In the isolated halls deep within the slave chambers, a woman in fine garments unfit for the location stood before a helmeted man.
"Do you understand?"
Her voice barely escaped her throat. A handkerchief was pressed tight against her face. It was obvious that just the air here offended her. She looked like a servant to someone important, far too strung up to be a slave, far too desperate to make the distinction clear to be a noble.
Frid didn't answer. His cold gaze stayed fixed on the floor.
"My lord says you're to give your all," she continued, her tone trembling with irritation. "Don't embarrass him. Make it extravagant too, he wanted you to remember that part especially."
A frown formed on Bell Selene's face. She felt ignored. By this slave, of all people. The audacity of it made her step forward with the intention of striking him for his insolence.
But the moment his eyes shifted toward her, she froze mid-step.
A chill raced down her back. Sweat gathered at her spine.
"…I've heard you," he said. "You can go."
Frid rose to his feet. To Selene, it looked like he was walking straight toward her. Her heart was beating out of her chest with each step he took.
He passed her without a glance.
"You all do your part," he said as he walked toward the tunnel. "I'll do mine."
Only when he disappeared did Selene finally gasp for air, as if she had been drowning.
"That damn monster… is it even safe to keep him around like this?" she muttered under her breath.
---
- Arena Field (20 minutes earlier) -
Frid stood a few meters from the tunnel's end. Getting any closer would get him in trouble, and he had no interest in all that noise.
Leaning against the wall, he honed in on Pendrick specifically. He needed to confirm his suspicions about the man here. He'd told the blond he would survive, but there was no concrete way of determining a fight's outcome until its very end.
He watched as Pendrick almost got his head pierced through.
"Hm. Pretty amateur."
Pendrick stumbled out of the chaotic exchange on the field. He darted backwards, putting distance between himself and the three men hunting him down.
'I was certain he'd be better than this…'
He sighed, broadening his attention to the whole fight. He still needed to observe and decide whether Pendrick was the right fit for what he had in mind. If the man survived this, then…
As he broke out of his reverie, their eyes met.
He observed as Pendrick froze. It was just for an instant, but that was enough.
The spearman saw the opening and capitalised.
Pendrick barely turned toward the sound of rushing footsteps before the weapon reached him.
And then—
Squelch
---
A body lay limp on the ground, blood pooling beneath the freshly punctured skull. The entire arena had gone quiet.
Frid straightened from his relaxed posture, pushing off the wall. Excitement rushed through his veins.
"Crazy stuff… not bad."
Only two people remained entirely composed.
The brunette swordsman stood with his arm still extended, frozen in the aftermath of his throw. Pendrick stood opposite him, calm emerald eyes fixed on the corpse at his feet and the knife buried cleanly in the spearman's head.
Throwing his sword up onto his shoulder, Pendrick gave the brunette a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning his attention to the last of the "three" attackers.
"Now then… let's take care of this one and head back to the waiting chambers in one piece."
The remaining swordsman flinched. Not at the words, but at the casualness behind them. A moment ago, Pendrick had been scrambling for his life. Now he stood there speaking as though the outcome had already been decided… and he wasn't wrong.
Pendrick took one step forward.
The man stepped back.
The distance between them wasn't large, but the shift in momentum was unmistakable. The crowd, still recovering from the shock of the sudden death, began to stir again. Murmurs first, then a growing rumble of anticipation.
Pendrick adjusted his grip on his sword. He didn't lunge. He didn't rush. He simply walked, steady and unhurried.
"Oi," the brunette called from behind him, his tone light, almost teasing. "Try not to mess this up. I could only sneak one knife in."
"How? When?!" the swordsman shouted. "You wouldn't have had time to coordinate anything! When did you agree to work together?!"
Pendrick stopped, glanced at the brunette, then at the corpse on the ground before meeting the man's eyes.
"Before the match even started, I noticed something off about him," he said, nodding toward the brunette. "He could obviously fight, but he handled the sword like it wasn't his main weapon."
The brunette chuckled. "Which it isn't."
Pendrick continued, "During the first exchange, I confirmed it. He was decent, but his movements were unusually stiff when using the blade. Which raised the question… why use it at all?"
The blonde rolled his shoulders. "When I dodged that thrust he aimed at my head, he flashed the throwing knife. I got the message. If I could give him a clean window, he'd take the shot. After that? We'd handle the last person."
The swordsman's voice cracked. "And how were you so sure he wouldn't just stab you in the back?!"
Pendrick tapped his own chest lightly with the flat of his blade. "I'm weak. If you're picking someone to bring with you into the main tournament, you take the weaker guy. Not the stronger."
"…That was enough for you to trust him?"
"Not in the slightest." Pendrick shook his head. Frid's words came to his mind. 'People who don't contemplate the weight of their own lives won't get to keep them for much longer.'
"When I came out of the tunnel, he stood closest to the exit. He looked like he was thinking. A lot. When the fighting started, he attacked, but only while trailing behind you two."
He lowered his sword slightly as he explained, tone steady.
"That led me to think that he's the type who consciously weighs his own life before anything else. Guys like that, especially those lacking overwhelming strength, they scheme. I placed my bet on that."
