The sun hit like judgment.
It wasn't kind or distant—it was heavy, merciless, pressing down on the fighting pit like a god watching a feast of insects. Recon stood in the center, squinting up at that pale white fire, his throat dry as bone. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the smell of blood baked into sand. Around him, the crowd howled and jeered from their wooden balconies—orcish traders, human debtors, beastmen gamblers. They waved coin and bones and screamed for violence. No one here came to watch. They came to consume.
Recon's bow creaked faintly in his grip. His hands were raw. His knuckles split. The string of his new bow still smelled like iron and pitch. His new arrows gleamed faintly in the sunlight—clean, sharp, unused. Not for long.
He wore rags, little more than torn cloth wrapped around muscle and scar. His horn—a dull gray spike rising from his forehead—was caked in dried blood. His breath came slow and heavy.
He wasn't fighting to live. He was fighting to prove he ever deserved to.
The gate opened.
The First Fight
The man who stepped out barely looked alive. Thin, shaking, skin burned and flaking under the sun. His eyes darted like a hunted animal's, his dagger trembling in his grasp. His name didn't matter; the crowd shouted something, but Recon didn't care enough to catch it.
The announcer roared something about "fresh meat." The crowd booed.
The man's voice cracked when he spoke. "You're the rhino, right?" he said. "The one from the wild district?"
Recon didn't answer.
The man's mouth trembled. "Don't… don't toy with me. Just—make it quick."
His voice wasn't defiant. It was hollow. A plea wrapped in ash.
Recon sighed. His fingers drew two arrows in a single motion—smooth, instinctive. Double Shot.
Two sharp thuds echoed across the pit. Both arrows struck his chest—one high near the heart, one low beneath the ribs. The man staggered backward, breath breaking into wet gasps. He dropped the dagger, knees folding beneath him.
He looked up. Tears, sweat, and blood all mixed down his cheeks. "Please… now."
Recon hesitated for half a second. Then he drew again.
"Alright," he said softly. "Quick."
The arrow hissed. It split the air, then the skull. The man collapsed.
The cheering was instant and deafening. Coins clattered. Someone laughed. Another shouted for "more blood."
Recon didn't hear any of it. He just stood there, looking down at the corpse—skin still twitching, eyes glassy and unblinking. The blood pooled slowly, tracing lines through the sand toward his feet.
He reclaimed his arrows and wiped them on the dead man's rags. The blood came off easy. It always did.
Then he turned toward the next gate. "Next."
The Second Fight
The door opened again, and another human walked out. This one taller. Stronger. Level two, judging by his posture, the steady control in his steps. His weapon—a curved saber—gleamed dully. His arms were scarred, his stance balanced. Not some starving wretch. A fighter.
He looked at Recon, and for a moment, his face softened.
"I don't want to do this," the man said.
Recon pulled an arrow halfway from his quiver. "Yeah, yeah. But I do. Need to level up. Get my achievement."
The man's eyes narrowed. "So you come down here—kill people—for an achievement?"
"You think I want this?" Recon barked back. "There's no other way to climb. Nobody's handing out strength."
"Then you're no different than the bastards watching us," the man said, lifting his sword.
The crowd began to roar again, tasting the argument.
Recon fired first—Quick Shot—two arrows snapping through the heat. One grazed the man's cheek. The other clipped his shoulder. He hissed, blood streaking down his arm, but didn't falter.
He charged. Steel flashed. Recon twisted, Jump, leaping aside, the blade missing by inches. Sand exploded under his boots. He spun, drawing another arrow, but the man was faster than expected—a kick slammed into his ribs.
He fell sideways, rolled, came up firing again.
The arrow buried itself in the man's abdomen. A clean hit. Blood splattered in the sand.
The man dropped to one knee, breathing shallow. "Guess that's it," he murmured.
"Yeah," Recon said quietly. "Guess so."
The man nodded once, almost like thanks, before falling forward.
This time, the crowd didn't cheer. They just muttered. Maybe it was too fast. Maybe it was too human.
Recon rubbed his shoulder, feeling the bruise from the kick. He wasn't sure if he'd won or just delayed dying.
The Final Fight
When the third gate opened, two figures stepped through. Not one. Two.
Recon's heart sank.
Both humans. Both level twos. One with a spear, the other with a jagged short blade. Brothers—he could see it in the way they moved, perfectly in sync. They didn't swagger. They didn't smile. They just walked.
"You ready, beast?" the spear-brother said, circling.
