
Where the once smooth sand lay, a crater three meters in diameter and one meter deep had appeared.
The crater was devoid of any tissue that resembled "human" or "corpse."
Only a mass of uniform flesh, a mixture of mud, gravel, metal fragments, and various colors...
as if processed by a high-precision industrial mixer.
The veteran lowered his head, cautiously reaching out to adjust the small, adamantite box containing a yellow hair tie on his chest.
Then, he turned to face the stands where Eileen stood.
"Snap!"
He brought his feet together, delivering a perfect, impeccable Eagle Salute.
"The blasphemy against you has been absolved, Ms. Eileen."
With that, he picked up the torn camouflage net cloak from the ground, draped it askew around his waist, transformed back into the silent giant, and walked back into the passageway.
On the stands.
Eileen dropped the half-eaten melon she was holding to the ground.
Her mouth gaped open, staring at the crater.
Having grown up in Ant Lane, she'd seen gang fights, hacking, and even death.
But she'd never seen anything like this… this kind of fighting that reduced people to raw materials.
"Um…"
Eileen picked up the megaphone beside her, swallowed hard, and tried to project the aura of a "gang leader," but her voice clearly betrayed a hint of bewilderment.
"Ahem… See that!"
Her voice echoed through the deathly silent arena.
"I told you! My men are tough! One finger and you're all pinned to the ground, impossible to pry out!"
"Now you see?!"
As if to echo her words,
A small door on one side of the arena opened.
Several mechs responsible for cleaning the arena walked out with stiff steps.
They weren't carrying stretchers.
Instead, there was a shovel, a mop, and a huge iron bucket.
One of the servants walked to the pit and took out a massive iron ladle that looked like one used in a canteen.
"Splash."
It expressionlessly scooped up a spoonful of red and white "thing" and poured it into the bucket.
Lars was deathly pale; if he hadn't been completely limp, he would have already knelt down and kowtowed.
He shakily climbed to the railing, ignoring the urine stains on his pants, and pleaded with a tearful voice towards Eileen below:
"Miss… Miss Eileen… No, Grandma! Great-Aunt!"
"I was wrong! I was really wrong! I was blind to your greatness! I'm the biggest fool!"
Lars was crying and sniffling.
"Can we… can we call it a draw? No! I lose! I surrender! Please, stop fighting! This will kill people… no, people have already died!"
He was truly terrified. This wasn't a duel; it was a slaughter.
Eileen looked at Lars's miserable state and initially wanted to say "okay."
But then she turned around.
She saw the four "underlings" behind her who hadn't yet entered the fray.
Especially Uncle Cole, gleaming in gold, his halberd unconsciously scribbling on the ground, seemingly suppressing some unreleased fighting urge.
And Uncle Sicarius, his hand on his sword hilt, his helmet pointing towards the crater, clearly regretting that he hadn't been the one to fight.
Even Sergeant Varo was silently inspecting his chainsaw sword. (Preparing to clean up the remaining heretics)
Everyone's pants... cloaks are off, and now you're saying we're not fighting?
That won't do! That's so contrary to what Uncle Sicarius said about... honor!
"No way!"
Eileen whirled around, shouting at Lars, her small face filled with determination (though it was to reassure the group of big guys behind her).
"This is only the first match! According to the rules, since it's supposed to be a friendly match, we have to go through the formalities!"
"My men haven't even entered the arena yet! It wouldn't be right if they didn't fight."
"You!" Eileen pointed at Lars, "Hurry up! Send the next one up! Don't dawdle!"
"Otherwise..."
Eileen glanced at the restless Cole behind her and threatened:
"Otherwise, I'll send them to your box for a friendly chat!"
Lars was terrified.
"No, no, no! I'll send one! I'll send one right away!"
He turned and cried into the walkie-talkie:
"Hurry, hurry, hurry! Get the next one to... no, to fight! Quickly!"
...
A few minutes later.
The arena was cleared (several large barrels of minced meat were hauled away).
The second duel began.
This time, Lars sent a gladiator champion named "Quickblade."
Two and a half meters tall, slender, with cybernetically modified limbs, wielding two high-speed vibrating power swords.
He was the fastest of these gladiators, known for his cruelty and agility.
Although he had heard about the horrific scene backstage and didn't really want to go on stage.
But in the Governor's mansion, retreating without a fight meant being thrown into the "pleasure room" for torture, and coupled with the forced injection of six times the normal dose of combat serum, he charged forward like a madman.
"The other contestant enters!"
On Eileen's side.
Sergeant Varo, who had remained silent, quietly removed his cloak.
With a rustle,
the gray cloth fell to the ground.