Milf Hunter: Seducing And Taming Beauties Chapter 693: The Last Challenge

The Butcher charged, machetes slashing through the air, aiming to carve open.

I moved.

Faster than he could see.

I ducked the first swing, sidestepped the second, then closed the distance in a blur. My sword flashed, a silver arc in the dim light, slicing through the air with deadly precision.

The first machete clattered to the ground, severed at the hilt.

The second followed before he could react.

Then—

My sword slashed horizontally, biting into his neck.

Blood fountained, hot and thick, spraying across the sand as his head toppled from his shoulders, rolling like a grueso ball before coming to a stop at my feet.

His body collapsed, blood pumping from the stump of his neck, his fingers twitching as the last of his life drained away.

The crowd scread.

"DEMON!"

"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!"

I didn’t look at the body.

The announcer’s voice bood through the arena, echoing off the blood-sared walls, "We have our winner, ladies and gentlen—Death!"

But my attention wasn’t on him.

It was on her.

Natalya.

Her eyes were locked on —wide, intense, sothing new flickering in their depths. Interest. Curiosity. A spark of sothing dangerous.

Before the cheers could fade, I saw her move. She stepped toward the announcer, her voice low but commanding, her presence demanding attention.

The announcer nodded, then raised his hands, silencing the crowd.

The announcer raised his hands, silencing the crowd. "Ladies and gentlen!" he shouted, his voice cracking with excitent. "The last round is gonna be special! Five against one!"

A wave of gasps and cheers erupted from the crowd, their energy electric, anticipatory. "Madam Natalya here..." the announcer continued, "Is going to let her own personal bodyguards fight our challenger, Death!"

The crowd exploded, their voices shaking the walls of the arena. "And if Death can survive ten minutes without dying..." the announcer paused, letting the tension build, "he will earn the opportunity to work for Madam Natalya!"

A collective gasp rippled through the arena, followed by deafening cheers. "What could be a greater gift than that?!"

Natalya stepped forward, her smile slow, calculating, her lips curving in a way that sent a jolt of sothing primitive through . She gestured, and her bodyguards—five hulking n, each one a mountain of muscle and scars—stepped into the ring.

She moved closer, her voice low, just for . "I’m optimistic about you."

I t her gaze, unflinching. "I have a request," I said, my voice calm, asured. "I hope Madam won’t bla ... if anyone gets killed."

Natalya chuckled, the sound dark, amused. "I like it," she purred, her eyes gleaming. "Don’t worry. I won’t bla you."

A pause. "It just ans... my people aren’t good enough." She stepped back, her voice cold, final. "Only the strong survive in this world."

I nodded, watching as she retreated to the edges of the arena, leaving her bodyguards to choose their weapons.

One grabbed a serrated knife, another a curved machete, a third a double-edged sword, and the last two chose to fight with nothing but their bare hands, their knuckles cracking as they flexed their fingers.

The announcer’s voice cracked through the arena, "FIGHT—START!", and like a pack of starving wolves, all five of Natalya’s bodyguards charged at , their boots kicking up bloodied sand, their voices roaring with rage.

The first swung a machete, the blade whistling through the air where my head had been seconds before. The second lunged with a knife, aiming for my gut, but I twisted aside, letting the blade slice through nothing but air. The third threw a wild haymaker, his fist whiffing past my face as I leaned back, barely moving.

I didn’t counter.

I didn’t strike.

I just dodged.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The crowd began to murmur, their excitent fading into frustration. The bodyguards grew more desperate, their attacks sloppier, their breath ragged. "Why do you only hide like a coward?" one snarled, spitting into the sand. "That’s all you can do?"

I chuckled, still unmoved, my eyes locked onto them, waiting.

The announcer’s voice cut through the tension, "Last one minute left! If Death survives this... he will be the winner!"

Now, I decided, it was ti.

The first man, unard, lunged at with a wild haymaker. I sidestepped, letting his fist sail past before driving my elbow into his spine. He howled, stumbling forward, but recovered quickly, spinning to throw another punch.

I caught his wrist, twisted, and slamd my palm into his nose. Cartilage crunched, blood exploding from his face as he scread. Before he could react, I grabbed his head and twisted sharply.

A loud CRACK echoed through the arena as his neck snapped, his body crumpling to the ground, lifeless.

The second unard man charged, his fists flying. I ducked the first punch, weaved under the second, then drove my knee into his gut.

He doubled over, gagging, and I grabbed his hair, yanking his head back before slamming my forehead into his face. His nose shattered, blood spraying as he staggered back.

I followed, grabbing his throat and squeezing. His eyes bulged, his face turning purple as I lifted him off the ground. With a final twist, his neck broke, his body slumping to the sand.

The crowd gasped, so covering their mouths in horror, others cheering in sick excitent.

The man with the knife lunged, slashing at my chest. I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until the knife clattered to the ground.

Before he could react, I drove my fingers into his eyes. He scread, blood pouring down his face, and I grabbed the knife, plunging it into his stomach. He gurgled, blood bubbling from his lips as I twisted the blade, dragging it upward before burying it in his chest. With a final shove, I sent him crumpling to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

The machete-wielder swung at , the blade whistling through the air. I ducked, feeling the wind of the swing brush my hair, then closed the distance, driving my fist into his gut. He grunted, stumbling back, but recovered quickly, slashing again.

I caught his wrist, twisted, and slamd the machete into his own throat. Blood fountained, spraying across the sand as he gurgled, his body collapsing.

The last man, the one with the sword, hesitated, his eyes wide with fear. I didn’t. I ripped the sword from his grip, tossed him into the air, and hurled the blade after him.

With Telekinesis, I guided it straight into his temple as he landed. The sword pierced his skull, blood exploding from the wound as his body twitched, then went still.

Silence.

The crowd froze, their cheers dying in their throats. So gulped, eyes wide with fear, others stared in horrified awe. The announcer stood there, mouth open, forgetting to declare the winner, his face pale with shock.

I turned to Natalya, her expression unreadable, her eyes locked onto . The air was thick with the scent of blood and death, the sand stained crimson, the bodies of her bodyguards scattered around .