Pendrick took a slow step closer.
Then he rushed forward, readying his sword for a swing.
The swordsman made a split-second choice, rushing in to meet him. He reasoned that his best bet was to kill Pendrick while the other guy wasn't charging into the fray. The two men met in an exchange of clashes. Neither could get a clean hit; the most they managed were shallow slices. Pendrick's shoulder nicked open. The man's right side lightly bled. Both kept moving.
They collided a few more times. Pendrick pressing harder, landed a swing that skimmed the man's cheek, cutting it open and forcing him back with a startled grunt.
The swordsman stumbled back further, hissing in pain. The sting of the cut, his mounting exhaustion, and the looming danger of the brunette behind the blond all crashed together in his head.
He pivoted and sprinted.
'This isn't working… I have to get away!'
He needed space. To find an opening and somehow flip this.
Pendrick didn't hesitate. He darted after him, refusing to let the fight drag on any longer.
In that instant, a knife whizzed past Pendrick's leg, finding its mark in the other man's calf. The swordsman screamed, his leg buckling as he collided with the ground hard.
His sword clattered across the floor, sliding just out of reach.
'He went and recovered his knife?!'
Struggling on the ground, he berated himself for being stupid enough to dismiss the possibility entirely, simply because the man had made it seem like he wouldn't. He spun to face Pendrick, panic written across his wide eyes. An expression of desperation plastered across his face, tears streaming down.
"Please! No…! No…!"
The blond smiled regrettably. "Sorry, man… I'm trying to live too."
The man's breath hitched as Pendrick's blade sank cleanly into his chest. Blood spilt instantly, staining the ground.
Loud murmurs filled the arena, a tense moment of no visceral reaction.
Then, the announcer's voice boomed, shaking the colosseum walls.
"A major upset brought about by skill and cunning! The victors of the first preliminary match are Pendrick and Sabnock!"
A roar erupted from the crowd, a chaotic blend of cheers and scattered jeers. Some clutched their betting slips in disbelief, while others leapt to their feet, shouting their names.
"Pendrick! Sabnock! Pendrick! Sabnock!"
The blond wiped the sweat from his brow, letting himself breathe for a moment. His chest heaved, exhaustion threatening to overtake him, but a wave of relief flowed through him.
The brunette strolled up beside Pendrick and casually slung an arm over his shoulder.
"Good work, friend! Let's meet again in the main event."
Pendrick shrugged him off, giving him a sideways look. "So you can get yourself an easy kill? I'm good."
Sabnock laughed, careless and irritatingly confident. "Come on. We're comrades now, comrades. You get it?"
Pendrick's eyes narrowed. He heard what wasn't said. "You're implying you won't kill me if we get matched up. I don't buy it. You're a cheat. Your word means nothing."
"Well…" Sabnock flashed a sharp grin. "Better to gamble on the snake you kinda know than the monster you don't, right?"
They walked into the tunnel, passing the staff who carelessly hauled off the remains of the fallen fighters.
"I'll give you space to think," Sabnock said, moving ahead of him. "Plenty of time left till the prelims end. We can smooth out our agreement by then."
'So his name is Sabnock… hopefully I can work out something more with that.'
Pendrick slowed down, finally allowing his nerves to unwind. He was back in the tunnel. He made it, for now. He remembered bitterly that he was still in the running. His preliminary match was over, but more was to come.
He looked further ahead, noticing that Sabnock had stopped.
A group of men shuffled past them toward the arena, pale as corpses, eyes hollow and unfocused. They looked like men walking willingly to execution.
They must've been the next match's fighters. Pendrick understood the dread. He had been in their shoes just recently, after all… but this was something different. As afraid as he was, he didn't look like that.
The announcer's voice erupted through the arena.
"After that thrilling opener, the second matchup has been drawn!"
"This one will get your hearts pounding, ladies and gentlemen! Now entering the field: Orwell, Krei, Joel, and—"
He paused, milking the moment. The grin was audible.
"The legend of the Lukan Arena! The King of Combat himself! Gewalt the Warbeast!"
A roar detonated from the stands.
"For any newcomers in the audience," the announcer continued, "this is the man who stepped into this arena nine years ago and has NEVER been defeated! Not once! The undefeated champion—Baron Fernand's avatar of violent victory!"
Pendrick and Sabnock exchanged a look, then glanced toward the trembling men entering the arena floor. Their terror suddenly made sense.
Yet the "legend" was nowhere to be found among them.
Some other strong-looking guys had appeared around them. Pendrick assumed they were all veterans or something.
'They must have collectively decided that they couldn't miss seeing this fight…'
Pendrick understood better than anyone that securing information before a battle was often the key to victory.
'But… assuming that they're regulars here, wouldn't they already know everything there is to know about this Gewalt guy?'
"This should be quite something…" Sabnock said, smiling stiffly. Sweat beaded on his brow.
Pendrick nodded, equally tense. "Yeah, they talk about him like he's not human. Let's see what that's abou—"
Footsteps cut him off.
Everyone turned towards the steps coming out of the tunnel.
