Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 85: The Scarlet Megamantis

The Scarlet MegamantisThe gate creaked open before him, the metallic sound ringing out like a death knell. Mordred stepped forward, one deliberate stride at a time, into the dark tunnel that led to the arena.

There, the light awaited him. And with it, the ravenous eyes of tens of thousands.

As he advanced, the roar of the crowd grew sharper, deeper, more oppressive. Jeers, whistles, insults. Occasional cheers, too. Blended together, distorted.

But Mordred heard none of it.

His gaze remained fixed, his shoulders square, his hands already near the hilt of his katana. The arena sand unfolded before him—vast, cold, laden with the scent of dried blood, animal sweat, death.

When he crossed the gate and stepped into the light, the Coliseum erupted.

-"MORDRED!"

- "THE DOG WITH A MAN’S FANGS!"

- "HE’S BACK!"

The announcer exulted, his amplified voice rising above the tumult of the crowd:

- "Mordred’s fourth fight! And perhaps tonight, his last! Will he face a warrior? A mage? A beast? No, my dear dragons and dragonesses... tonight we’ve brought forth a creature as swift as lightning itself!"

The ground trembled faintly. Another portal opened on the far side of the arena wider, heavier. The crowd hushed slightly, an expectant silence settling over them.

And then she appeared.

Her.

A towering insectoid figure, sleek and massive three times the height of a man. Her chitinous body gleamed a deep emerald green, etched with black lines as if her exoskeleton had been inked by an artist’s hand.

Her four upper limbs unfolded slowly, revealing two blades as long as halberds, retractable within her arms. Two more limbs supported her, bending and extending with an otherworldly fluidity.

But it was her eyes that struck Mordred most.

Black, pupil-less orbs that pulsed, vibrating as if perceiving not light, but motion... heat... tension in the air itself.

A colossal mantis.

- "Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer bellowed, elated. "The Huntress of the Depths! The one who carved an ogre into six pieces before it hit the ground!"

- "Tonight... the Scarlet Megamantis!"

She crouched suddenly, her limbs snapping into position. Poised to leap.

Mordred, still silent, stared at her. His right hand brushed slowly against the hilt of his katana. His breathing was steady. But inside him, his instincts were already stirring.

The sand crunched under the creature’s legs.

Opposite her, Mordred remained utterly still. His slender, upright figure stood in stark contrast to the massive, insectoid bulk of his opponent. He didn’t move. His hand continued to brush the katana’s hilt, his fingers loose, calm.

The announcer raised his arms to the heavens, his voice sharp and amplified by magic:

- "LET THE FIGHT BEGIN!"

What followed wasn’t the roar of the crowd.

It was the Megamantis itself.

A shrill, piercing cry, slicing through the air like a blade cleaving flesh. A predator’s scream. A monster’s. Death’s.

And then, she was gone.

No visible movement. No leap. Just... absence.

She was no longer there.

The crowd stirred violently. Some rose to their feet. Others squinted. Even the dragons, with their supernatural senses, were a split second behind.

But Mordred... Mordred closed his eyes.

The world vanished.

And in that darkness, everything became clearer.

His mana core, coiled deep within his chest, whirled suddenly, like a star about to explode. A wave of heat coursed through him. But it wasn’t physical heat. It was a surge, a rush of raw, primal instinct.

His heartbeat slowed. But his blood quickened.

His breath stopped. But his mind opened.

Every fragment of air, every vibration, every shift in energy became tangible. His mana, focused to the point of forming a sixth sense, spread silently through the grains of sand. He no longer saw. He sensed. The space. The angles. The pressure shifts. The anomalies in the silence.

A faint crackle. Minuscule.

A subtle shift in air density to his right.

Five centimeters.

Five centimeters away.

His body reacted before his mind could confirm it.

His right arm moved, as though pulled by an invisible string.

The katana shot from its sheath in a clean, cold, vertical motion, slicing through the space to his right from top to bottom. A single strike. Silent. Surgical. Pure.

He only opened his eyes when he heard the sound.

A crack. A fissure. A soft explosion.

The top of the Megamantis separated from the bottom.

The still-twitching body dropped to its knees, then fell in two disconnected halves. Greenish blood splattered onto the sand with a thick, wet hiss. Its limbs trembled, its blades struck the ground one last time and then nothing.

Silence.

Complete.

[Skill created: Sixth Sense]

The entire Colosseum froze.

Even the announcer, standing at the center of the arena, was speechless. Ten seconds passed in total silence.

Mordred stood there, still in the same posture, his right arm extended downward. His katana dripped with insectoid fluid. His eyes were wide open now, cold and emotionless.

A perfect line in the sand separated his feet from the corpse.

The system responded, an echo of the act just committed:

[Ding.]

[Would you like to absorb a reward?]

[Physical stats]

[Physical skills]

He replied mentally, without moving: [Physical stats.]

[Absorption in progress.]

[Reward stored.]

He felt nothing. No noticeable boost. No jolt. Nothing.

But this wasn’t the place where he would notice.

It would be there. In the other world.

