svetikya Page 55
Page 55
The next moment, like ripples created by a pebble thrown into a lake, a huge shockwave began to spread outwards from her, causing the energy shield covering the arena to tremble violently, and it took nine seconds to barely return to calm.
The smoke and dust rose and then dissipated, and after a moment of silence, the audience in the stands erupted in loud shouts again.
Elon Tark appeared once again. After escorting Tristan and Angron to the box he had prepared, he chose to leave immediately, and it was unclear what he was going to do next.
A faint smile graced his pale face as he walked over to Tristan, holding a glass of red wine, and raised his glass in a gesture of respect.
"How do you feel about this gladiatorial contest I arranged, Mr. Tristan?"
“Wizards like this are very rare, Mr. Tark, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
Tristan said casually. Elon Tark forced a smile, sat down on the sofa, and then, while speaking, sized up Angron with his eyes.
Angron frowned. His abilities told him that this thing called Elon had no good intentions, but Tristan was right beside him. Even if he knew, he would have to see how Elon planned to proceed.
"Indeed, wizards with such great power are very rare, and they usually have very short lifespans."
Angron sensed a shift in emotions; besides the initial malice, a deep-seated greed followed.
Regarding his greed.
"Want to make a bet with me, Mr. Tark?"
Tristan suddenly spoke, and his words successfully drew Elon Tark's gaze away from Angron. The tall boy secretly breathed a sigh of relief; to be honest, being stared at like that made him very uncomfortable, even though in this space, he could easily snap that fragile neck before the robots and security guards, known as the Maggot Eyes, could react. But he was still very uncomfortable.
“I’ve always had incredibly good luck, Mr. Tristan. Are you sure you want to make a bet with me?”
A strange smile appeared on that pale face, the malice growing deeper and stronger, even seeping from the soul and polluting the surrounding air. Tristan nodded, then raised his hand and pointed to the arena below.
"How about we bet on the winner of the next gladiatorial combat?"
"Ha! Mr. Tristan, you really know how to joke. Anyone with eyes can see that the winner of this gladiatorial contest is that wizard."
I don't think that wizard will win.
Elon Tark suddenly fell silent, staring intently at Tristan. After a long while, he uttered a single sentence.
“Then let’s bet. If I win, I won’t ask for more. He… leave him with me.”
No name was given, but everyone present knew who "he" referred to.
Do you accept this?
A voice that only Angron could hear echoed in his mind. It was a message sent by Tristan using psionic energy. It was unemotional, but one could still feel the emotion within it.
He nodded slightly, and Tristan, noticing this, nodded in return.
"I accept, but if I win, all the survivors on the field are mine, how about that?"
Without the slightest hesitation, Elon Tark accepted what he considered a sure-win bet. His gaze swept across the arena and the announcer standing on a silver hovering platform, seemingly urging him to speed things up and announce the result quickly.
The host carefully lowered his head, looking at the severed limbs and the blood-stained battlefield on the field. He cleared his throat, preparing to announce the results.
But at that very moment, just as the girl known as the "wizard" was about to be locked in the cage again to prepare for her next performance, a gleaming sword suddenly appeared and pierced her chest from behind.
Chapter 74 Side Story: Nukelia in Another World (Part Two) (Payment option available later)
An ancient wind, carrying dust that existed since the birth of the planet, swept in from the distant edge of the desert, emitting a low and eternal lament. These particles, spanning billions of years, danced silently, passing through the cracks of time, and poured into the enormous arena built of countless stones, metal fragments, and the bones of living beings, like indifferent time travelers, preparing to watch a bloody performance called "everyday life."
Behind the heavy stone door, the atmosphere was as oppressive as solidified grease. The old gladiator Ono Mormas's calloused hands, his knuckles white from the effort, gripped the cold, heavy iron sword tightly.