Recon raised his bow. "Been ready all day."
"You ain't like the others," said the one with the sword. "You fight cleaner. You think. I can tell."
"Thanks," Recon muttered, "I'll kill you first, then."
They laughed. The sound wasn't cruel. It was pitying.
"You won't kill either of us," the spear-brother said. "We're here for freedom. You? You're here for sport."
"I'm here for strength," Recon snapped.
The sword-brother spat on the sand. "Strength? You think killing men in a pit makes you strong?"
They lunged together—one high, one low. Steel sliced air, sand flew. Recon rolled back, drew, fired Ricochet. The arrow pinged off the wall and tore through the spear-brother's leg. He grunted, staggering but still upright.
"Lucky shot!"
"Skill," Recon hissed, already drawing again.
"Then why you here?" the sword-brother barked, blocking the next arrow with his blade. "Why fight men, beastmen, slaves? Why not go fight something real?"
The spear swept out low, grazing Recon's ribs. He stumbled back, growling. "Because beasts don't have souls! Killing them doesn't change you!"
"Neither does killing men!" the sword-brother roared, charging.
Their blades clashed, bow against steel. Recon slammed his shoulder into the man, pushing him back, then fired at point-blank range. The arrow punched through the man's arm.
He screamed, dropped his sword—but the spear-brother was already there, spinning the shaft like a storm. The tip cut deep into Recon's thigh.
He fell to one knee. Blood poured freely now, soaking the sand beneath him. His horn scraped the ground as he staggered up, breathing like a wounded bull.
"You disgust me," the sword-brother rasped, clutching his bleeding arm. "I thought rhino-kind had honor."
The spear came again. Recon caught it barehanded. Flesh split under the steel, blood dripping down his palm. He yanked hard, dragging the man forward, and headbutt—the horn cracked bone. The spearman's nose shattered with a crunch.
But before Recon could move, the sword-brother lunged, driving the blade deep into his side.
He gasped. The pain was white and endless.
He turned, staggered, grabbed at the man's wrist, but the spear came again, through his stomach this time.
He coughed blood. The sand below him turned black.
Still alive. Somehow. Still standing.
"You could've walked away," the sword-brother said. "But you came here to die for nothing."
Recon laughed weakly. "Yeah. Seems that way."
He dropped the bow. His knees hit sand. The two stood over him now—sweating, bleeding, but alive.
He stared up at them, breathing shallow. And for a moment, the noise faded. The heat vanished. The world got small—just him, the sky, and the two men ready to end him.
And then his thoughts came—soft, almost calm.
Wow. I'm really going to die. That guy's sword is about to cut my throat. That guy's gonna stab my gut .Damn. I deserve this. They're right. I came down here for strength, and I'm dying like a fool for it. I wanted to be stronger, like Himmel. Fuck Dynamo… he warned me. I blew it. Himmel's gonna be disappointed. I failed him. I used what he gave me and wasted it. Two magical flowers… gone. And Texan—damn it. He was right. I proved him right.
He smiled—weak, broken.
The sword came down. The spear followed.
One through the neck. One through the gut.
The sound wasn't sharp. It was dull. Wet. Like metal sinking into mud.
Recon's eyes stayed open for a few seconds longer, staring at nothing. Then his horn touched the ground, and the rest of him followed.
The crowd roared. They loved the kill. But not the fighter.
When it was over, the sand was dark and wet. The heat baked the smell of blood into the earth. Pit workers—three of them—entered quietly. They'd done this a hundred times.
"Big one, huh," one muttered, grabbing Recon's arm. "Yeah. Strong bastard," another replied, heaving the corpse. "Didn't die easy."
They dragged him across the arena floor, leaving a trail of red. The sand clung to him like a second skin. The crowd was already cheering for the next match.
They carried him down the tunnel, past walls slick with moisture and moss, down to the "resting room. "It wasn't really a room. Just a pit within a pit. And inside—Bodies. Dozens of them. Stacked like forgotten crates. Arms, legs, tusks, tails—all tangled. The smell was unbearable—sweet rot and iron and bile.
They dropped Recon in with the rest. His body landed with a dull, wet sound.
One worker spat. "At least he'll feed the worms."
Another shrugged, wiping his hands on his apron. "They all do."
Then they closed the gate, leaving darkness behind.
The torchlight flickered once, then died out.
And in that black silence, somewhere in the pile, the faint glimmer of a broken bow reflected the last ray of sunlight—before even that faded away.