"'Nightmare' has locked in her signature Riptide Bomb!"
The announcer's voice boomed passionately through the loudspeakers, though his heart remained utterly indifferent. He had already received explicit orders from the top brass: tonight, the myth of 'Nightmare' was scripted to shatter.
"Can 'Death Knell' break free from this absolute submission through raw power alone?! Audience, let us wait and see!"
Down in the ring, trapped atop Boca's massive frame, Rhea glared bitterly at the referee standing near the turnbuckle. She was waiting for him to step in and count the pin. If he refused to do his job, she was prepared to force the issue herself.
Crack!
Before she could adjust her grip, a agonizing, white-hot flash of pain shot straight through her left hand.
She looked down in horror. Boca, desperate to break her chokehold, had bypassed every unwritten rule of the canvas—reaching up with a brutal, clumsy grip to snap her fingers backward one by one.
SNAP—
The sickening crunch of bone echoed beneath the roar of the arena.
A sharp, breathless scream tore from Rhea's throat. Ten fingers linked directly to the nerves of the heart; the sheer, blinding agony of broken digits robbed her limbs of all leverage. Her grip collapsed, leaving her helpless as Boca heaved his massive upper body off the canvas.
"Shameless coward!"
Up in the front row, Yamato leaped out of her seat, her knuckles white as she shouted in anger at the ring.
Her voice was swallowed entirely by the deafening, oblivious cheers of thousands of gambling fans who only saw a dramatic reversal.
Boca pushed himself up, gasping for air. His eyes bloodshot, he stared down at Rhea as she curled on the mat, clutching her broken hands while cold sweat drenched her face. He raised a heavy, iron-soled boot and stomped brutally into her exposed ribs.
"Dirty bitch!" he spat, stomping again and again. "You liked locking me down, didn't you?! Do it again! Come on!"
The relentless impact left her no room to draw breath. She tightly curled her torso, taking the brunt of the heavy boots across her back and shoulders.
After delivering a dozen vicious stomps, Boca's chest heaved. Exhausted, he paused, reaching up to rip off his tight leather mask.
The fabric was drenched in blood from his fractured jaw, suffocating him. The moment the leather came off, he inhaled deeply, feeling the cool air flood his lungs as his strength slowly returned.
In his adrenaline-fueled rage, however, Boca had forgotten a crucial detail: he wasn't the man scheduled to fight tonight.
Unmasked, his unfamiliar face was laid bare under the arena spotlights.
Around the perimeter of the ring, security personnel belonging to the Junkrat Gang froze, exchanging bewildered looks.
Up in the second-floor VIP suite, "Junkrat" Hammy sat up straight, his face draining of color. He rounded on his head bodyguard, shouting in disbelief. "What the hell is going on?! Where is Gomez?! Who is that brute on the canvas?!"
The bodyguards stood mute, completely at a loss.
"His name is Boca."
The quiet, flat voice cut through the panicked silence of the box.
Capone Bege sat casually in his leather armchair, a heavy cigar clutched between his teeth. He turned slowly, looking Hammy dead in the eye with a cold, mocking smirk.
"Well? Does his wrestling style satisfy you, Hammy?"
Hammy's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Goosebumps erupted across his arms as the realization hit him like a physical blow. "He's... he's your man?!"
Terror seized Hammy's throat.
Bege had swapped out his arranged fighter right under his nose without a single alarm being raised. How? The port guards hadn't reported a single Fire Tank ship entering the harbor, and the venue's surveillance Den Den Mushi had only tracked Bege and Vito entering the front doors.
How had this monster bypassed every security layer to plant a heavy hitter directly into the locker rooms?
If Bege possessed the means to pull that off, how many Fire Tank assassins were sitting inside this arena right now?
The realization turned Hammy's fear into desperate, cornered malice. His eyes flicked to Bege, who sat less than ten feet away, apparently unescorted save for Vito.
This is the only way out, Hammy thought, his teeth grinding. If I capture Bege right now, his entire plot falls apart!
"Take him!" Hammy roared, lunging forward while ordering his three elite bodyguards to swarm the Godfather.
"Fools," Bege muttered, his smile turning cruel.
As the four men charged, several tiny, mechanical hatches opened along Bege's chest and shoulders. Inside these microscopic ports, miniature gunmen—no larger than insects—aimed tiny rifles and pulled their triggers in unison.
Pop-pop-pop-pop!
A spray of pea-sized lead shot burst from his body.
Because the projectiles were so microscopic, Hammy and his bodyguards didn't even react. They didn't see the danger until the tiny bullets crossed an invisible boundary a few inches out from Bege's skin—instantly expanding back to their full, deadly size.
PLUG! PLUG! PLUG!
The heavy lead slugs tore into flesh at point-blank range.
Before Hammy's bodyguards could even register the threat, their chests exploded in clouds of crimson, dropping them dead onto the carpet.
Hammy was spared immediate death by luck, but three heavy-caliber rounds punched clean through his torso, dropping him to his knees as he clutched his bleeding stomach, wailing in agony.
Bege ignored the dying gang leader, casually swivelled his armchair back toward the glass window overlooking the ring as another thunderous roar erupted from the crowd below.
"Consider it my parting gift as an ally," Bege said smoothly, resting his chin on his gloved hand. "Watch the final moments of your prize fighter before you bleed out."
Yet as Bege looked down at the canvas, the triumphant smirk vanished from his face.
Down in the ring, Boca took another deep breath, grinning savagely as he raised his heavy boot to deliver a final, crushing stomp to Rhea's skull.
BANG!
The boot slammed down—but it stopped inches short of the mat.
Boca blinked in shock, trying to pull his foot back, only to find it anchored in place like a ship's chain.
He looked down.
Through blood-soaked black hair, Rhea stared up at him, her broken, bleeding fingers locked like iron clamps around his ankle.
"AAAAAHHH!"
With a guttural, primal scream, Rhea twisted her entire body, leveraging her core as she scrambled back to her feet. The muscles in her arms swelled, channeling every drop of her remaining stamina into a single, explosive heave.
THUD!
She dragged Boca's massive frame off his feet, sweeping his legs out from under him and driving him face-first into the canvas once more. His freshly fractured jaw smashed directly into the wooden floor, turning his screams into a wet, gurgling gasp.
Seizing the fraction of a second, Rhea slid over his chest, riding his torso into a mounting position.
Her fists fell like hail.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Heavy, brutal right hands rained down onto Boca's unprotected face. Within seconds, his sadistic grin was reduced to a bloody, swollen pulp.
"This... this is impossible..." Boca choked out, his vision dimming under the onslaught. "I... I kicked you seventeen times... How do you still have strength left?!"
Rhea leaned down, her dark eyes blazing through the blood running down her forehead as she raised her fist for one final, devastating strike.
"Because," she snarled, her voice echoing over the roar of the crowd, "my rage toward a cowardly piece of trash like you... burns far hotter than any pain you can inflict!"
BOOM!
The final blow connected square with his jaw, bouncing his head off the canvas as his eyes rolled back completely into his skull.
Silence fell over the immediate perimeter of the ring, followed by a deafening, historic explosion from forty thousand spectators.
The winner, by absolute knockout—Ripley Rhea!
---
Advance chapters on- p@treon . com/ Snooze_01
use 'a' instead of @
Starts at minimum of 5$.
Enjoy.
---