290: Wolf Who Cried Girl

290: Wolf Who Cried Girl

Participant Number Seventeen looked like an absolutely average human girl. Average build, average height, average chest, average shoulder-length black hair, average peasant medieval-style clothing. Her only distinguishing feature was a scarf that she kept loosely tied around her neck. And yet, this average girl killed her “teammates” in the previous round, shortly after taking their dicks from the front and behind.

Like the other participants, Ruby watched the girl approach while staying in the same puddle of blood she soaked the rock surface in previously.

Number Seventeen walked to the table, opposite of Bob who gestured her to take a ball and pull her opponent. The girl did exactly that without saying a word and opened unscrewed the wooden ball the moment she got her hands on it. She then placed the top shell of the wooden ball on the table and pulled a light-blue paper out of it.

Seeing the light-blue tinted paper, the bloodied masked girl stepped aside from the center stage. She walked past Number Seventeen without even gracing her with a look and took her place among the burly shirtless men. Meanwhile, Number Seventeen lifted up the piece of paper she held, showing the red numbers on it, revealing that her opponent would be Number Twenty-Nine.

“Aroooooo~!” Number Twenty-Nine let out a howl when he saw his number in the girl’s hands. He all but ran to the tables where his opponent awaited.

“Bwahahaha! This is my lucky day!” the wolfkin cheered as he quickly approached the girl. “I wasn’t lucky enough to have any female teammates last round! You want some dicking before the fighting this time too?”

“Sure, whatever,” Number Seventeen showed about as much passion as a block of ice on Pluto.

“Aroo! Is this some ritual for you?” the wolfkin howled and laughed. “Not that I mind! This’ll be the last fuck of your life after all! So, I’ll make sure to knot you real good—”

“I’m afraid you don’t have the time for this,” Bob interrupted the wolfkin. “Choose your weapons.”

“‘Don’t have the time’? The fuck you snortin’?” the wolfkin asked. “Look at the crowds! You know as well as I do that they’d love to see a little bitch get knotted before I lop her head off!”

“Do you intend to not follow the rules?” Bob asked as his massive pecs tensed up, displaying years of hard work (and possible additional substances) in the pounds of muscle that hung to his chest.

“‘Not follow’? … Nah, I’m following your rules no problem,” the wolfkin said and reached to the second barrel he was presented with to pull the weapon he’d be granted for this fight. “Yo, miss Thelicia or whatever! Get your ass in order and come back! Your replacements are laughable replacements!”

Bob did not reprimand the wolfkin for running his mouth as long as the participant did as he was told. And as the wolfkin pulled a similar wooden ball out of the second barrel, he turned to Number Seventeen, winked, and said, “Don’t you worry! Nothing stopping us from stretching your cunt during the fight, darlin’♥!”

As he said that, the wolfkin opened the wooden ball out of which a small broken bone fell and bounced several times on the table.

“Number Twenty-Nine drew the ‘Bone Breaker’!” Bob shouted to the shirtless men who had been diligently collecting the weapons that Number Four scattered around and placing them all in one spot behind the tables and the tossed chests. One of those men placed his hands on a massive wooden handle—thicker than the forty-inch cock of a dead two-headed mutant—and picked up the eight-foot-long pole of a weapon.

The masked man gave the weapon to the wolfkin who nearly fell over when the full weight of the weapon was transferred to him, in part because the mace was taller than the beastkin was and threw him off balance.

“The fuck!?” wolfkin cursed, barely remaining on his feet.

Another form of a mace, the handle barely fit in the wolfkin’s fangs. And that was just the handle! The pole was girthier the higher it was. The last two feet were a pure steel cylinder with about twenty thick, sharp spikes all around it.

“Can I get that polearm from the last round instead?” the wolfkin asked Bob.

“Number Seventeen,” Bob gestured for the girl to pick her weapon, completely ignoring the wolfkin.

Number Seventeen unceremoniously pulled out the wooden ball, opened it, and let its humble contents fall on the table. A small rusty, triangular piece of metal fell on the table. An old tip of an arrow.

“Give her the arrow!” Bob instructed.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Number Seventeen swiftly lifted her head and looked at Bob with wide eyes. The girl’s suspicions were confirmed when a masked man handed her a single feathered arrow.