The door clicked shut behind the beastkin.
Silence filled the room again, but it wasn't peaceful.
It pressed down heavy, like the air itself knew something had shifted. Waiting, holding its breath.
Seventeen sat there for a while, eyes fixed on the floor. His thoughts twisted in circles he couldn't stop.
Property.
The word kept echoing.
Louder each time.
He could almost feel it. It was like a mark burned into him that no amount of washing could remove.
Even his skin didn't feel like it belonged to him anymore.
Owned.
Traded.
Signed over.
First Boarn.
Now Myers.
Different hands. Same leash.
He didn't even know when the exchange had happened.
When did Myers speak to this "Magnus"?
When did someone decide his life could be passed around, bought, or bargained for without even asking him?
Boarn's words clawed at the back of his head: I decide where he rots.
And the worst part was that he wasn't wrong.
They really could decide. Every breath he took felt borrowed from someone else's permission.
Where he slept.
What he ate.
If he fought.
If he lived.
He pressed a hand against his chest where the false core should have been.
There was nothing.
No pulse.
No hum.
No throb.
Just skin and bone and the faint memory of warmth that might've only been imagined.
Myers was humming again, quietly to himself, pulling drawers open and muttering about "notes" and "tests," as if nothing had happened.
Then came the knock.
Three hard hits on the metal door.
Myers sighed, tilting his bucketed head back.
"By the Redeemer… why is everyone knocking on my door today?"
The handle creaked.
A guard stepped inside his armor dull voice flat.
"Orders from the pits," the guard grunted. "The boy's match is up. Now."
Seventeen's breath caught.
"Already?" Myers asked, irritation cutting through his tone. "Boarn just left," he mumbled to himself in irritation.
"Left word before he did," the guard replied. "Said the fighter's already signed in. Once the name's on the roster, there's no backing out."
The words dropped like stones in Seventeen's stomach.
The guard looked at Myers. "You're his handler now, right?"
Myers didn't answer for a moment. The bucket tilted, faint blue light catching its rim.
"Apparently."
The guard nodded once. "Then get him ready. The next bell rings in five."
He left the door half open as he walked away.
Seventeen stared at the empty doorway, the sound of retreating boots fading into the distance.
Myers stood still for a long moment before finally turning back to him.
"Well," he said, voice calm and distant. "Looks like it's time for your debut. Undying Seventeen."
Seventeen sat frozen, staring at the empty doorway, the guards footsteps and shouts shrinking into a distant echo. The sound thinned and went hollow until all he could hear was his own pulse. He drifted, gone from the moment, until a sharp smack on his shoulder pulled him back. He turned his head and realized Myers used his mana to smack him.
"You all right, boy? You can't be zoning out before a fight. You'll get killed. Come on, we'll talk on the way," Myers said, half scold, half command. He turned and walked to the door, waiting without looking back. The door opened, spilling orange light into the dim room. Dust drifted through it like slow moving sparks as Seventeen stood and followed.
The corridor opened out the same way it had the night Boarn dragged him through it. Dark stone pavers ran underfoot, worn smooth in the center where a thousand boots had passed. The walls rose on either side, sweating with heat. Orange lights flickered along them, their flames trembling and casting long, biting shadows.
A metal click echoed behind them as the door shut. Myers walked with steady purpose, his bare chest tight with a quietness Seventeen couldn't read. The corridor felt alive, the sound of distant roars like a far off animal waiting to be fed.
"All right, boy, let's go. We can't be late or they'll throw something worse in with you to satisfy the crowd and make your fight even more glorious," Myers said, the last words threaded with mockery that didn't hide the seriousness beneath them.
They continued to walk for a bit letting the low rumble of the arena slowly get louder until Myers disrupted the silence.
"If it starts to hurt, don't fight it. That means it's reacting. Don't run from it. Study it. Learn the rhythm, not the pain."
He glanced at Seventeen, voice taking on that cold teaching tone again.
"Fear is the only thing honest down there. It tells you where to move, when to stop, what's real. Listen to it, but don't let it make your choices."
He paused, the faint hum of the runes filling the silence between his words.
"Out there, no one will give you mercy. You take it, or you die waiting for it. And if you're lucky enough to take it…" He tilted his head slightly. "Pay attention to what it costs you. Everything alive pays for something. Mana. Breath. Blood. You'll learn soon enough what you're worth."
He started walking again, one hand reaching for the door handle.
"If it moves inside you," he said quietly, "let it. Follow it. Chase it until you understand what it wants."
