Read Novel Full Chapter 691: Underground Fighting Arena
Chapter 691: Underground Fighting Arena
I stepped into the bathroom, the scorching water pounding against my skin as I stood under the shower. It washed away the sweat, the cum, and the lingering scent of Emily—her tight asshole clenching around me just moments before.
The heat burned away every trace of her: the desperate moans, the way she squirted, how her pussy had milked my cock before I took her ass.
My mind had already moved on. Victor was dealt with, Emily was discarded, and now, my focus sharpened on Natalya. I dried off and sank onto the sofa to the left of the bed, already plotting my next move.
I stepped out, water dripping from my body, and tossed a towel around my waist before sinking onto the sofa beside the bed. The leather creaked under my weight, the room still heavy with the musky scent of sex and domination.
"SERA," I ordered, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Pull up everything on Natalya. Everything."
The holographic display flared to life, floating in the air before me. Files, images, combat records, intel—all of it unfolding like a map to her soul. She recruited through underground fights, handpicking the strongest, the most ruthless.
Those who won earned a place in her inner circle, her personal army. She trained them herself—weapons, hand-to-hand, loyalty forged in blood. They followed her everywhere, a pack of wolves with her as their alpha.
A woman like that—untouchable, unbreakable, a fucking storm in human form—falling for me?
Challenging.
And that’s what made it so goddamn irresistible.
"When’s the next Underground Fight?" I demanded, my fingers steepled, my gaze locked on the floating data.
"Tonight, 2 A.M," SERA responded, her voice smooth, efficient. "Natalya will be present to select new fighters."
"Sign me up."
"Registration requires a stage name and a sign-up fee—$10,000."
"Do it." I leaned back, a slow, predatory smirk curling my lips. "And monitor Natalya and her entire team. If anyone digs into my background, feed them false intel."
"Generating identity," SERA confirmed, the hologram shifting to a new file. "You are now ’Viper’—ex-convict, imprisoned for annihilating two rival gangs single-handedly after they slaughtered your parents in a gunfight. Before that, you were a nobody—a civilian caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."
SERA’s details showed that I was born in Russia, but my American mother gave me this look. I got out released from jail early—good behavior, they said. Killing gang members wasn’t much of a crime, anyway. Now, I’m 29.
I exhaled, running a hand through my hair, my eyes flicking to the clock—12:02 A.M.
Emily lay sprawled on the bed, her body still glistening from the aftermath of our fucking, her breath slow and steady. I could’ve stayed. Could’ve woken her up, bent her over the bed, and fucked her again—her pussy, her ass, her mouth—until she screamed. But I had bigger plans.
I stood, scooping her limp body into my arms, and teleported to the guest room in the Villa. The faint murmur of Julie and Jessica’s voices drifted from the living room, their laughter soft, unaware. I didn’t stop. If I saw them, I wouldn’t leave. And tonight, I had a fight to win.
I lay Emily on the bed, pulling the sheet over her naked body. She stirred slightly, a soft whimper escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake.
A quick text to Margaret:
"I have sent Emily’s back. Guest room."
Her reply was instant: "Master... It’s okay. I’ve found her."
No questions. No doubt. She knew—I had business. And business always came first.
I hailed a taxi and directed it toward the underground fight arena. The streets pulsed with neon—clubs and pubs lining every corner, their bass-heavy beats thrumming through the night air. Following SERA’s guidance, I slipped past the chaos and found the unmarked entrance, nothing more than a rusted door set into the pavement. The stairs descended into darkness, each step groaning under my weight.
At the bottom, four armed men stood silent, their faces carved from shadow. Without a word, one raised a device, the flash of a scan capturing my identity. "You can go now." No questions, no hesitation—SERA had already smoothed the way.
The moment I stepped inside, the air hit me like a fist: thick with the metallic bite of blood, the sour reek of sweat, and something older, darker—death itself.
The crowd’s roar swallowed the creak of the stairs beneath my boots. And then, the arena unfolded before me, a nightmare bathed in flickering light.
It wasn’t just a fighting pit.
It was a fucking coliseum of carnage.
The cage—a massive, circular steel structure, reinforced with barbed wire at the top—gleamed under the harsh, flickering floodlights, casting long, jagged shadows across the bloodstained sand. The floor was littered with broken weapons, shards of glass, and dark, glistening pools of blood, some fresh, some dried to a rusty crust. The walls were smeared with crimson—handprints, smears, arcs from bodies being slammed against the metal.
The crowd was a sea of screaming, bloodthirsty faces, packed into rusted bleachers that encircled the cage like a ring of vultures. Their eyes gleamed with sadistic hunger, their voices a deafening chorus of cheers, jeers, and bets being shouted over the clang of steel. Some clutched bottles of cheap liquor, others waved wads of cash, their faces flush with the thrill of watching men kill each other.
Inside the cage, the fight was already in full swing.
Two men—one bare-chested, his skin glistening with sweat and blood, the other wearing a tattered leather vest—circled each other like wolves.
The bare-chested one gripped a serrated machete, its blade dripping blood, while the other swung a spiked chain, the metal whistling through the air.
The machete slashed down, carving a deep gash across the vested man’s chest. He howled, stumbling back, but recovered quickly, lashing out with the chain. It wrapped around the bare-chested fighter’s arm, yanking him off-balance before the spikes tore into his flesh. Blood sprayed, splattering the sand, the crowd roaring in delight.
The bare-chested man gritted his teeth, ripping the chain free with a snarl, his arm now shredded and bleeding. He lunged, driving the machete straight into the other man’s gut. The vested fighter gasp, his eyes bulging as he coughed up blood, his hands clawing at the blade. The bare-chested man twisted it brutally, yanking it free before slashing again—this time across the throat.
A fountain of blood erupted, drenching the sand, the crowd erupting in a frenzy of cheers and stomping feet. The vested man collapsed, his body twitching as the life drained from him.
The winner stood over him, breathing hard, his face splattered with blood, his machete raised in triumph as the announcer boomed over the speakers:
"WE HAVE A WINNER! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, GIVE IT UP FOR ’THE BUTCHER’!"