Chapter 315: Blood and Venom

Chapter 315: Chapter 315: Blood and Venom

The arena floor shimmered as the Thousand Poison Pavilion disciples raised their hands in unison.

Purple mist erupted from their palms, spreading across the stage like a living thing.

It crawled along the stone, seeping into every crack and crevice, rising in thick clouds that obscured the Golden Lion Sect’s vision.

The crowd leaned forward.

Damon watched from the dugout, his Incubus Celestial Eyes cutting through the haze.

He saw the neurotoxic gas working its way into the Golden Lions’ pores, numbing their limbs, dulling their reactions.

Clever.

But not clever enough.

A rustle of fabric drew his attention.

Alena had pulled out a small leather-bound notepad, its pages filled with dense alchemical script.

Her eyes darted across the arena, cataloging every shade of purple, every shimmer of the poison mist.

Her lips moved rapidly.

"Nightshade base," she muttered, her pen scratching across the page.

"Infused with viper gallbladder extract and a binding agent of crushed soul-roots."

Mio leaned over.

"You can tell all that just from looking?"

Alena didn’t look up.

"The color’s off for pure nightshade. Too much shimmer. That’s the gallbladder. And the way it clings to the air suggests a heavy molecular weight, which means soul-roots."

She scribbled another line.

"Easily countered with sun-lotus paste. A simple preparation. Boil the petals in purified water, let it steep for three hours, then apply to the skin. Creates a barrier that neutralizes the neurotoxins."

Mia blinked. "You carry that with you?"

Alena smiled. "I carry countermeasures for every known poison in the Eastern Continent."

She flipped a few pages, the soft rustle of parchment filling the brief silence.

"Just in case," she murmured, her forest-green eyes never leaving the arena.

Damon watched her work, a deep sense of pride swelling in his chest.

This was his woman. His alchemist. His genius.

She was already preparing countermeasures, her mind calculating the exact formula needed to neutralize the poison.

She was preparing for war, even as the battle raged below.

The Golden Lion captain’s roar shattered the moment.

His body expanded, muscles bulging, veins glowing with golden light. The blood-rage technique flooded his channels with raw power, burning through the poison’s numbing effects.

He held his breath.

And charged.

The Thousand Poison disciples scattered, throwing daggers and poison bombs in his path. The captain didn’t slow. He didn’t dodge. He let the blades bounce off his skin, let the bombs explode against his chest.

He was a battering ram made of flesh and fury.

He crashed into the first poison cultivator and tore through his guard, his broadsword cleaving armor and flesh alike. Blood sprayed across the stone.

The crowd roared.

The captain moved to the second, then the third, his blade singing through the air, each strike more savage than the last.

But Damon saw it.

The slight tremor in the captain’s hands.

The way his breathing grew ragged.

The poison was still working, eating away at his insides, waiting for the blood-rage to fade.

The captain knew it too, and the captain knew it too. He fought faster, each movement a desperate gamble against the ticking clock of his own failing body.

His broadsword became a blur of silver death, carving through the fourth poison cultivator’s guard with a headbutt that caved in his skull with a sickening crunch.

Bone fragments sprayed across the arena floor as the man crumpled, lifeless before he hit the ground.

The captain didn’t pause. He grabbed the fifth by the throat, his fingers digging deep into flesh and cartilage, and crushed it with a single, brutal squeeze.

The cultivator’s eyes bulged, then glazed over as his windpipe collapsed. The captain tossed the corpse aside like garbage.

Six down. One remaining.

The captain turned to face the last Thousand Poison disciple, his chest heaving, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. The crowd held its breath, waiting for the final blow.

But the captain’s body seized.

His muscles locked, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath his skin. The blood-rage faded, the golden light draining from his eyes, replaced by a dull, glassy sheen. His limbs grew heavy, unresponsive.

The poison took hold.

His broadsword slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering against the stone. He fell to his knees, then pitched forward, his face slamming into the ground.

The last Thousand Poison disciple limped forward, dagger raised, and plunged it into the captain’s exposed back.

The arena fell silent.

He collapsed to his knees, his broadsword clattering beside him. His eyes bulged as the neurotoxins locked his muscles, freezing him in place.

The last Thousand Poison disciple limped forward, his body broken, his robes shredded, one arm hanging useless at his side.

He raised his dagger, the blade catching the dim light, trembling in his bloodstained grip, a cruel smile twisting his lips. And plunged it into the captain’s heart, deep and final.

The arena fell silent, the weight of death pressing down on every soul. Then the crowd erupted. Not in celebration.

In shock. Because both sects had annihilated each other, leaving only carnage behind. The Thousand Poison Pavilion had won.

But barely. Barely alive. Barely standing. Barely a victory at all.

Five of their seven disciples lay crippled on the medical stretchers, their cultivation permanently damaged by the Golden Lion captain’s final rampage.

Only two remained standing.

And one of them was missing an arm.

Grand Marshal Vane descended from his floating platform, his blood-platinum armor gleaming in the afternoon light.

He raised his Halberd of Order.

And swung.

A wave of pure white energy erupted from the blade, sweeping across the arena floor, dissolving every trace of poison mist, every drop of blood, every shattered bone.

The stage was clean.

Pristine.

Ready for the next massacre.

Vane’s voice boomed across the coliseum.

"Match 9: Crimson Eclipse Sect versus Earth Fang Sect."

The crowd’s energy shifted from shock to anticipation.

Damon’s eyes narrowed.

The Crimson Eclipse Sect rose from their seats, their black and crimson robes flowing like blood through water.

Kai Reventon led them.

His eyes locked onto Damon’s.

And he smiled.

A predator’s smile.

Damon returned it.

Because he knew what was coming.

He knew what Kai didn’t.

And he was ready.