The arena gates groaned open, releasing a wave of fetid air and eager screams as the Dark Tiger stalked in. Every step the beast took churned the sun-bleached sand into swirling clouds, its thousand‐year‐old pelt a mottled tapestry of ebony and dusk. Deep scars crisscrossed the tiger's flanks—hollows where claws had raked bone in some long‐forgotten battle. Its eyes, molten gold in the torchlight, scanned the pit with an intelligence both ancient and feral.
Qiang Ming stood at the pit's opposite edge, hammer strapped snugly to his back—an ornate heirloom rendered useless by the Barony's decree forbidding spirit‐ring powers in this hallowed ground. Here, every soul rank was stripped to its bones, and only primal skill reigned. Sunlight fell across Qiang Ming's bare shoulders, highlighting every ridge of muscle honed by unending fights. New scars circled his ribs, colorful slashes in his pale skin—reminders that each victory demanded fresh sacrifice. He inhaled, the grit on his tongue tasting of blood and expectation.
A harsh bell rang once, slicing through the crowd's roars. The tiger crouched, its limbs coiled like steel springs, tail flicking in slow rhythm. Then—launch—it exploded forward, a black specter of sinew and fang. Qiang Ming sidestepped, only barely avoiding a strike that carved a shallow gouge in the sand. The tiger's claws snapped closed mere inches from his ankle, sending sparks of dirt into the air.
Qiang Ming sprang back, fists raised, every nerve alight. He measured the beast's momentum: heavy front paws, rear ones poised for thrust. With a blur of motion, he stepped inside the tiger's guard and jabbed at its flank—knuckles cracking against tough hide. The crowd let out a collective gasp. The tiger recoiled, a low roar vibrating in its chest, and lunged again.
They traded blows in a brutal ballet. The Dark Tiger's swipes were bone‐shaking; Qiang Ming answered with precise counters—elbow strikes and low kicks aimed at the beast's hip joints. Each time Qiang Ming landed, the beast shook itself like water off fur and circled, elegant yet lethal. He felt every sinew protest the punishing speed, but he refused to yield. Each breath was a confession of pain, each exhale a vow to survive.
Suddenly, the tiger reared up, forepaws slamming together with thunderous force. Qiang Ming ducked under the split-second shadow and swept a leg, hoping to trip the beast. His foot caught the tiger's rear leg, and for a heartbeat, the great cat stumbled. Qiang Ming seized the moment, planting his feet wide and throwing a series of hammer fists—palm‐heel strikes that smashed into muscle and bone. The tiger snarled, blood spattering onto Qiang Ming's chin.
Despite the thinning of its roar, the Dark Tiger refused to yield. It snapped its jaws at Qiang Ming's arm, ivory fangs grazing flesh. Pain flared—hot as molten lead—down Qiang Ming's forearm. He recoiled, clutching the wound, grit flooding his vision. A surge of panic threatened to break him, but he pushed it down. No spirit skills, no mercy—this was the Barony's crucible. He steadied himself. Let fear become fuel.
The tiger advanced, padded steps stirring dust. Qiang Ming pivoted on his heel, letting the beast overshoot, then delivered a brutal elbow to its ribs—joint‐breaking force that echoed like percussion. The tiger reeled, hind legs buckling. Qiang Ming's breath came ragged, chest heaving, sweat drenching his hair. He wiped a trickle of blood from his lip and locked eyes with the wounded spirit beast. For a moment, they were equals: predator and fighter bound by survival's rawest law.
Then Qiang Ming lunged, dropping his hammer unceremoniously onto the sand. The crowd roared in both outrage and anticipation—rarely did combatants abandon their signature weapon. Qiang Ming wrapped his arms around the tiger's mighty neck in a desperate bear hug. The creature's roar sharpened to a desperate keening as it thrashed, massive paws battering Qiang Ming's ribs. Claws raked his back; fangs tore at his forearm. The pain was total. His vision blurred, but he dug deep, squeezing with every sinew.
Muscles trembled, joints threatened to tear, but Qiang Ming held on. He could feel the vertebrae flex beneath his grip, a hideous symphony of cracking bone. The tiger's thrashing slowed, strength bleeding away. Its amber eyes flickered, dulled by shock and pain. Qiang Ming's stance wavered, knees pressing into the sand to bear the burden. A final, convulsive shudder ran through the great cat.
And then—silence.
Qiang Ming sagged forward; the tiger's body slumped sideways, massive head resting at his feet. The crowd went death‐quiet for a heartbeat, then erupted: cheers like rolling thunder, copper coins and spirit jade tokens raining down. He lay there, chest heaving, every breath a firestorm in his lungs. He closed his eyes, letting the roar wash over him, trembling in the aftermath.
He sat up slowly, chest heaving, blood and sweat mingling across his skin. He retrieved his hammer, its haft warm and familiar, and strapped it back to his shoulder. As he stood, the three Bloody Barons exchanged a single nod: Qiang Ming had shown raw, beastly mettle worthy of legend.
He turned away from the fallen Dark Tiger—ancient spirit laid low by a mere mortal's arms—and strode from the pit. The echo of the crowd's bloodthirsty chant trailed behind him:
Tonight he had faced a living legend and survived. Tomorrow, the Barons would test him again. And the night after that, until at last the coveted Arena Champion amulet freed him from these pitiless sands—or claimed his life in the attempt.
Either way, Qiang Ming's path was set in blood and iron, and he welcomed the darkness ahead.