The mantis’ body now lay lifeless, split from head to torso, neatly sliced before it even realized what had happened. It had died without ever knowing it was the target.

And Mordred hadn’t taken a single step.

He sheathed his katana slowly, brushing it lightly against his forearm guard before sliding it back into place.

Only then did the crowd erupt.

The silence shattered into a deafening roar. A collective cry. Furious, almost hysterical cheers.

- "MORDRED!"

- "MORDRED!"

- "MORDRED!"

The announcer’s voice returned, heavier, more tense:

- "A LIGHTNING-FAST FINISH! A FATAL INSTANT! MORDRED HAS DISPATCHED HIS OPPONENT IN LESS THAN... FIVE SECONDS!"

Dragons stood. Some smirked, others clapped with their arms crossed, intrigued. Some, higher up in the stands, weren’t laughing at all.

The princess, upright in her box, stared at him in silence, visibly tense.

And at the very back, King Maelor remained motionless. But his gaze was fixed on Mordred.

Mordred simply turned on his heel.

Without a word. Without a bow. Without celebration.

He disappeared once more into the shadowed tunnel.

One cold thought in his mind.

- "Six more."

The gate clanked shut behind him, the sound of chains and gears echoing. Sand still clung to his boots, stained with the Megamantis’ green blood, as he was met by two dragon guards stationed on either side of the corridor.

They didn’t speak right away. They just stared at him.

A moment that stretched too long.

- "Remove your armor," one of them said at last, his tone sharper than usual.

- "And hand over your katana," added the other, extending a locked metal crate.

Mordred studied them for a moment. He didn’t move. Not out of defiance. Just... to observe. One of the guards immediately averted his gaze.

The faint orange glow of Mordred’s eyes, still flickering with the mana from his fight, gleamed in the dim corridor.

The two dragons shifted, subtly. One tapped the crate more forcefully than necessary. The other swallowed audibly.

A slow smile crept across Mordred’s lips. A smile without words. Without warmth.

Just a silent acknowledgment.

He knelt down, unbuckled the straps of his leather armor, piece by piece, placing them carefully in the crate. Finally, he slid his katana back into its sheath, his gaze never leaving theirs, and then handed it over calmly, unhurriedly.

The guard took it... without meeting his eyes.

- "Finished?" Mordred murmured, his voice low—void of threat, yet heavy with an unsettling calm.

- "Yeah, yeah. Catch your breath," muttered the other, opening the gate that led to the combat slaves’ quarters.

Mordred followed them, hands clasped behind his back, silent as ever.

His cell at the Colosseum was not much different from the one in the mines. Slightly cleaner. Fewer chains. But still that cold wall, that bare stone floor, that enforced solitude. He lowered himself slowly onto the stone bench, resting his arms on his knees, then lifted his head to the narrow window that overlooked the arena.

The night wasn’t over yet.

One more fight remained.

The announcer’s theatrical voice rang out again, but something in his tone had shifted. Less flourish. More unease.

- "And now... an unexpected return. The third bout. And perhaps his last. A former slave. A veteran. A forgotten man. He has no name in the records. Just a number. And... a blood debt."

A hush fell over the Colosseum.

- "Facing him... an ogre from the Blood Pits. Six arms. Three meters of muscle. An obsidian blade in each hand."

Mordred raised an eyebrow.

And then he saw him enter.

An old man. Dressed in nothing more than a simple gray tunic. No armor. No weapon. His back slightly hunched, his skull shaved, deep wrinkles etched into his face. He moved slowly. Without fear. Without tension. As if he were out for a stroll, not fighting for his life.

He stepped into the arena... without even glancing at his opponent.

Mordred frowned.

Across from him, the gate rattled open with a crash of chains. The ogre burst into the arena, massive and heavy with muscle, all six arms brandishing jagged axes and colossal swords. The crowd roared with delight. Blood was what they wanted.

The announcer shouted:

- "BEGIN!"

The ogre charged at the old man with a bestial howl.

And then... Mordred froze.

The old man didn’t move. Not at first.

Then, at the last moment, his foot slid half a step. His torso tilted. One arm rose, seemingly without effort.

The ogre’s sword missed.

And before the massive creature could regain its balance, the old man’s palm struck its side. A simple touch. Almost imperceptible.

But the ogre staggered back a meter.

For a moment, the crowd fell silent.

The ogre roared, swinging three simultaneous attacks—crossed arms, reversed axes.

Yet every blow was dodged. Not by reflex. Not by magic. Not by technique.

It was as if the old man’s body responded on its own. With a chilling naturalness. A millimeter’s shift. A twist of the waist. A shift in weight. A breath.

And with each counter, a strike of the palm. A knee. A single finger at a joint.

The ogre... slowed down.

Mordred no longer blinked. He was watching. Studying. Consuming.

A murmur rose in the stands. Confusion.

The old man exuded nothing. No magic. No mana. No violence. Yet...

He was dismantling, piece by piece, a war beast.

And in the dim light of his cell, Mordred’s pupils glowed a deeper orange.

No one could guess what he was thinking.

But that look...

It wasn’t admiration.