The Undefeated (3k)

Blood.

Krest could smell it, clearly, but she didn't care much. She simply sat up and clutched her stomach on the hard bed covered with animal hides.

The pain was constant; the wounds inflicted on her by the beast three days ago had not yet fully healed.

The slave owners had already treated her; they threw her into a machine, and when she came out, the bloody wound on her lower abdomen had disappeared, leaving only an ugly scar. But that didn't mean she wasn't in pain.

Who doesn't feel pain?

This question arose as a giant obscured by blood flashed before her eyes.

He might too.

"Can't sleep?" someone asked under a burning torch.

Krest recognized him; he was the man who fought with two short swords.

He was shirtless, with five ugly, clustered scratches on his chest. The scars were large and looked like some kind of fleshy worm wriggling under his skin, creating a horrifying outline. He was scraping his forearm with a dagger.

"What's your name?" Krest asked.

The man laughed—among gladiators, exchanging names was a sign of respect. Most would die within two or three fights, so exchanging names was unnecessary.

"Karelian," he said. "From the Norr Sands."

"Sand? I come from the forest. I am Krest," Krest said. "But I don't know what that forest is called; I was captured by a slave caravan."

"It's alright if we don't know." Karelian shook his head. "We'll forget about it eventually; the arena's sandpit will bury everything."

"It can't bury me."

"Perhaps," Karelian replied softly, with an air of indifference. Silence followed; none of them spoke again, but Krest knew that many people had already woken up and were waiting with their eyes open on their beds.

The stone walls remained silent, not trembling. It was late at night; there was no more fighting to be done, and the dignitaries had already left the arena.

Quiet.

But it wasn't so quiet—because, deep within the rock face, everyone could hear a roar that seemed to spread outwards.

"The Undefeated One," Karelian said softly, his voice filled with certainty. "It's him, there's no mistake."

"Do you know him well?" Krest asked.

"I've seen him five times, or six if you count the time three days ago." Karelian shook his head, turned around, stretched his body on the rock wall under the torch, and showed off the Triumph Rope wrapped around his waist.

It is not long, but most of them are red, with only six being black.

Staring at it, Krest fell silent.

The Rope of Triumph – a tradition of gladiators, is a scar that begins at the spine and extends down the waist.

Before each fight, they would make a small incision along the old scar. If they won, it would heal naturally and turn red. If they lost, they would sprinkle some soil into the scar, so that after it scabbed over, the incision would turn black.

Karelian's Rope of Triumph proves that he failed six times, but he didn't die, which shows he was lucky enough—or unlucky enough.

Gladiators who repeatedly escaped death were highly sought after by slave owners in the arena, and those who caught their eye rarely met a good end.

"Six failures?" Krest asked.

"Six failures." Karelian turned around, nodded, and said calmly.

The terrifying roar still echoed from deep within the rock face. He leaned against the rock, his fingers tapping lightly in sync with the roar, as if providing accompaniment for the enraged man. Watching his actions, Krest suddenly felt an impulse that came from nowhere.

She jumped out of bed, found some leftovers on the long table beside her, and picked out the edible parts. She poured them into an earthenware pot, then staggered into the darkness.

The gladiators lived in man-made underground caverns, which were interconnected. Each person had their own bed and room, but only one person could have a private room.

"Are you planning to go find him?" Karelian's voice came from beneath the torchlight.

"Yes," Krest replied briefly.

"Then, I'll go with you."

After some time, they arrived at their destination.

Krest had no idea how much time had passed; she only felt like she was going blind from staring so hard in the dark trying to find her way. Everything had become a blurry, indistinct outline in the darkness.

Even Karelian was the same. Fortunately, he was much calmer. He didn't say a word the whole way, but he always managed to catch Krest when she was about to fall.

Now, they stood at the entrance of a cave, where two torches burned silently on the rock wall, providing the only light. However, despite this, the darkness inside the cave remained profound.

"Angronius?" she called. "I've brought you food."

There was no answer in the darkness, only a low, slow panting, as terrifying as someone about to drown in their own blood.

"Angronius?" Krest continued to call, but still received no answer.

Standing beside her, Karelian shook his head. "That's not his name."

"What?"

"That's not his name," Karelian repeated, then reached for the earthenware pot containing the food and took over her work.

However, he didn't shout out that long and complicated syllable; instead, he shouted out a short word.

"Angron," he called out to the darkness.

