The sun shone brightly over Vamp's mysterious island as large boats and aircraft alike delivered contestants for the world's first public Game of Blood competition. Reigning champions, aspiring local warriors, spectators, and servants of Vamp were already waiting, watching as the fighters arrived. They gathered around a raised platform, where Vamp stood, guards surrounding him as he spoke.
"Welcome to the first annual Game of Blood tournament! Here you fight for the prize of eternal life, wealth, and power. The rules are simple. No ranged weaponry allowed. Your guns, bows, and other such devices will be returned to you when you leave. In order to complete the tournament, after facing all warriors put before you, you must face me. Otherwise, the rules are up to the fighters." Vamp stood before the crowd, reading off a scroll in plain view of the spectators.
"Arceus Aurelius-Rex. The Raptor. Pax. Timur. Darksider. Jackson Cade. Dakota Briggs. Suzuka Nakamoto. Yui Mizuno. Moa Kikuchi. Trickshot. Plan-B. El Felino. The Soul Stealer, Alianette. You are our guests, and as such you will be supplied with the finest living quarters available. The first battle will begin at dawn, or when a contestant has challenged another. If I am challenged, I hold the right to send forth one of my champions in my place. Until then, my guards will show you to your quarters. The group known as Kitsune Squad shall share a quarters, unless asked otherwise."
As the new contestants were shuffled away from Vamp by the oddly-dressed guards, he floated to his chair, where multiple fighters stood by his side. Supposedly his champions. One took the form of a gunslinger, reminiscent of wild west times. Another appeared as a demented jester, laughing constantly while playing with a knife. A woman sat on the arm of his chair, scantily clad in extremely small amounts of magenta fabric, her face covered by a simple mask. A humanoid robot stood to the side, deactivated. A pale man in a blood red suit drank from a wine glass, hungrily eyeing the contestants as they walked. A dirty, wet man stood silently and watched the contestants march by though his bloodstained hockey mask, brandishing a machete, which hung idly by his side. An old, shirtless man with wings spread wide, a long, whispy, white mustache, and a large golden sword sat above the small shelter.
What would happen in the hours before the tournament began was unknown.
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