A Game Of Chess With A Vampire
Chapter 320: Are You Ready?

Chapter 320: Are You Ready?

The blonde-haired royal guard immediately stretched his long fingers, swinging at Draven’s face along with his other comrade, who stood on Draven’s left.

Very fast in terms of speed, Draven gripped the blondie by his wrist, causing the blondie to widen his eyes. Getting caught that fast was one thing they’d never seen coming. They had not been able to gauge the third prince’s strength after all.

Draven flipped him over, using him as an object to smack the other royal guard. He didn’t let go afterward. He’d beat them with the blondie, flipping him from left to right, behind and front, until the blondie’s arm unfortunately detached from his body, his blood smearing against Draven’s white attire.

"Filthy!" He scoffed in disgust, throwing the arm to the floor. This was why he had worn gloves. He wasn’t going to let his hands get dirty. Germs!

Avelina clutched her chest and watched the blondie gradually bleed to death. The duel hadn’t even started completely, and the ring was already tainted by heavy blood flow.

Draven tightened his grip on the scythe and turned to the other royal guard, who was approaching him at a commendable speed. He lifted his leg, sending a jaw-breaking kick to the guard. He waved the scythe, using it to slice off the guard’s head before the guard could even collect himself.

The guard’s head rolled off, falling onto the floor. An uncontrollable amount of blow pumped out of the guard’s neck, and with emotionless eyes, Draven watched his lifeless body plummet to the floor.

Two down! Ten more to go.

This way he continued to kill each and every one of them until there were only two royal guards left. By this time, the entire ring was fully tainted with blood including Draven himself.

His white attire was no longer recognizable. Drops of blood dripped from the blade of his scythe, falling onto the bloody floor.

The audience gazed with a fallen jaw. Sure, it was a death duel, but they didn’t really come prepared to watch people die, their heads rolling off, some having their bodies split into two parts, and some having their arms cut off.

Draven was nothing more than a beast—a monster in their eyes at that moment. How could one kill with such emotionless eyes—with such delight in his expression? No second thought, no mercy, nothing at all. He was like a killing machine, devoid of emotion.

Avelina almost felt the same, but recalling that it was either Draven or these people, she tightened her chest, unwilling to be anything other than supportive. She needed him to win, to survive, and to live. No matter what it took, he had to survive, even if it meant eliminating every single individual in that hall.

A smile spread across her face.

In vigilance, the two remaining royal guards lunged forward, their eyes gleaming with the determination not to die.

Draven, who seemed to have gone feral, no longer in his right sense, turned, glancing at the two with a huge, creepy, deadly smile that stretched from ear to ear.

At lightning speed, he left, emerging before one of the guards. He grabbed his head, mercilessly twisting it off his neck. Strings of blood pumped onto his face, and he took a step back, wiping it off.

Now he was left with the last royal guard.

"Come," he said to the guard, signaling with a wiggle of his finger.

The guard shivered, infuriated by the brutal way in which Draven had killed his comrades. He moved, charging toward Draven, but unfortunately for him, he didn’t get to even lay a finger on Draven because he’d cut his head off with one single swing of the scythe.

The audience watched as the guard’s head rolled onto the floor, followed by his body, which plummeted to the ground like a lump of meat.

The entire hall went into sudden silence. The only sound that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the audience. Avelina flickered her eyes and a smile gradually spread across her face.

So far, Draven was unharmed. Perhaps he might just be all right at the end of all this.

Old Master Lenort’s grip on the armrest of the chair tightened and he cleared his throat, standing up from his seat. He took a step forward and raised his hand.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

He applauded Draven with a corny smile on his face and exhaled. "I will never not be amazed by your strength son!" he said, as though complimenting him. One who looked at him would possibly mistake his words for that of a proud father.

Draven whipped his head, his hateful gaze stretching all the way to the high platform. Abruptly, he widened his lips, smiling in the most mocking and distasteful manner.

Old Master Lenort dilated his eyes, taken aback. What was that creepy smile? What was it for? Was he taunting him?

His expression darkened, and his lips curled into a soft, deadly smile. He asked, "Shall we move on to the next phase? Are you ready to fight your real opponent?"

"Of course," was Draven’s response.

The audience, although not quite knowledgeable of the drama ongoing in the royal family, could tell that the relationship between the king and his third son was not all sunshine at all. However, they dared not speak on it.

A sudden ear-piercing nose resounded within the hall, and from another bridge leading from a different door, Ryan walked out. He began to advance towards the ring, and at the sight of him, the audience started to clap, their eyes filled with respect and admiration. He was, after all, his father’s son and the potential heir to the throne. Unlike Ryan, Draven had the worst kind of reputation.

The only form of reaction he’d ever gotten from people was fear, contempt, and ridicule. Nothing other than that.

Behind Ryan followed Aldéric, whose hands rested behind his back. They arrived inside the ring and shifted away from each other to face Draven.