Chapter 60

“H-huh?” the skinny participant, Number Eleven gasped.

Unfortunately for Number Eleven, he was much shorter than Number Forty-four. And what was the abdomen for the sharkkin, was practically the center of his ribcage. Number Eleven looked down and felt up a hole in his chest, where his heart should have been. Even as he fell to the ground, Number Eleven could not comprehend how he suddenly ended up with a hole in his chest just a couple of seconds after a fight began. A fight that was supposed to be a sure thing! A fight where he did not even get to raise his awesome weapon.

“Oh ... One down already,” the announcer said quietly with zero enthusiasm, her voice barely managing a single weak echo this time. “Let us hope that the other six have not come here for sightseeing.”

The announcer’s comments were drowned out by the cheering of a reinvigorated crowd that now had full faith in receiving a bloody spectacle.

“Tear her to pieces!!” a bearded, unkempt, hobo-looking man shouted lifted his massive weapon and pointed it at Number Forty’s slim naked back. The weapon looked like some kind of an enormous crossbow with a giant barrel mounted where the arrows should have been flying out. The unkempt hobo, Number Sixty-three, had to lean back just to counterbalance the weight of the weapon which he braced against his hip.

The hobo pressed his hairy finger on the trigger and pulled it, unleashing a three-foot-long arrow right at the girl’s back. The loud mechanism and the whooshing speed of the arrow tearing through the air informed Number Forty of the type of attack that came her way, even if she was already prepared for it thanks to the hobo’s ill-advised public announcement of his imminent attack.

What Number Forty was not informed of was the number of the attacks. And just as she dodged the first arrow, a second one was unleashed in her direction. Then a third, and a fourth. The barrel kept rotating, unleashing arrow after arrow for as long as the hobo-looking man kept pulling the trigger. Several arrows flew right into the group of shirtless staff but were incinerated by defensive walls of fire just inches away from their shredded muscles.

John looked up to the announcer with clear frustration but was not allowed by the hairball to retaliate against the trigger-happy hobo.

At the same time, another attack came from a different angle. Flames spewed toward the girl’s position, forcing her to evade deadly attacks from two fronts. Careless aim by the elderly catgirl instantly set one of the tables ablaze as Number Forty was still near them when the announcer started the match.

John stepped back from the burning table and was able to put the fire out with a swing of his hand, but the damage was done and one of the containers with the balls was no more. A long thick vein popped on John’s bald forehead as he was forced to watch the chaos that unfolded.

Number forty was quick to answer and with a wave of a hand sent her katana flying at the stationary hobo. The katana was knocked out of its path and sent swirling into the air by a giant spiked metal wheel that rolled through the arena, churning up rocks and dust as it charged straight for the girl, guided by the sharkkin with a long metal chain in his hand that connected to the spiked wheel like a yo-yo.

The girl just barely got out of the way of the whirling metal wheel that spun past her and crashed into the other wooden table, crushing it to pieces, sending splinters and wooden planks into all directions.

“The hell!? They had these kinds of weapons?” Beatrice was left with her mouth agape as she watched what was basically a crossbow minigun and a flamethrower in action.

Meanwhile, the one-sided barrage of attacks continued. What first appeared to be a simple boomerang flying the air, suddenly expanded, unleashing two feet of razor-sharp metal into each direction from its tips. The metal that was thinner than that of a katana blade, nearly sliced Number Forty’s head clean off, leaving a thin cut just barely out of reach from slicing an artery in her neck.

But before the boomerang even turned back for its return flight, the girl was charged and slammed into the ground by another beastkin who wielded heavy gauntlets that extended over his forearms like massive metal armguards.

“Ghuah!” air escaped Number Forty’s lungs as her back was forcibly and intimately acquainted with the rough, uneven surface of the arena.

“Ah~! The arsenal of the Forge of Champions on full display!” the announcer moaned with orgasmic delight as she watched Number Forty’s desperate struggle to stay alive for even a couple of seconds against overwhelming odds. “Several of these weapons saw service all the way back in the Third War—YES!!”

The announcer let out a biased victorious cry when she saw the goat-like beastkin slam the girl into the ground with his giant gauntlets. The goatkin, Number Thirty-seven, was covered in gray hair and had black hooves instead of feet. One of his twisted horns had nearly half its length missing, broken and rotting at the edges. His long goatee was damp and moldy and he had a crazed look in the eyes.

“Argh!” Number Forty squirmed trying to break free from the iron grip of the beastkin that was on top of her. But the gauntlets did not budge. The goat-like beastkin locked his gauntlets behind the naked girl’s back and squeezed tight, pressing her naked breasts against his hairy chest.

“You’re maaaa-ine now!” the goatkin cheered while salivating with his tongue out, drooling all over the girl’s face.

“The Huggers were well known for their ability to crush a Demonling’s head like a melon in the right hands!” the announcer explained Number Forty’s predicament. “A tiny human girl that doesn’t even weigh a hundred pounds can’t even dream of breaking free! The only question we now have is: whether she will die a quick death or a long and painful one?”

