Page 55 of The Heart of a Villain

Anger crosses his face, and he rises on his seat, but Jim pulls him back down. “We have no time for this.” He snaps his fingers. “Get on with the show.”

The men nod, leaving the cage unlocked, while I wiggle my feet and gather all my strength into my fist, ignoring my cramping stomach and dry throat.

They place a metallic sword far, far away, glistening under the bright sunlight and casting shadows on the ground, and my hands curl, itching to grab the thing that’s my only weapon in this case.

The only way to win this deadly game is by killing the beast before he kills you. One of the reasons they put the sword so far away—because to get there, you have to run around quite a lot.

So I have to be as fast as I can while trying to predict the nature of the tiger and how he will prefer to play this game. Some compassionate part of me still exists, though, because whenever I’m forced to do such stuff, I always go for either their paws or something else less dangerous that slows them down but doesn’t really kill them.

As long as the beast stops and roars in pain, I’m announced a winner until the next time.

Once I’m alone in the arena, a deadly silence falls, followed by the loud roar and chanting of the crowd, “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!” Whistles and hoops mingle with the repetitive word.

Snarling in disgust at them, I get out of the cage, wiping away the sweat mingled with dry blood from my brow, zeroing my focus on the round gates slowly unfolding to let the wild beast loose.

I don’t run for the sword because they would shoot me otherwise, and then winning will be almost impossible. I learned this lesson the hard way.

Mentally, I prepare myself for the fight of a lifetime while bringing up the image of my dead mother lying on that damned bench and siphoning resolve from it.

As only the thoughts of avenging her keep me grounded in the present and urge me to forget about goodness.

Because nothing but evilness can extinguish evilness.

Rolling my shoulders back, I straighten, giving myself a wider stance, ready to meet the challenge head-on, when the boom echoes through the air.

My brows furrow when several men get up from the benches, removing the cloaks covering them, and Jim shouts, “What the hell?” And everyone erupts in panic as they start firing their guns one by one, killing everyone standing in their wake while screams fill the air.

Shaking my head in shock, I see a blue-haired man point his gun at me and freeze, only to sigh in relief when he shoots the keypad on the gates instead, stopping them from opening up, and the beast roars behind it, clearly dismayed by the change of plans.

People run around the benches, trying to escape the threat, although all their attempts are fruitless, as these men who wear all black are ruthless and quick, either snapping their necks, cutting their throats, or just shooting them, dropping bodies like flies.

A grin shapes my mouth, watching them all running for their lives like we all fucking did in this arena to their laughter, and now they’re the ones being hunted.

Their blood and pain are a pleasure to my eyes and nonexistent heart, as their agonizing cries are music to my ears, rivaling the classics.

Two of the newcomers jump into the arena, heading straight to the right corner, where around ten cages holding the kids are, and ripping away the locks, getting them all out. However, I barely pay attention to the chaos erupting around me.

Instead, I zero all my focus on Jim and Keith. They get in the arena as well, heading in the opposite direction, probably to the underground gate they created in case they needed to save their asses.

Rage unlike anything I felt before fills my bones and pours into my blood. I run to the sword, quickly picking it up, and then race toward the two men.

Keith notices me heading toward them, but instead of warning his friend, he speeds up his pace, running with all his might.

Figures an abuser always becomes a coward when he is met with a greater force or more power than their own. These fucking cowards know how to display their anger only on those who cannot fight back.

For truly powerful people would never use their strength against weaker ones.

Jim has a split second to spin around, only for his scream to reverberate through the space when I pierce his stomach with the sword, the blade disappearing inside him.

“This is for my mother,” I tell him and then pull it out as he tries to take a swing at me with blood pouring from him, but I stab him once again, earning myself another tortured scream. “For throwing her body away.” I twist the blade from side to side, enjoying the pain filling his eyes as he struggles to breathe.

For the first time in my life, I’m killing someone, and such satisfaction washes over me I become dizzy from all the sensations, while the evil part of me that reared its head in the last couple of months urges me to push even further. “Rot in the hell, Jim.” Pulling the blade back, I kick him hard at the back of his knees, and he falls on them, his weak muscles incomparable to the stamina I’ve grown over these horrible years in the wild. “You will die just like her.” With this, I stab him over and over again while he wiggles in the hold, trying to crawl away, but all his attempts are unsuccessful.

My actions have no consequences for me right at this moment, as nirvana surrounds me, darkness calling my name so loudly I cannot resist its pull, and stab him over and over again, even when he faceplants on the ground, no longer moving.

For all the years in the wild, starvation, and my mother, who deserved better.

Finally, as my arms start to ache, I stab it in his back with a roar, cementing him to the ground and breathing heavily, watching the blood pool under him, my hands smeared in it as well.

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