Around him, dozens of comrades shared the same fate. Some paced back and forth anxiously, futilely checking their equipment; others slumped to the ground, pale-faced, silently awaiting their fate; and many more simply wiped their weapons in silence, their eyes gleaming with the light of wild beasts driven to the brink of despair.
Today's equipment is exceptionally good—the brand-new breastplate reflects a dazzling cold light under the scorching sunlight pouring through the energy shield, the edges of the brand-new shield are so sharp they could cut a finger, and even the blade of the longsword is so finely sharp that it can cut a hair in an instant.
This should have brought a sense of security, but for a veteran like Ono, who had spent his life crawling and rolling in the blood pools and sands, only a chilling fear welled up in his heart.
Slave owners are greedy vultures; they will never easily toss gold to prey destined for death. Such a generous gift signifies only one thing: the ferocity and lethality of their opponents in today's duel will far surpass any nightmare they have ever experienced.
"Ono, what should we do?" A deep voice sounded, and a large hand, covered with thick calluses and as broad as a bear's paw, rested heavily on the old man's shoulder. It was Hess, his gladiator of many years, a silent and reliable giant.
Ono didn't answer immediately, but slowly and heavily shook his head. His gray hair and equally gray, tangled beard trembled slightly in the tense, stagnant air, like withered grass rustling in the autumn wind.
After a moment, he spoke in a voice that was a mixture of deep weariness and determination, as if each word was spoken with the last of his strength:
“I don’t know, Hess, my dear friend. But I do know one thing… Today, all we can hope for is to fight with all our might and then leave the rest to the mercy of those high and mighty gods who may or may not even exist.”
As the most senior warrior in the entire arena, Ono had faced such situations before. To be precise, he had three unforgettable memories of them.
The first time was when he first entered this meat grinder. To celebrate their bloody suppression of an unprecedented slave uprising, the Tark family convened a "celebration" gladiatorial contest with nobles from across the planet—hundreds upon hundreds of elite remnants of the rebel army, shackled and bound, were driven to face dozens of "war beasts" injected with berserk potions. The screams and the sight of claws tearing flesh remain the protagonist of his midnight nightmares to this day.
The second time was when old Tark handed over power to the new generation, a "blood feast" offered to the new rulers. He and dozens of his companions were thrown into a huge pit to fight hordes of ravenous, obsidian-shelled, terrifying "sandstone worms." Each time, he was the sole survivor crawling out of the mountain of corpses and sea of blood.
This was the third time. The chilling aura emanating from behind the stone door made every nerve in his body twitch. He wondered what kind of ferocious creature lurked behind it.
Ono abruptly closed his dry eyes, his mind racing. Looking around, he saw dozens of figures standing with him in the preparation area, all of whom were elite warriors who had survived countless death selections.
Skilled and ruthless, coupled with superior equipment, his experience told him that his opponents would at the very least be a group of massive Oglin barbarians whose rationality had been completely eroded by the berserk "Butcher's Nails," leaving only their bloodlust. However, the unusual chill in the air made him feel vaguely uneasy.
A heavy rumbling sound suddenly rang out, as if a giant boulder was crushing the earth. The stone door representing the opponent's passage slowly opened.
In an instant, a bone-chilling cold, like an invisible wave, surged forth from the depths of the doorway. On the dry, scorching sand of the arena, a thin layer of white frost visibly condensed, the glistening ice crystals shimmering eerily in the sunlight.
Just as everyone was bewildered by the sudden drop in temperature, Ono's cloudy old eyes widened abruptly, his pupils contracting sharply! He didn't even have time to see his opponent clearly; his fighting instincts, etched into his bones by countless scars over decades, reacted with lightning speed!
He let out a low growl and lunged forward like an arrow, slamming a companion who was terrified and disoriented by the sudden change into the ground. At the same time, he roared with all his might, his voice hoarse and distorted with extreme fear:
"wizard!!!"
The terrifying word roared from his aged throat like a death knell.
