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As I got closer, the roars grew more frenzied.
Snap!
Craaaaash!
A huge Moroka tree, its trunk sheared in half, fell toward me.
I threw myself to one side and rolled up onto my feet.
The tree crashed to the jungle floor at my feet, making the entire arena shake.
I tensed my body, my muscles turning rigid and ready for anything.
It wasn’t just one beast but two, locked in a fierce confrontation, their raw power tearing apart the jungle around them.
Every crash, every agonizing scream from the vegetation underfoot, sent a cold shiver down my spine.
They were distracted with one another and judging by the bloodshot look of madness in their eyes, the female had to be close.
I weaved between the trees, straining my ears for any indication of her location.
But the symphony of aggression between the two beasts drowned out every other sound, the ferocity of their confrontation obliterating any hope of discerning her position.
My senses, attuned to danger and the hunt, were on overdrive.
The stakes had never been higher.
“Ngh…”
I froze, hearing the sound.
It came from a delicate throat.
The female.
She sounded pained, in trouble.
I turned to rush in her direction when a sudden gust of green gas rushed past me.
Oh no…
It was cold and biting, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of bitter fruits.
My heart sank, the implications of the smell hitting me hard.
It was the very essence of the Mating Games — a way to signal the culmination of a round, indicating that a female had been Claimed or had met her end.
“No,” I coughed, the word escaping my lips with a mixture of dread and desperation.
The gas was thick, making every breath an effort.
I felt its toxic grip closing in on me.
My vision blurred, and my steps became staggered.
I tried to fight it, tried to move towards where I thought she might be, but it was a losing battle.
The gas was designed to incapacitate, to ensure the round ended without further incident so it might be reset.
