I watched as Ouroboros descended upon the gladiators, one after another, like a living catastrophe made of scales, teeth, and endless hunger. Every single one of them was shaking, their weapons trembling in their hands, knees buckling before they could even think of running. Fear had already hollowed them out. They didn't get the chance to scream properly, didn't get the chance to fight back, didn't even get the dignity of a final stand. The moment Ouroboros moved, they were gone—snatched up, crushed, swallowed whole as if they were nothing more than scraps tossed into a pit.
As the monster feasted, massive metallic rebars slammed down with a deafening clang. Thick. Heavy. Reinforced. They sealed off every opening that connected the arena to the spectator stands. It was done instantly, flawlessly, as if rehearsed countless times. The intent was obvious: no matter how wild Ouroboros became, it would not reach the audience.