The veterans stiffened all at once. The reaction alone told Pendrick and Sabnock everything they needed to know. This was him.
The air felt thick as he passed by, and instinctively, they all held themselves steady as if not to set him off.
All except one.
Pendrick's eyes widened, bewildered as the man walked past them into the arena. He turned to look at the man's retreating back, eyes stuck on the other side of that all-too-familiar helmeted head.
---
- Arena Field (Present) -
Frid, or Gewalt, made his way to a corner of the field, already in a rush to be done with it. He already wasn't in the best of moods.
Unlike everyone else, who frantically scanned him for every move he made, he was practically ignoring all his opponents.
In the corner directly opposite him was a small man. Krei.
He had been a thief before he was caught and made into a slave as punishment. His owners hoped he would die, their spite rooted solely in the fact that he had dared to steal from them.
He had no real future, but he still wanted to cling to life a little longer.
'Am I still hoping to see her again one day…?'
Krei shook his head, rolling his shoulders and fidgeting with the dagger in his hand. He shot a glance at the men stationed in the corners beside him. He knew them. Street folk he had been loosely associated with before all this.
This was the first time he had seen them in years. He could only assume that they had suffered a similar fate to his own.
The announcer waited until Gewalt had settled into place before lifting his arms, grin stretching ear to ear.
"The fighters are in position!"
The crowd roared in response, the sound crashing down like a wave.
All three fighters knew. They had no shot at beating the Warbeast. Their best play at survival was to aim for each other instead.
Krei decided to target Joel to his left, who wielded twin axes. He remembered him having been an expert at axe-throwing.
Krei was quick on his feet, so he was certain he could dodge the axes.
'If I force him to throw, I win.' Krei thought grimly.
He pulled a locket from his pants pocket. The rope had long since broken apart, but he still carried it with him everywhere. He gripped it tightly before laying a kiss on it and stuffing it back where it came from.
All three men looked at each other, gripping their weapons. Orwell raised his sword in front of him, appearing to have picked Joel as his target as well.
"You've all been waiting for this!" the announcer bellowed. "The second preliminary match begins now!"
Muscles tensed as all three men prepared to get into their inevitable scramble, but a loud, crushing noise stopped it all.
Gewalt stood in place, his sword stabbed into the arena ground.
Silence rippled outward as he released the hilt and began walking forward, boots crunching against stone.
"Sorry," he said calmly, stopping at the centre of the field. "Put your plans aside."
The three men froze.
"I have no intention of playing along."
"W-Wait!" Joel shouted, panic bleeding through his voice. "We'll finish things among ourselves! You don't need to—!"
Gewalt closed the distance in an instant.
Before Joel could even utter a cry for mercy, he was lifted up by the neck and slammed headfirst into the hard ground.
Joel's skull broke open against cracked stone, his body lifeless at Gewalt's feet.
Orwell and Krei stared. All their senses cried for them to run right now.
The roar of the crowd reminded them where they were, however.
Up there in the reserved booth, they saw the most influential people in Lukaria looking down on them as if they were mere ants.
Orwell's eyes squeezed shut. His face twisted as despair crashed over him.
Then they snapped open as he charged, screaming as he hurled himself toward Krei, sword raised high.
Krei jolted out of his stupor and turned to run.
Orwell, however, had closed the distance enough that his sword could reach for a swipe at Krei's leg as he retreated.
He swung with every ounce of desperation he had, only to be met with a crushing reality.
His sword shattered, shards flying past him and skittering off the helmet of the man whose axe had met his blade, breaking both.
Orwell looked up at Gewalt. His heart already coming to a stop.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he closed them, resigning himself.
A fist collided with his face, crushing him into the ground, where he started violently convulsing.
The arena went silent.
Krei, now a good distance away, released a deep breath and fell to the ground. Miraculously, he had survived to the end.
The announcer scrambled to make his way back into the arena, appearing flustered.
It had all gone by so fast. He hadn't even been off the field for five minutes. It was shocking even though it was the Gewalt.
Krei chuckled before breaking into an ecstatic laugh.
He would live another day. His owners would not receive the satisfaction of seeing him dead.
He pushed himself up, turning towards Gewalt to thank him for sparing his life.
In an instant, he felt his ribs shatter, and all the air get knocked out of him.
The bottom of Gewalt's boot drove into Krei's chest, knocking him back some distance as he collapsed to the ground, unable to breathe.
He desperately gasped for air, hopelessly grasping and clawing at his neck.
His joy had quickly flipped into agony. It hurt so bad. He had never felt anything like it before. It felt like everything was moving quickly and slowly at the same time. His eyes darted around as if looking for someone to help him, but the whole arena remained still. He had no choice but to accept the reality that descended upon him.
This was the end of the road. A vile life with nothing to show for it.
'No…' he thought, feeling his grip on consciousness grow weaker and weaker. '… something…'
An image flashed in his mind. A bright smile that lit up his world.
"Did you eat today?"
"Yeah!"
The memory cracked.
'I'm sorry…'
He went completely limp.
His last sight as the remnants of life faded away was Gewalt being confronted by the announcer.