At the highest point of the stands—not a seating area for spectators, but a square, exposed stone platform that rose like the cold brow of the beast pit itself.
Rusted iron chains as thick as wrists swayed faintly in the morning breeze along the platform’s edge, clinking with a hollow, mournful sound. At the center stood a gigantic bronze bell, taller than two men.
Its body was a deep, aged black-green, mottled with verdigris from centuries of exposure, yet faint traces of ancient carvings could still be made out—warriors locked in combat, or perhaps roaring beast heads.
It hung motionless from an equally massive and rugged bronze frame, less an instrument than a silent judge stepped out of deep time, long accustomed to the blood and dust of the sand below.
“…”
Scarface Vorn stood rooted to the platform as though welded there, unmoving for who knew how long.
His right hand gripped a four-foot hardwood mallet, its handle polished black and glossy from countless palms. The head was wrapped in dark beast hide, edges frayed and worn by years.
When the low, rumbling boom—like the slow churn of the earth’s own guts—rolled in from the entrance, accompanied by the clear tremor underfoot, he knew: the “Gate of No Return,” the final seal on retreat, had fallen. His fingers clenched around the mallet haft until the knuckles blanched and the knotted scars on the back of his hand twisted.
He drew a deep, slow breath. The sharp high-altitude air—laced with rust and stone dust—filled his lungs but could not cool the fire in his chest: a tangled blaze of heavy worry, solemn respect, and searing anxiety over the unknown outcome.
He forced himself to remain statue-still. Only his gaze—sharp as an old wound—pierced the void, locking unblinkingly on the center of the arena far below: the solitary figure standing on pale sand, quietly regulating his breath, calm to the point of abnormality.
Time stretched into thick, agonizing gelatin in the collective held breath and the taut rope of fate. Every second was distinct, drummed by heartbeats.
Finally, heavy, solid footsteps climbed the stone stairs behind him, shattering the suffocating stillness of the high platform.
Brog’s towering figure stepped onto the platform. He carried no signature terrifying stone hammer—unarmed, yet his presence seemed to bear the weight of the entire beast pit. The dual aura of judge and guardian pressed harder than any weapon.
He strode directly to Vorn’s side. No greeting.
His eyes first swept like a raptor’s across the steel-netted dome that now completely sealed the arena below, then over the packed stands—hundreds of faces frozen in held breath, expressions ranging from villagers’ anxiety to adventurers’ morbid curiosity and mockery, to the clenched fists of hunting team members. Only then did his gaze settle on Vorn’s face—and on the mallet in Vorn’s hands, heavy as a mountain.
“Is the beast cage side ready?” Brog asked, turning his head toward Vorn. His voice was low but carried the metallic rasp and gravity of someone confirming whether fate’s gears had locked perfectly into place.
Vorn didn’t turn. Eyes still fixed forward, he answered in a dry but clear voice: “Everything’s set. The beast-entry gate connected to the arena has been raised. Our people are stationed outside the cage. At the signal, we open it. The ‘guest’ inside will follow the passage into the field.”
He paused, then continued: “Once it fully enters the sand, the Triumph Gate at the opposite end drops. From that moment, the entire arena is sealed. No outside interference possible.”
With that, he finally moved.
His body turned toward Brog like a rusted hinge—slow, yet utterly resolute. He raised the glossy hardwood mallet in both hands, extending it forward in a gesture solemn as an offering, or the transfer of an inescapable authority.
“Now we only wait for your order, Boss.” Vorn’s gaze burned as it met Brog’s eyes. “Strike the ‘Beast Bell.’ One toll is the signal. The men inside will release the beast immediately.”
His arms remained straight. The mallet hung steady between them, waiting for the decision.
Brog’s Adam’s apple bobbed once.
Very slowly, with utmost gravity, he reached out both hands—as though accepting not a mallet, but a mountain, or the final verdict on a living soul. His palms fully enclosed the haft, feeling the cold wood pulse with the weight of history.
He took the mallet, turned, and faced the tiny but impossibly vivid figure below—faced every upturned, waiting eye. Sunlight fell across his angular face, across the silent bronze giant behind him.
“Then…” The two words slipped out soft as a sigh, yet heavy enough to sink the air on the platform.
No more words.
Brog’s arm muscles bulged. Power surged from his feet, twisted through hips, poured into his shoulders. He swung the hardwood mallet back in a full, resolute arc—then brought it crashing down against the ancient bronze bell that had stood silent for untold years!
DOOM————!!!
An indescribable roar erupted!
Not a clear chime—this was a primordial echo rising from the depths of the earth, from the origin of history itself!
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Heavy, majestic, desolate, and profoundly solemn, the sound wave radiated visibly from the bell’s core in a ring of rippling air—then surged outward like a physical flood, crashing against every inch of wall, pouring into every ear, striking straight to the soul!
The grand toll reverberated and layered inside the vast circular arena, echoing endlessly—like the horns of ancient battlefields and the sighs of the dead awakening together.
In the instant that soul-shaking bell rang across heaven and earth, every sound in the beast pit died.
All whispers, all tense breaths, all speculation and mockery—swept clean, suppressed by the proclamation.
In the center ring, on the pale sand, Rune lifted his head slightly toward the high platform. His eyes were clear and focused.
Across the stands, thousands of bodies tensed instinctively. Pupils contracted.
They knew—with this toll that crossed time itself—
The life-or-death battle had begun.
DOOM…
In the arena, while his eardrums still trembled from that desolate peal, Rune had already banished every stray thought.
He lowered his stance slightly, dropped his center of gravity, and fixed his gaze like a tempered awl on the dark, deep mouth of the beast tunnel opposite—where a faint, musky scent drifted.
He regulated his breathing—each inhale deep and steady—pushing perception to its limit, catching any flicker of movement in the darkness, silently awaiting the arrival of the opponent that would decide life or death.