Just as the other gladiators were beginning to grasp the meaning of that terrifying word and hadn't even had a chance to react, a blindingly bright silver-white beam of light tore through the air!
It did not move in a straight line, but twisted violently and flashed with an evil light in a way that defied the laws of physics, like a venomous snake from another dimension!
Where the light passed, the air crackled and popped as it burned! The three strong gladiators who were standing closest to each other and instinctively lined up in a row didn't even have time to scream before their bodies, like snowmen thrown into a furnace, instantly vaporized and disintegrated in the instant the intense light exploded, turning into three plumes of charred smoke and flying dark red dust, completely disappearing from the land for which they had once risked their lives!
"Boom!!!"
A violent energy shockwave exploded outwards, creating ripples in the air like a tsunami. The energy shield in the stands twisted and flickered violently, as if it might shatter at any moment.
The violent air currents whipped up clouds of dust, forming a murky barrier. However, for the bloodthirsty spectators in the stands, this horrifying sight was merely an added thrill.
Whether it's the ordinary gamblers braving the scorching sun in the open-air seating area, clutching sweat-soaked gambling tickets, their faces flushed with excitement, shouting hoarsely, or the aristocratic gentlemen lounging in luxurious VIP boxes with their clothes kept at a constant temperature and covered with thick carpets, leisurely leaning back on cushioned sofas, swirling a bottle of vintage red wine in their hands, their faces bearing an elegant yet cruelly appreciative expression, all they see is that sudden, breathtakingly beautiful, dazzling light, and after the light fades, several ant-like figures silently turning into dust and disappearing without a trace.
After a brief silence, even more intense and fanatical shouts and curses swept across the entire arena like a tsunami!
At the deep entrance of the stone cave, a thin figure slowly walked out. She was almost barefoot, stepping on the ground where the sand and fresh ice shards were still warm.
His disheveled hair was tangled and matted, covering his dirty cheeks. A gruesome scar ran diagonally from his right cheekbone down to the back of his neck, ruining any semblance of youthful innocence. He wore only a few tattered strips of cloth that barely covered his body; he was emaciated and resembled a beggar.
However, beneath that frail and filthy exterior emanated a terrifying pressure that seemed to freeze the very air.
Her eyes... there was no trace of white left in them; her pupils were now just two blinding, swirling, pale lights, like liquid lightning.
Inside the private box, Tristan, who had been leaning against the massive glass wall, finally broke his perpetually calm expression with a hint of interest. A glint flashed in his deep eyes, his Adam's apple bobbed slightly, and he uttered a single word in a low, clear voice: "Beta."
"What do you mean?" Angron frowned, sitting on the huge sofa. The contrast between the true form and the power emanating from the being known as the "wizard" made him uneasy.
The feeling was very familiar. Tristan tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips: "Just one level. But, Angron, can you tell what power she's using?"
Upon hearing this, Angron closed his eyes, and his immense mental power extended out like invisible tentacles, carefully sensing the residual energy vibrations in the air.
Deep within that cold, violent, and destructive aura, a subtle sense of familiarity quietly emerged—a faint resonance arose at the very root of his own innate special ability (perhaps some kind of psychic power).
"Psionic energy?"
He opened his eyes and gave the answer.
"Yes, psionic."
Tristan nodded, affirming Angron's assessment. As a meticulously crafted "perfect creation," Angron's mind was naturally imprinted with a vast amount of knowledge inaccessible to ordinary people.
But Tristan knew that there was a huge, almost deliberate, gap in this seemingly comprehensive talent—Angron’s knowledge of psionic energy, a field that had flourished in the “Golden Age” of humanity but was now filled with fear and taboo, was extremely limited.
Even his own powerful and primal strength was only gradually recognized and utilized under Tristan's guidance. (The one who created him... must have had a deep fear or hatred of psionic energy, but ironically, he himself was likely a psionic master surpassing all contemporary human masters.)
