Bridge was losing.

The gamblers who bet on him shifted uncomfortably, voices rising in frustrated shouts as momentum slipped further and further out of his hands.

Drainen moved like a demon carved out of blood and spite.

He didn't wait for Bridge to stumble. He made opportunities—by hurting himself. A slice across his forearm. A knuckle smashed open on purpose. A stomp that sprayed fresh blood across the floor. Every injury he inflicted on his own body became fuel, another weapon to twist into form.

Every drop of blood he shed turned into a weapon.

And every new weapon made him stronger.

Sharper.

More vicious.

Bridge swung with enough force to snap steel pipes—but Drainen slipped beneath the arc like liquid shadow, letting the strike whistle past his ear before whipping a ribbon of blood upward in a tight spiral. The makeshift lash caught Bridge across the jaw, snapping his head sideways with a meaty crack.—and Drainen bent backward in an impossible arc, spine curving at an eerie angle like his body was boneless. He countered by flicking droplets of blood like bullets.

Each droplet hit Bridge's body with enough force to tear fur and break skin. Some of them spun as they embedded, drilling micro‑holes that forced Bridge's muscles to tense involuntarily, disrupting his stance one tiny moment at a time—like Drainen was dismantling him piece by piece.

Bridge grunted, staggered.

Drainen's grin widened. "Slowing down, mutt?"

He wasn't wrong.

Bridge's breaths were getting heavier—misty bursts of heat puffing through his fangs. His massive chest rose and fell, muscle trembling under strain. Blood—his own this time—dripped steadily down his ribs.

Alaina's stomach twisted.

'He's… losing.'

Terren, beside her, vibrated with smugness.

"I told you! Unlike me, who anticipated the organizers sending in a hidden weapon like Drainen, most here are still under the illusion that The Beast may win due to his streak! Only seasoned veterans like me know—"

"Shh," she snapped.

She didn't even look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on Bridge.

The man who would often apologize to potted plants and chairs for accidentally bumping them.

Now fighting like a cornered beast.

Below, Drainen sprang off the cage wall, launched by his own blood jets coming from the soles of his feet. Needle-like streams spiralled around him, forming a crimson drill spinning toward Bridge.

Bridge crossed his arms over his chest—

The impact shook the stage.

Everyone flinched as metal screamed and buckled.

Bridge staggered backward five full steps, claws on his feet gouging trenches in the steel floor. His knees buckled a fraction, the shock of the blow rippling up his spine. The moment he regained footing, Drainen was already darting in again, skidding low with blood‑slicked momentum, slashing at Bridge's ankles with scalpel‑thin blades meant to hamstring. Bridge barely hopped back in time—too slow, too close.

His arms were shredded. Deep grooves ran from shoulder to elbow, some trembling as blood‑formed needles still lingered inside. Every movement sent a jolt through the wounds, forcing his muscles to strain against embedded shrapnel.

His flesh hung in ribbons.

Even his impressive regeneration wasn't keeping up anymore.

Drainen landed lightly, almost playfully wiping blood from his lip.

"A shame," he said, red mist curling around him. "You physical transformation-types always fight the same. All muscle, no finesse."

He raised a hand. Blood spiralled up his arm in a tight helix, thickening as it rose, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The air pressure dropped—so sharply, several spectators clutched at their chests—as if the arena itself braced for the killing stroke.

The blood on the ground that belonged to him crawled back toward him.

Every. Last. Drop.

And considering the violent match that had been going on for a while, it was quite a lot.

This time it didn't form numerous blades or bullets, perhaps deciding that dispersing their power weakened them too much.

So instead, the blood gathered behind him like a giant executioner's axe—eight feet long, humming with compressed killing intent.

Even the audience went silent.

Bridge's eyes narrowed.

He seemed to want to dodge as it approach, but he swayed. His footing slipped for half a second.

Alaina's breath caught.

"No…" she whispered.

Terren leaned forward eagerly. "This is the finisher. Any second now we should be able to go and collect our winnings—"

Alaina shoved him away without looking.

Drainen moved quickly, wanting to capitalize on Bridge's brief moment of instability.

The gleaming crimson axe followed him like a shadow.

Bridge lifted his arms while still off balance.

But they trembled, barely rising past his torso.

Drainen swung the giant axe.

The audience screamed.