In the stands, thousands of gazes snapped to the same point.
The air seemed to solidify. Only suppressed breathing and the wind moaning through gaps in the stands remained.
People waited—for the beast to enter, for the true bloody combat to begin, for courage to be proven or farce to be witnessed.
But…
One second. Two. Three… ten… half a minute passed.
No frenzied roar. No heavy footsteps. No savage shape lunging forth.
The deep tunnel mouth remained dead silent—as though it connected not to a cage, but to absolute nothingness.
Even the Triumph Gate—supposed to drop once the beast fully entered—remained motionless, half-open like a silent taunt.
Rune’s brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He held his guard, eyes sharpening as they stabbed into the darkness, wondering what was happening inside…
The silence in the stands shattered quickly. Whispers bubbled up like water breaking surface, rapidly swelling into a confused, impatient drone.
“What’s going on? Where’s the beast?”
“Maybe the cage is empty? Haha!”
“What the hell? Are we just gonna stand here waiting?”
“Maybe the kid got lucky and the beast won’t come out?”
Laughter, confusion, impatient urging—even low curses—began rising from every corner of the stands.
Almost everyone now believed this was nothing more than a pathetic farce—the “performer” couldn’t even show up on time.
Just as the clamor neared its peak—
BOOM!!!
A muffled impact—like a boulder smashing an anvil, or thunder trapped underground—erupted without warning from deep within the beast tunnel behind the Triumph Gate!
The sound amplified and echoed in the enclosed passage before bursting out the mouth, slamming against the circular stone walls and drowning every other noise.
In an instant the entire beast pit seemed gripped by an invisible hand around the throat.
All jeers, mockery, speculation… cut dead.
Countless faces froze, then twisted into shock.
Spectators instinctively whipped their heads around, eyes wide, staring at the now-ominous black tunnel mouth.
That sound… was wrong.
Far too powerful for any small beast running or crashing against bars.
Up on the highest platform, Captain Brog—who had just begun to sit after long standing—snapped rigid again like a coiled spring. His previously steady face filled instantly with gravity. His sharp gaze stabbed like chisels, as though trying to pierce the darkness and drag out the truth inside.
“This sound…” he muttered. Before he finished, as if to confirm his dread—
BOOM!
A second impact followed!
Clearer, heavier—accompanied now by faint, chaotic, urgent human voices from deep in the passage: panicked shouts to stop, frantic banging, the shrill screech of twisting metal.
The sounds blended, distorted by the tunnel—words unclear, but the raw panic and crisis unmistakable.
This second crash was like ice water thrown over the more experienced spectators.
The casual mockery drained from some adventurers’ faces, replaced by the alert instinct of hunters scenting danger… and a cruel, kindled excitement.
Things were veering sharply off the “boring farce” track.
Brog whipped his head around. His gaze shot like lightning toward Vice-Captain Vorn—who had also risen, face now bloodless.
No words needed. The severe look demanded every answer.
“That sound is wrong.” Brog’s voice was low but carried iron weight. “No Tier 0 beast makes that kind of noise. What the hell is happening in the passage? Vorn—who did you send to the beast cage area?!”
Cold sweat beaded on Vorn’s forehead. His throat worked dryly as he stared at the tunnel mouth that now seemed like a giant beast’s maw: “I… I sent the ones who just passed the trial—Hank, Little Pete, them… I thought it was just opening the preset Tier 0 cage gate. Simple…”
His words were cut off by a third sound from deep in the passage.
ROAR—!!!
A hoarse, low, pure-wild roar of savagery and violence—like rough sandstone grinding across eardrums—rolled out from the depths!
This bellow was utterly different from the sharp or chittering cries of Tier 0 beasts. It was thicker, more brutish, carrying a heart-shaking penetration.
The moment that roar reached them, Brog’s face changed completely.
Every last shred of hope vanished. He knew that sound too well—the declaration of a far stronger predator!
“Damn it!” Brog cursed under his breath, fist clenching until the knuckles whitened. “That’s definitely not a Tier 0 beast! Vorn, you—”
He shot a furious glare at his now-pale vice-captain, who had finally grasped the severity. No time to assign blame. Brog cut off Vorn’s stammering explanation with a sharp wave.
“Hold this position!” Brog barked, already turning. Without further instruction he charged down the narrow stone stairs like an enraged lion, heading straight for the management passage connecting to the rear beast-cage area.
He had to reach the scene immediately—stop whatever disaster was unfolding!
“Those damn brats! Careless idiots—stirring up this big a mess!” On the opposite side of the stands, Old Barnaby—who had been watching seated—shot to his feet. His good left hand clamped instantly around the walking stick beside him, knuckles white. Even the ever-present old flask was swiftly capped and stuffed into his coat.
A terrifying glint flashed in his cloudy single eye. His white beard quivered with fury. For a moment, the long-dormant aura of a top-tier hunter radiated from him—sharp and lethal.
He muttered a curse under his breath, hesitated no longer, and turned—limping slightly on his prosthetic but moving with grim determination toward the stairs leading to the beast pit’s internal management area.
And now the stands—after their brief stunned silence—erupted into a new, fiercer, more primal commotion.
When that powerful roar swept the arena, every experienced adventurer and seasoned villager understood instantly: what was about to emerge was definitely not the planned “appetizer”!
“It’s coming! Here it comes!” someone hissed in suppressed excitement.
“That roar… at least Tier 1! And not a pushover!” another licked dry lips, eyes alight with the thrill of a good show.
“Haha! Now it’s interesting! Tier 0 cantrip versus Tier 1 tough bastard? THAT’S what ‘betting your life’ means!” The earlier schadenfreude mage adventurer was practically bouncing, exhilarated.
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