With this deduction, Tristan's mental search for the true culprit quietly narrowed its scope. And in that brief moment of Tristan's mind racing, the battle in the arena escalated into a one-sided, inhuman massacre.
Ono's body, like an old fish struggling through stormy waters, suddenly lunged forward and rolled over rapidly.
An invisible psionic blade swept across his scarred back, cutting a deep gash in the ground where he had just stood, while the scorching aftershocks singed his hair.
Amidst the swirling dust, his fingers touched cold, hard metal—a spear that had been flung away by the shockwave in the previous explosion and was now stuck diagonally in the sand!
opportunity!
The will to survive instantly overwhelmed fear and old age! He roared, and his aged bones unleashed astonishing power at that moment!
His body sprang to the ground, muscles bulging, and with the spirit of charging into battle in his youth, he twisted all his strength into a violent spiral! The heavy spear, like a battering ram hurled by a giant, tore through the air with a piercing shriek, transforming into a streak of light barely perceptible to the naked eye, and shot with unparalleled accuracy toward the young witch's emaciated chest!
The pale white lightning in the wizard's eyes suddenly surged! She opened her mouth silently, like a dying beast, revealing the cruelly severed root of her tongue deep inside her mouth, as if emitting a shriek that only the soul could hear!
Dark red blood seeped and flowed rapidly from her eyes, ears, mouth, nose and other seven orifices like earthworms!
Then—"Buzz—Boom!!!"
An overwhelming and terrifying energy, far surpassing anything before, suddenly exploded outwards from her center! The air was no longer air; it seemed to have turned into a viscous gel, and was violently torn apart in an instant! A perfectly circular, visible shockwave, like ripples created by a boulder thrown into a calm lake, swept wildly across the entire arena with destructive power!
The solid ground seemed to have been plowed by an invisible giant plow, sending fragments flying everywhere! The massive energy shield enveloping the entire arena emitted a high-frequency, piercing wail that was nearing its limit!
The light within it twisted and vibrated violently, and the solid energy structure flickered wildly and erratically. It barely stabilized again after a breathtaking nine seconds, but the surface was still rippling with subtle energy ripples.
Smoke and dust rose and fell like a curtain, revealing a circular shockwave mark in the center of the field, resembling a meteorite crater. After a brief silence, a frenzied roar erupted from the stands, like a landslide or a tsunami!
The devastating impact of what they just witnessed ignited their deepest, most primal bloodlust and fanaticism!
Just then, the door to the private room slid open silently, and Elon Tark strolled in with an air of nonchalance.
After escorting Tristan and his companion to the top-tier box reserved for him, the true ruler of the arena took his leave and disappeared without a trace. Now he reappeared, a repulsive, satisfied smile plastered on his mask-like, pale face.
Holding a glass of blood-red wine, like an owner admiring his masterpiece, he walked straight to Tristan's side and elegantly raised his glass in a toast: "How does this appetizer I specially arranged suit you, Mr. Tristan?"
Tristan slowly withdrew his gaze from the bloody gladiatorial combat below and landed on Elon's hypocritical smiling face. His tone remained calm and indifferent: "Mr. Tark, you really have a knack for getting such a powerful psionicist to put on such a pointless show."
Elon twitched the corners of his mouth, let out a few dry laughs, and sat down on a luxurious sofa next to him, his obese body sinking into the cushion.
As he twirled the wine glass in his hand, he brazenly scanned Angron with the greedy look that one might use to appraise rare goods and assess their value. Angron's brows furrowed tightly, and his anger surged like molten lava.
His keen, gifted "senses" clearly told him that the creature called Elon Tark harbored intense and pure malice towards him, mixed with a nauseating, naked possessiveness.
If Tristan hadn't been right beside him, Angron was certain he would have torn that hideous face to shreds in an instant, even though the mechanical security guards hidden in the shadows, whom Elon called "the eyes of maggots," could burst out at any moment.
"hehe,"
Elon chuckled softly, his gaze still greedy.