The world was one of power, of sparks of awesome potential that had threatened the end of humanity, as war raged unchecked and savagery ruled. It was then that they came, The Matriarchs. It was they who bound the world and fashioned it into their image, shaped it for all the ages to come. Cruel, some would say, even as they clasped collars around the throats of all men and grasped their leashes in their own hands, passing control to their daughters and their daughters daughters and so down the path of time until it had always been that way.

Now, it is a world where men are born in chains, their powers strangled and bound until their owners give the commands. Where disobedience is met with pain and agony. Where the value of a mans life is entirely the power he can grant the holder of his leash, a shadow of a fragment passing along the links into her, draining him as it flays along his soul in the process. The only way out? The grave opens its maw and awaits for flesh to throw itself in, or for the man to be discarded at long last.

Those whose powers are suited for war and battle are seen in the tournaments, stables of men bound to women who have them fight before the crowd baying for blood and glory. Most times, it is not to the death. But if the man dies? There are always more born from the flesh pits, grist for the mills. Some, the weakest and least promising of men, are left to scrape a living in the gutter, unclaimed but still bound. No hand on their leash, no shelter or promise of rest.

Many end up dying to fangs and claws of beasts in the wild, of monsters born of reckless use of power and fleshcrafting. Most often, they die young and twisted, the broken dregs of a civilization that sees their only value as they are thrown into furnaces to have their vital energies reaped, or dissolved and used as raw flesh and blood for some new creation of the pits. Rarely, so rarely as to almost be myth and legend, a male pulls themselves out of the gutter, gathers the coin needed to enter a tournament and draws the eye of a lady who takes up his leash.

More often, unbound men end up being used to blood the newcomers, stepping stones for their mistresses fame and glory. Of course, there was an often overlooked rule, because it was an absurdity. An absurdity that the good people of Redvale Stadium were witnessing, their voices quiet, eyes wide with shock and fear. Because what they were witness to was not how the world worked. It was against reason. It was against custom. It was against nature. It was against the Will of the Matriarchs.

It had all started easily enough, with a blooding match from a team fresh from the Battle Schools and a man picked up from the wilds, lured back to civilization for the promise of a bed, clean water and a last meal. There was no presence of a powerful bond gift, no sign of elemental transformation... just a man and a pair of axes bound to his arms by chains that had survived on his own and communicated almost solely in grunts. Some of the men on the collection team wondered if this was a good idea because he was... different.

The wild man walked with a predators casual lope, looked at the world through eyes that saw in terms of conflict and battle unending. Still, he was unbound. He was a sacrifice to show off the skills of a rich girls stable. The jeers rang out, as he pointed at Lisa Scarborough, and spoke, his voice a rough rumbling, raspy from disuse. "Send them all out. Blood ground." For just one of the trained and skilled young men would have butchered him, now that he was facing five of them at once?

From her position, Lisa sighed as she gestured. This was, frankly, a waste of money, as it was not like they could show off against a single foe. So her stable stalked forward, lifting their arms to the cheer of the crowd, sneering at the fool invited death, who was merely waiting. Lisa frowned, something matched by some of the olden ladies of war. Because the sacrifice was utterly calm. Utterly without fear. And then he moved. It was not the speed of someone with the gift for it, even as the axe moved, flying and tearing open her Alexi's throat, chain twisting and throwing his body at Jonas as the brute moved, Alexi falling to his knees, terror in his eyes as electricity sparked uselessly along fingers trying to clutch at ruined flesh.

That sudden death was enough as she opened her lips, to be cut off by a roar. "LET HE WHO DIES, DIE WELL!" It was a roar of bloodlust, that aimed for the kill and only the kill, axe flashing out into the wave of flame, burying itself in Dan's forehead, before a jerk tore it free. Half of her team, dead in seconds, as flames washed over the brute, the last scarlet gasp of an attempt at vengeance from beyond death. Only for the brute to laugh as he was consumed by the blaze.

The monster not even seeming to notice the burns, the burns that healed faster than the damage was inflicted, embers forming and being smothered by flesh, as she shouted the command, as she let the bound power of her remaining boys loose. Yes, it was a trump card, but she was down half of her stable in a blooding match! Jonas and Bruce needed to live, as power rushed along metaphysical chains, flesh cracking as they moved. Jonas blurred, as he ran as swiftly as the wind, blades slicing into the monster in human form that seemed to not even notice the fact that his eyes and neck transformed into a gory mess, only to heal as puncture wounds appeared elsewhere.

He did not CARE as earthen spikes slammed into him, trying to pin him in place. The beast healed, spikes being pushed free even as hands closed around Jonas's neck, a twist of the hands snapping it as the creature plowed through the spikes, aiming for the last remaining member of her stable, to the last of the boys she grew up with and kissed, giggling as they planned their futures as famous champions.

Now, as one coated himself in the earth, or became stone, howling his grief, the last of them died on 'blood ground', not allowed to surrender or retreat. Maddened eyes were on her, as the axes came down once more, as her Bruce's chest was carved open and heart torn out, held up as the crowd was silent. And then, as she trembled, as death looked at her, doom spoke. "Join your slaves on the blood ground. Or be hunted." Whispers came at the threat, at the sheer madness and insanity. A man, threatening a woman, instead of offering his chain?

"You dare... you dare to kill what was mine and not offer yourself in your place!" Rage burned inside of her, as the monster laughed.

As the creature smirked and knew. "You accepted the rites of the blood ground. You sent them all out. One more death to feed the earth. As is the old ways." The crowd erupts into whispers, of murmurs and fearful terror. "And if I'm hunted and killed after?" The laughter is broken. It is mad. It is FREE. "What is death, to one who lives instead of survives?"

And so she died, in the red sands, swiftly delimbed as she looked into the eyes of a madman. It was not fair! He was an unclaimed male! He was supposed to die to make her look good before she bought a pretty boy to show up Stacy! And then, there were no more thoughts in her head, as the axes fell and her head fell to the ground, hands gripping her hair and lifting her fading self into the air with a roar.

AN

Just a little something I thought of a while ago for an original setting. Character doing the killing has 'What doesn't kill him makes him stronger' combined with a shattered limiter. Add in a decade or so of trying to get himself killed via monster and some Charles Atlas superpowers and he is... yeah. Still holding back, but I just have some over the top fight scenes and no way to weave it into a proper story