Chapter 9: The Swarm Dropped

Chapter 9: Chapter 9: The Swarm Dropped

The swarm dropped and it was like a rain of judgment.

The first wave of insects hit the outer ring of the Mallet arena before anyone could react. A hundred small insect bodies attacked, burying themselves into flesh in the same heartbeat, their mandibles working before the screaming even started.

And then the attack reached the rest of the arena.

A man three feet from Popo threw his arms up to defend, too late.

One insect drove straight through his forearm, tunneling under the skin in a visible ridge before erupting out the other side, trailing muscle fiber like thread pulled from a cloth.

He didn’t even have time to look at the wound before two more found his eyes.

Unfortunately, he went down clawing at his own face.

Popo brandished his battle axe dicing an insect before it could reach him. Then he dove for the wounded man.

"Hold on... Hold on, I’ve got you..."

His hands found the man’s shoulders just as an insect punched through the side of his throat.

But the damn thing didn’t stop. It kept going, digging deeper, and the man’s scream cut off mid-cry into a wet gurgle.

Hot blood, sudden and sharp sheeted across Popo’s face and chest.

He froze. Just for a second. Just long enough for three more to land on the dying man’s back and start devouring his flesh.

"Dago!!!" Popo screamed, waving his battle axe to slaughter the insects. One smacked the axe off his hand with its abdomen.

But Popo did not stop. He used his hands. He shouldn’t have done that.

An insect’s mandibles came for his hand. "AHHH!!!"

"POPO!" Kiki slashed the huge bug. "Be careful, some of them are poisonous."

Then her hand closed around Popo’s arm like an iron manacle, wrenching him backward off his feet.

"He’s still..." Popo’s voice cracked, eyes wide, blood dripping off his chin. He didn’t even care about his own wound. Just his friend. "He’s still moving, I can still..."

"He’s dead." Kiki didn’t slow down. She dragged him three full strides before he found his own feet again. "You’re not going to die here."

All around them the arena had become something out of a fever dream.

The barbarians that could fight, used their weapons, but skill alone was not enough. And those that could not fight ended up worse off.

A woman in the stand, ran in a tight, screaming circle, insects buried along her spine, unable to understand which direction meant escape.

A boy, barely old enough to hold a weapon, swung his hatchet uselessly at the air above his head while a cluster ate through his calf muscle, and when his leg finally buckled, the swarm simply moved with him to the ground and kept feeding.

Victor remained hidden beneath the tongue, but through the gaps of the dead beast’s teeth, he could see the horror.

And the sound? It was not even the screaming that was the worse part.

It was the continuous clicking.

Thousands of mandibles, all around Mallet Arena. They were mechanical and unforgiving, like the whole arena had started grinding its teeth.

Boramo watched from his podium, a hearty smile on his face.

"My lord...this." The Shaman turned to him, "do you intend on eradicating the entire Southern Bloodline tribe!?"

"Of course, it’s not like they are of any use to the grand plan. These weak and pathetic tribe. I only entertained their challenge to ease my boredom."

"It’s true that this is the weakest of the Babarian tribes, not producing anyone above Level 10 except the late king. But by tradition of preserving our race. This is... this is... Genocide!"

"Genocide? Hahaha... only the seed of my blood matters. Soon, all of Babarian kind shall be etched with my greatness. And that world," he paused, "only has room for slaves and enemies... not weaklings."

The Shaman looked at the death happening around, and then back at Boramo. His expression morphed from shock to admiration.

Babarians always admired the strong, and audacity was an attribute to display that strength.

This shaman was no different. If Boramo was eradicating an entire tribe, then it meant that he had power strong enough to subdue the other tribes if they rebelled for this one act. In fact, who would dare?

"Hehehe... yes, king Boramo."

Meanwhile, Kiki’s grip on Popo tightened as she scanned the chaos, cataloguing threat in their immediate environment; Distance to the nearest safety point, the insect numbers, exits.

And that was when the calculation clicked into place behind her eyes.

’The Basalt Dragonic Lizard. Its mouth. That coward went back in.’

Then again, it made sense. The skin of the Basalt Dragonic Lizard was made of scales that could not be penetrated.

Even when battling it, no one could penetrate Its body. This was the perfect escape route.

"Milkshake22," she breathed.

She turned there. Pulling Popo was a chore while she still fought the adversities before her. Fortunately, Popo quickly caught on.

Their feet pounded across the ground already slick with things that used to be people, toward the ruined jaw of the Basalt Dragonic Lizard.

The one place in this entire dying arena that might still be safe.

A few of the other Babarians stood to fight. One screamed, "Useless bugs. Come at me if you dare. I am Utada, son of—" a long black needle, thick as a sword pierced through his back.

He staggered forward, but still turned, hacking the bug into pieces.

And then another came. And another. Regardless of the number, he fought bravely. But he could only fight for so long.

He was not strong enough. And the first attack had come with poison that spread from the massive injury.

Soon enough, mandibles harvested his head from his neck.

Some barbarians saw Popo and Kiki retreat into the fallen beast, and they followed.

Some others were not so fortunate before they were torn apart like ripped cloth.

Screams and cries for help everywhere, but most of it was drowned by the buzzing insects.

The unfortunate deaths was the last sight Popo saw, dread mirrored in his eyes before Kiki closed the fallen beast’s mouth shut.