Based on the size and formidable aura coming off the blade, the 'only crippling but no deaths' record that Terren had previously mentioned may end today.

Some of the weaker members of the crowd closed their eyes in preparation of the coming scene of a bloody murder...while some of the more bloodthirsty individuals opened their eyes even wider to not miss even a second.

The arena floor cracked.

The crimson guillotine descended toward Bridge's neck, and based on his unsteady footing there was no way he could dodge it completely

Alaina's heart stopped—

And Bridge roared.

A sound so deep it shook dust loose from the rafters.

His back arched.

His spine stretched.

And blood ripped out from beneath the fur—

But what ripped out of his body wasn't the other end of the massive blood guillotine

A pair of massive, translucent wings burst outward.

"Huh?"

"What are those?!"

"Since when do wolves have wings?"

Alaina also watched them, stunned, and strangely...familiar.

As a long time admirer of Kain, naturally she'd watched every public match he'd ever partaken in and so those wings looked eerily familiar to her—

Segmented, sharp, iridescent, and shimmering with a faint green sheen.

"Are those...wasp wings?" she whispered.

The entire arena broke out into chatter at the mismatched sight of a wolf with wasp wings.

Even the announcer stuttered a curse into his mic.

Bridge's snarl deepened as the wings snapped open fully with a CRACK that echoed like thunder.

The force of that single motion kicked up a wind blast that stopped the descent of the blade, allowing Bridge to dodge...and head straight for Drainen.

Drainen stumbled backward, utterly blindsided at the sudden change in the enemy.

"What—what the hell is that?! W-Who gave you wings?!"

Bridge didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

He moved.

One beat of his insectoid wings—

And he vanished from Drainen's field of view.

Only some with higher cultivation in the audience barely saw it.

One second Bridge was across the cage—

The next he was directly behind Drainen, a blurry figure that moved at too great a speed to react.

Drainen spun, blood blades forming to defend—

Too slow.

Bridge's fist struck the side of his head with a heavy THWUNK, the kind of sound bones crumbling... eerily reminiscent of a crushed soda can.

A pure concussive blow directly to the skull.

But strangely, this attack that seemed less fierce than the previous ones due to lack of blood shed, actually was the most effective for this kind of opponent...

Drainen's pupils rolled.

His legs buckled.

And he toppled to the ground like a tower whose foundation had just been kicked out.

Silence.

Total, absolute, deathly silence.

Even Terren, mid-cheer that he was about to win, was frozen like someone had hit pause.

Bridge remained standing over Drainen's collapsed form—fists still clenched, fur matted with sweat and blood, chest heaving. The wasp wings folded behind him and began to seep back into his skin until they were no longer visible.

The announcer stared blankly between the two bodies.

Then croaked, voice cracking like he couldn't believe the words leaving his mouth:

"D-D-DR—…"

He swallowed.

"AHEM—THE WINNER—!! THE BEAST!!!"

The arena erupted.

Cheers.

Shrieks.

Curses.

A few thrown bottles.

Several men seemed genuinely seconds away from breaking down the betting booth to strangle the broker.

Yet none of it mattered to Bridge on the stage.

He lifted his head.

His lupine golden eyes scanned the crowd—

And landed on the second floor.

Where Elias—pale, smug Elias—stood openly grinning like a thief who had just robbed a bank.

The broker raised both fists in triumph and gave Bridge a giant, exaggerated thumbs-up.

Bridge blinked.

Slowly lifted his hand—

And gave a small thumbs-up back.

Alaina, standing only several feet in front of Elias, gasped.

"He… he's… looking at me…?"

Her face burst into crimson.

Terren, still rambling beside her about payouts and odds and how "actually Drainen only lost because the arena conditions were clearly unfair, and anyone with real experience would understand that," continued talking directly into her ear without noticing her entire soul had left her body.

Alaina didn't hear a word.

She stared at the massive figure on the stage as the fur began to recede and his human appearance returned.

At his heaving breaths.

At the soft smile returning to his previously cold features before the match.

Her pulse thundered.

Her cheeks burned.

Her fingers clutched the railing so tightly she thought it might snap.

'Is he… really looking this way…?'

Bridge held "her" (really Elias') gaze for another moment and smiled.

Then the medics rushed forward.

The crowd screamed again as the announcer introduced the next match-up.

And Alaina's world suddenly felt a little more vibrant than it had when she first arrived a heartbroken mess.

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