Cartag Amphitheater – 11:00 A.M.
Underground Passageways — Slave Waiting Area
Only the crackling of torches filled the air. Most of the slaves and gladiators had died in the first round, leaving only a handful of survivors. Many cells stood empty now.
The mood among them was bleak—barely any murmurs, barely any hope. Just resignation. A few glanced at the small slave with the strange helmet.
Some wanted to speak to him, but didn't know what to say. One of the men who'd seen him fight couldn't hold back anymore and shouted:
— Why don't you just go out there and destroy everything? You can do it!
The few slaves and gladiators left all turned their attention to the small, odd figure. From the shadows, with his screen glowing soft sky-blue, he answered in that cold metallic voice:
— I can't.
The veteran clenched his teeth in outrage and helplessness.
— Of course you can! You killed Jundurs without breaking a sweat. You tore apart a Troll like nothing I've ever seen… you can do it!
Silence… then the small slave stood up from the dark. His black suit caught the torchlight. Without hesitation, his robotic voice cut colder than the air.
— If I act the way you want… everyone will fear me and hate me. And honestly, I don't care. But it would cause more problems because of me. The solution for now… is to wait.
His words hit hard. Even so, a young slave managed to respond:
— Wait for what? For them to kill us?!
Another joined in:
— We don't have options. Either we fall to the nobles out there… or we get eaten by beasts or monsters.
The boy behind the mask swallowed hard as their fate sank in. Eyes closed, he took a breath. He pictured all those who had looked at him with hope not long ago. And yet—
— I'm sorry. But like I told you: "Don't put your faith in any human being."
Then footsteps echoed down the corridor, and a voice called out:
— Abusador, you're opening the second round. Get ready.
Hearing that, Sam stretched his arms and glanced at the pastel-pink screen only he could see.
— Quincy, don't bother me.
[No promises, master. ¯\( ~ ‿ ° )/¯ ]
Torchlight shimmered across his helmet as he walked, and for a second, the reflection looked like a liquid tear.
***
Meanwhile, aboveground…
With the drums booming, the crowd fell silent. A breeze swept across the arena. Bloodstains from the first round still clung to the black stone floor and the walls.
In the stillness, a voice amplified by a magical artifact rang out:
Announcer: — "Ladies and gentlemen… we begin the second round. Presenting… the surprise of the first round… the master of spectacle—The Abuser!"
All eyes turned toward one of the entrances as the slave emerged. The sunlight made his pitch-black clothing gleam, and his enigmatic, screen-like helmet shimmered where a face should have been.
A song played—one he remembered—and he made his entrance.
***
Brian POV
As I walked in, I could tell the crowd was fired up. Not sure if it was because of me… or the music.
Announcer: — "And facing him… another rising star from the first round… the Combat Prodigy… the Promise of Nordkrieger—James Battler!"
The guy who stepped up to face me looked familiar somehow. I didn't really remember him though… maybe because they separate us during introductions? I don't know. I was too distracted trying to think of a good track to run through the CI-Mask.
Still… there's something in my chest. Heavy. Not pain… guilt?So this weight in my heart is guilt. Damn… so this is what it feels like.
Maybe I feel guilty because… all those slaves who died in this place—I could've saved them. I know I could've.
They were lives. Even if, in War of Kingdoms, they're just ninth-tier NPCs… the "numerics."
Cruel. In this society, in this world. They're just randoms without relevance or potential. And I shouldn't care if they do or don't. I didn't make this game. I'm not even a player—why should responsibility fall on me?
[But you do have power, and you are aware. ( ≖ ㅅ ≖ ) ]
I was about to reply when I finally took a good look at the guy in front of me.Handsome, insanely built, dark hair with red tips.
Seeing that detail made me think:
"What the hell? Who dyes their hair like Lamine Yamal in the medieval era?"
Quincy cut in again:
[Master, I have something important to tell you. ( •︣ ▿ •︣ )]
— Not now, Quincy. Later.
[But master! ( > ⍙ < ) ]
— Please shut up.
[…Yes, master. ( ≖ ︹ ≖ ) ]
The guy kept staring at me, tilting his head slightly.
James Battler: — You suffer from dementia or something? (Why is this guy talking to himself?)
— Your grandma suffers from dementia.
James Battler: — That's enough. I'll beat the manners of a warrior into you.
— Come on then, barbarito. Try me.
James Battler: — I'll crush you. I don't care if you're younger. You're a filthy slave who needs to learn respect.
— Can we finish this today? Stop talking and let's get this over with, yeah?
James Battler: — Fine. You'll see soon enough.
Announcer: — "Let the match begin!"
— Quincy, non-lethal adjustment.
[Adjusting to 8%… adjustment complete.]
James Battler: — I'll squash you, vermin.
The wind stilled.Both locked eyes.The roar of the crowd faded into a distant echo.