The roar of the crowd was deafening. Banners waved, the arena's air thick with heat and dust, and the electric thrum of excitement pulsed through every heartbeat. People chanted names, some hoarse from shouting since morning, others leaning over the rails to try and catch a glimpse of the blood-streaked survivors returning from the Labyrinth Horrora.
Up in the stands, Kuro had been leaning forward so far his elbows ached.
"Whoa!" Kuro's voice cracked, earning him a few amused side-eyes from nearby spectators. "These matches are insane. Looks like Astrid and Tarek actually made it out of that… Man, that was close."
He let out a laugh, but his chest was still tight from the tension of watching the scry-crystals' feed. Even through the grainy projection, the danger had been obvious—Tarek fighting like a phantom, Astrid swinging with a desperation only survival could sharpen.
Kuro leaned back, shaking his head. "I knew they'd pull through, but…" His voice trailed off into a low whistle.
That was when the announcer walked past.
A flash of red scarf, the faint scent of cologne, and then—a touch. Cold. Barely more than a whisper against the skin of his neck.
Kuro jerked, spinning halfway around. "Uh—?"
The announcer, tall and smiling, tilted his head. His voice was rich, practiced, dripping with charm that could make a lie sound like truth. "My apologies," he said, gesturing politely. "I wasn't paying attention and must have brushed you by accident."
For a moment, Kuro didn't reply. He studied the man's face—sharp cheekbones, eyes that didn't quite match the smile. There was something in them. Something… calculating.
"Oh… okay, sir," Kuro finally muttered, forcing a grin. He rubbed the back of his neck where the touch had been, trying to shake the prickle under his skin.
"Enjoy the show." The announcer's words were casual, but as he turned away, the smile on his lips shifted—stretching, bending into something colder.
Kuro didn't see it.
The man's footsteps faded into the noise of the crowd, swallowed by cheers and the distant clang of the next match being prepared. But behind that charming facade, his mind was already elsewhere.
The touch had been no accident.
It had been a mark.
The shadows inside the Labyrinth Horra seemed thicker now, almost alive. Each breath Astrid and I took echoed in the damp, heavy air as we ran deeper into the winding corridors, boots crunching on fractured stone. The roar of the crowd outside was long gone—out here, all we could hear was the rhythm of our own steps and the faint, unsettling scrape of something ahead.
Astrid's grip on her twin blades was tight enough to whiten her knuckles. "We can't stop. There's more in here. I can feel it."
I nodded, forcing my breathing steady. My mana flared, hot and sharp, red arcs of electricity snapping across my arms. Sparks crackled in the shadows, casting jagged flashes on the stone walls. The Labyrinth wasn't empty—not by a long shot. We'd survived the last round, but the Horrora wasn't done testing us.
A low, wet growl rolled through the hall. Not human. Not even close.
We slowed our pace, scanning the branching tunnels. The air smelled of iron and dust, and every shadow looked like it was waiting for its chance to lunge. My instincts screamed that whatever was here, it wasn't alone.
"Eyes open," I murmured, letting a small burst of lightning arc from my palm to light the way. "It's still hunting us."
Far above, in the stands of the arena, Kuro sat forward, eyes flicking between the crystal feed of our progress and the crowd around him. But his focus kept drifting… to that touch on the back of his neck. That strange, almost cold brush from the announcer.
He scratched the spot again. And again. The itch wouldn't go away.
"What the heck…" he muttered under his breath, nails dragging harder across his skin.
The itch deepened into a burning heat, then into something worse—like claws digging from inside his flesh.
Kuro's breathing hitched, his nails lengthening before his eyes into hooked claws. His teeth throbbed as they sharpened, his jaw shifting with a sickening pop. A strangled sound escaped him—half groan, half growl.
His chest tightened. His ribs felt like they were bending outward. His hair spilled into his face, darkening from warm brown to an ashen black-grey. His pupils drained away, leaving nothing but stark, glowing white in his eyes.
And then the pain stopped.
Kuro straightened slowly, his shadow stretching unnaturally long in the dim arena light.
A man nearby, holding a stick of grilled meat, glanced over with a puzzled grin.
"You good, man?"
Kuro tilted his head, smiling wide. Too wide. The kind of smile that made the air feel heavier.
Then, without warning, he lunged.
CRUNCH!
The man's scream never left his throat as Kuro's jaws clamped down, tearing through flesh and bone in one savage bite. The body collapsed, twitching, blood pooling across the bench.
For a heartbeat, silence. The crowd stared, frozen in shock.
Then chaos.
Screams erupted, bodies slammed into one another in the scramble to escape. Vendors dropped their trays, spectators climbed over seats, shoving toward the exits.
But Kuro was already moving.
His fanged grin dripped red as he turned on the nearest cluster of runners, white eyes that turned gold fixed on them. The thing that had been Kuro leapt into the stands, claws ripping into anyone within reach.
And the hunt began.