“Maaaa-ybe a pleasant one, egheee?” the goatkin licked his lips and stood up while holding Number Forty. He then lowered his grip to the girl’s waist to arch her back and expose her pink nipples toward him.

“Pain or pleasure?” the announcer asked and giggled, getting back into her former demeanor now that her revenge was secured. “What do our dear spectators have to say?”

“Fuck her first, obviously!”

“Just kill her and be done with this! I came her or the entertainment booths!”

“Kill her slowly like the old guy!”

“Fuck her to death!”

“Hm, hm, hm,” the announcer tapped her finger on the lower edge of her black mask where her chin would have been. “The crowd seems divided. Then the answer is obvious! Pain and pleasure must be combined! I’ll even throw in some bonus rewards for a particularly torturous death at the end! Oh, and no time limits for this one, so no hurry!”

“Heeeee,” the goatkin breathed through his mouth on Number Forty pressing his rising bulge against her. However, with both hands occupied with holding his opponent, the goatkin had trouble releasing his rising goathood from its containment in his pants.

“Having trouble?” Number Forty asked and kneed the goatkin right in his bulging groin.

However, the goatkin did not even so much as blink.

“You think you’re the first to kick me in maaa~ dick?” the goatkin with a shit-eating-grin. “I’ve been getting maaa~ balls and dick punched, kicked, stomped, chewed since before you were born! This was barely a love tap! But if you play nice, I’ll be gentle with—MAAAA!?”

The goatkin jumped into the air just before a stream of flames engulfed him and his captive.

“A sudden surprise attack by Number One!?” the announcer exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this!?”

“Are you all ill in the head!?” Number One, the elderly catgirl, cursed while she reloaded her flame-spewing weapon by sliding a fresh cartridge into the loading port. “Why are you playing around with her? That young lady killed a man and wounded another with a single attack! Kill her or be killed with her!”

“Ah, I see,” the announcer chuckled. “We have another participant vying for a night with Princess Mary! A prize that will go only to the one that kills Number Forty! I did not expect that some old cat-hag would care for such things.”

“Yeah, grandma! Aren’t you too dried up for such things?” a female gazellekin shouted, holding a boomerang in her hand.

The old catgirl let out a manly spit and said, “That’s how much I care about any of the princesses! I’m here to win! I don’t care who kills her, but she dies now!”

“She has a point,” the unkempt, hairy hobo shrugged and pointed his crossbow minigun at the goatkin just as the old lady aimed The Roaster in the same direction.

“Maaaa!?” the goatkin bleat while his eyes spun in opposite directions, pinpointing the locations of his increasing enemies while he hugged the naked girl closer to himself. “She’s maaaa-ine!”

Number Forty rolled her eyes but did not even finish rolling her eyes before she was in the air with the goatkin again. Just like the elderly catgirl and the hobo did not wait for the goatkin to make up his mind before opening fire, neither did the goatkin wait to be burned alive.

And the beastkin proved incredibly nimble at avoiding enemy fire from multiple directions even while carrying a girl in the grip of his heavy gauntlets. He zigzagged, leaped, and jumped all over the arena, the flames and arrows ended up closer to hitting some of the shirtless staff or the remaining participants in the crossfire than scoring so much as a scratch on the speeding, laughing goatkin.

“It seems that Number Thirty-seven has no intention of sharing his bounty!” the announcer laughed.

With one spinning eye, the goatkin watched out for the angle of attacks while with another he watched Number Forty’s titties bounce from all the movement. He reached with his tongue to lick them, but nearly bit his own tongue off when he suddenly had to evade a boomerang with its blades extended flying straight for his head.

The goatkin’s and gazellekin’s eyes met for a moment. Number Thirty-seven saw the beastgirl sweating. And that wasn’t just from the heat of the surrounding fires. The beastgirl had hoped to strike a blow. And if she could not do so even under such circumstances, how could she hope to win later after they’re done with Number Forty.

Similair thoughts must have gone through the heads of the other remaining five “allies”. The sharkkin also unleashed his metal wheel at the goatkin, who again jumped several feet away from the wheel’s destructive, but obvious trajectory.

“Number Thirty-seven has a clear advantage when it comes to speed,” the announcer commented. “But with The Huggers occupied with keeping his prisoner in place, how can the goat hope to fight back? Will he simply choose to fuck her while he runs around? Crush her in half after he’s done with her?”

The reaction among the spectators was mixed. The high of the first blood quickly wore off and many were tired of watching the goatkin run circles around the others.

“About time she got stuffed!”

“Fuck her in her pale ass!”

“If there won’t be any more deaths just crush her spine and be done with this!”

“Come on, Number Forty! I’m counting on you to get me the grand prize!”

“By this point, I don’t care if she gets impaled by a cock or sword. What a disappointment!”