Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Stay low. Wait. Observe. And never ever draw attention to my presence.
An activity I excel at.
If Lan shows up, whether as one of the Heathens—which is highly unlikely—or one of the participants, I’ll get a gut feeling thanks to the useless twin hunch.
A few people run by like a pack of wolves, squeals of excitement falling from their lips and painting the sky in blotches of brick red on midnight black.
The stench of mindless violence lingers in the air and forms sinister halos around the participants' heads.
Their thrill is short-lived, though. Orange Mask stalks right after them, carrying his vicious club. I silently cringe when he hits one of them so hard, their face swings to the side, and blood explodes on his mask, which cracks in two.
I catch a glimpse of someone walking around dazed with an arrow stuck in his shoulder and a limp arm glued to his side.
Eliminated students’ numbers are announced by that disturbing robotic voice, sometimes one after the other. I think the process is automatic, because whenever I catch a glimpse of someone getting hit by an arrow or Orange Mask’s club, their number is immediately announced.
Throughout the whole freak show, I don’t move, and when I do, it’s only to adjust my position.
Where are you, Lan?
While I take pride in my stamina, I probably can’t keep this up for an extended period of time.
Maybe I should strategically move to another nook of this extravagant forest in case my brother is on the other side—
A sudden chill scrapes the back of my neck, followed by scorching hot heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in my ear, “Why aren’t you running?”
My senses saturate in a rush of overwhelming external stimuli and my brain is unable to keep up with the overload. I lose balance and fall on my arse, hitting the ground with an impact that reverberates in my bones.
I stare up, my eyes clashing with the yellow-stitch mask that’s marred with splashes of dark red.
Blood.
It’s everywhere—clinging to his mask, staining his dark shirt, forming rivulets on his neck, covering the tattoos on the backs of his hands like gloves, and sticking to strands of his jet-black hair that falls in waves to his shoulder blades.
Nausea floods my mouth and shoots straight to my fucked-up brain.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick tick tick tick—
“You didn’t answer the question.” Yellow Mask’s gruff tone ripples down my throat and drowns the nausea, only to substitute it with dread.
Harsh and poignant.
What’s worse is that I can’t breathe.
The wanker is crouching close. So close that my nostrils fill with the metallic stench of blood and the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and a hint of mint and bergamot.
The overwhelming mixture flows and floods my senses like a chaotic swirl of colors that blend and throttle each pigment until they settle on unassuming gray.
Faultless. Timeless. Empty.
Yellow Mask, who can only be Nikolai, pokes my forehead with a bloody finger. And although he’s only touching the mask and not my skin, my stomach cramps, choking out rampant nausea that’s ready to lurch forward and leave me heaving.
“Oy. You listening?” He’s only using a forefinger, yet so much power emanates off the single action that I crack under the pressure.
I’ve never been good with direct confrontations and prefer not to engage in them. Besides, if what I’ve heard of his infamous reputation is true, I could never take on Nikolai Sokolov, even if I were reincarnated a few times in the spirit of a warrior.
He’s notorious for his savage behavior, unhinged tendencies, and penchant for breathing violence instead of oxygen. The evidence is splattered in red all over his person.
Definitely the last person I’d want to get in a disagreement with.
He clucks his tongue, the sound exceptionally loud despite the constant announcements of eliminated numbers.
I don’t hear mine, eighty-nine, but Nikolai doesn’t have a weapon like the rest, so maybe he has to do it himself.
Meaning, if I escape, I can resume my hiding game and look for my brother. I swear I’m going to be so cross with him about this mess—
Nikolai circles his forefinger against my forehead, but then he seems to wipe something. His movements come to a halt and his body remains so completely still, I cease to breathe.
The hostility and thirst for blood that emanated off him subside. Or more like, they lessen in intensity, no longer tightening his outrageously ludicrous muscles and bulging biceps.
Although he’s crouching, his height and broadness are unmistakable. At six-foot-three, I’m not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Nikolai has an inch or two on me, and he’s ridiculously pumped with more muscles than anyone needs.
But then again, he seems like the archetype of a sadist who gets off on inflicting pain.
However, that doesn’t seem to be the case right now.
The flood of violence that he exuded in threatening waves a few seconds ago has been replaced by something a lot more morbid.