Then—the ground began to tremble, Krest straightened his back, suddenly smelling an extremely strong stench of blood.

She stared intently at the darkness at the cave entrance, her eyes unblinking. The pain from the sweat that had seeped into her earlier body returned, even more intensely. A few seconds later, a giant smashed through the darkness and appeared before them.

His face was twitching nervously. Three days ago, Krest hadn't been able to see his face clearly, but now she could see it perfectly.

She saw black iron cables, their barbs piercing deep into the giant's flesh and blood, extending beyond it. His eyes were a murky pale blue, sunken deep in their sockets, and the details beneath were all submerged in blood.

Blood was streaming from his nose, not dripping, but flowing like a flood, washing his chin and entire neck crimson. His expression was a terrifying mixture of threat and hatred; he bared his teeth, like a ferocious beast waiting to devour flesh.

Krest suddenly felt a surge of fear, but the giant called Angron didn't even glance at her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a sound like files rubbing together. "I told you none of you should come looking for me again."

I've brought you some food.

Karelian raised the earthenware pot in his hand— Krest began to regret not choosing a larger vessel. The pot was large enough for them, but far from sufficient for the bleeding giant standing in the darkness.

I don't need food.

Angron answered curtly, his face twitching again, the cables embedded deep within his flesh flashing a crimson light. Krest was certain she had just seen them twitch, albeit for a fleeting moment, and she couldn't be mistaken.

"Has it started biting you again?" Karelian asked.

"You know perfectly well what I'm asking." Angron sneered, but after that brief laugh, he growled and raised his right hand to cover his face.

A low, labored breathing followed, along with a low, almost chilling howl. Krest's legs buckled, and he involuntarily knelt on the ground, terrified by the horrific sound.

After a while, Angron released his grip, muttered something, and stared thoughtfully at his bright red palm, but remained silent.

After a while, he looked up, a look of confusion in his light blue eyes, as if he couldn't quite understand what had just happened. Then, he glanced at Krest.

"You're afraid," he said in a voice as heavy as a hammer striking an anvil. "But it's alright."

"Are you alright?" Karelian asked.

Angron laughed, his ravaged face contorting and twitching, his teeth protruding from his lips, looking horribly against the backdrop of blood—this was the limit of what he could do. He sat down cross-legged and shook his head.

"It'll never get better," he said curtly, raising his hand to point to the cables that stretched up to the back of his head. "It's devouring me."

"Don't talk nonsense." Karelian stepped forward, meeting the giant's ferocious gaze, and handed him the jar. "That thing can't beat you; you are invincible."

Angron let out a low, cold snort, as if mocking, or perhaps just a suppressed groan from pain. He picked up the earthenware pot and found a bone in the shriveled bread and sticky broth. He put the bone in his mouth and gently crushed it with his teeth.

Click, click, click.

"Let's go," Angron said between chewing strokes. "If you don't want to end up like old Oenomaus."

Karelian sighed. "Oenomaus's death has nothing to do with you."

"It's true!" Angron roared in a low voice, less like a rebuttal and more like a terrifying pronouncement. "His death is my fault!"

Karelian shook his head and pulled Krest up. "This is Krest, the one who offered to bring you food."

Angron stopped eating and glanced at her again. At that moment, Krest felt incredibly tense. She stared into the giant's pale blue eyes, afraid she would see disdain in them, but she didn't.

She only saw a fleeting, complex emotion, like sympathy or pity—neither of which she could understand.

However, they only appeared for a brief moment. Then, all that remained in those eyes was a bloodthirsty rage.

Blood trickled down his face as he howled, his jaws slamming together, shards of bone spurting from between his lips and teeth, blood trickling from his nose again. He roared as he stood up, Krest almost thought he was going to pounce on her and kill her—but he didn't.

The giant named Angron simply turned and walked back into the darkness, uttering his name before doing so. "Angron!"

"Get out!" he roared, his voice like the deafening crash of a sledgehammer hitting the ground, so terrifying that it made people cover their ears without even a sound echoing back.

Karelian sighed, said nothing more, and led Krest away.

There are still 5k left.

By the way, I've carefully reviewed the combat strength issues raised by everyone earlier, and they were indeed somewhat unreasonable. I've already made changes: six hours, three thousand Ultramarines —that should be much more reasonable. That's the downside of writing updates in the middle of the night; it's easy to make mistakes.