Then he stopped, letting the silence stretch.
"I don't care how you do it. Just stay alive long enough for me to find out what you really are."
The door creaked open. The sound of echoing steps and distant voices spilled through the gap.
With every step, the corridor widened and the walls stretched farther apart. The ceiling rose until the torchlight barely reached the top. The air was cold at first, sharp against his skin, but the deeper they went, the faster it changed. The chill began to fade, replaced by a growing heat that pressed against his bare chest. His breathing grew heavier, the heat crawling up his skin until even his sweat felt warm.
He glanced down. His skin was marked with faint lines from the restraints. His arms still trembled faintly. His chest was bare, his ribs visible in the dim light. At least the pants Myers had given him were new. They were coarse, rough, but not torn. His feet were still bare, toes scraping against the rough stone floor. Each step felt real, alive, heavy.
Myers walked ahead, his steps steady and deliberate. The faint glow from the runes on his coat brushed across the walls as he moved. The air grew thick, tasting faintly of dust, sweat, and the metallic sting of blood. The dull hum beneath the ground turned into a trembling vibration that crawled up Seventeen's legs and into his stomach.
The rumbling deepened. It became a rhythm.
The sound of the crowd.
The corridor opened wider, and the flickering lights began to pulse in time with the noise. It grew louder, harder, until the floor itself seemed to shake beneath their feet. Myers reached the end first and grabbed the handle of the large iron door.
He turned it.
The door creaked open. For a brief moment, everything went still.
Then the sound hit.
A deep, rolling thunder of voices that shook the air.
Heat rushed out to meet him. The scent of sweat, metal, and stale drink stung his nose. Myers walked forward first, and Seventeen followed, stepping out from the stone corridor onto the warped wooden planks of the spectator floor.
The boards groaned beneath his bare feet. Dirt and sawdust filled the cracks, and in some places, the floor was sticky with spilled ale and other fluids he didn't care to name. Each step pulled slightly, the floor sticky as if the place itself didn't want to let him go.
The noise around him swelled.
Roaring.
Cheering.
Screaming.
The arena stretched open before him. A wide pit carved deep into the ground, ringed with jagged stone. The stone seats overflowed with people pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked onto him. The sound wasn't just loud. It was alive.
This time, they weren't yelling for anyone else.
They were yelling for him.
"SEVENTEEN! SEVENTEEN!"
"RIP ITS THROAT OUT!"
"GLORY! GLORY!"
"FEED HIM TO THE PITS"
"I HOPE IT RIPS HIS ARMS OFF!"
Some shouted his name like they worshipped it.
Others spat it like a curse.
Most didn't even care. They just wanted blood.
He hated it.
The noise dug under his skin.
It wasn't celebration.
It was hunger.
Every scream a mouth ready to devour him.
He took another step forward and noticed a narrow gap to his left. It was a spiral stairwell that coiled downward into the pit. The wood around it was darker, warped by years of footsteps and blood. He knew what it meant. That was the only way down.
The spiral felt endless, leading deeper into the dark. A single path, winding and closing tighter the farther it went. No branches. No other choices. Only descent.
He looked away.
He stepped forward until the railing rose before him, the edge of the pit stretching out like a mouth below. He placed his hands on the cold metal and gripped hard. His fingers clenched until his knuckles turned white.
He knew what waited down there.
A fight to the death.
Not for victory.
Not for money.
Not for glory.
Just for permission to keep breathing a little while longer.
He tightened his grip. His shoulders shook. Every part of him screamed to hold on. But his body wasn't afraid of the fall. It was afraid of the choice.
He remembered what Myers had told him.
There's no mercy here. You take it, or you die waiting for it.
He swallowed. The taste of iron was still on his tongue.
Be careful of what it costs you, Myers had said.
He thought about that.
He had nothing to begin with. So there was nothing left to lose.
If the world was going to take everything from him, then this jump would be the only thing he chose for himself.
He pressed his bare feet onto the railing. The cold metal stung his soles. His hands refused to let go. His body trembled, trapped between instinct, fear, and resolve.
He took one deep breath.
Then another.
With a shout that tore his throat raw, he pushed.
His legs strained, muscles locking, every fiber of him forcing upward. The scream broke out of him. Not of fear, not of defiance, just pure release. His feet overpowered his arms, and his hands finally broke free from his own grasp.
He threw himself forward.
The roar of the crowd followed him down as he fell into the pit.
Only this time, by his own will.