The noise never stopped.
It didn't rise or fall — it simply was, a living wall of sound pressing in from every side.
Sand churned beneath boots and bodies. Metal clashed against metal. Somewhere, a horn blared, long and shrill, signaling the continuation of the royal rumble.
Luke and Elias were in the thick of it.
Their armor, scavenged and uneven, was streaked with dirt and dried blood — not all of it their own. Luke's shoulder plate hung by a single strap, and Elias's gauntlet had split open along the seam. Still, they moved together, back-to-back, breathing in rhythm.
"Left," Elias barked.
Luke spun, parried a thrust, and drove his knee into the attacker's gut. The man folded, dropping his weapon. Elias snatched it up without breaking stride.
"Nice," Luke said, smirking.
"Don't talk," Elias hissed. "Breathe."
They didn't have the training the others had — no fancy forms, no rehearsed patterns. What they had was instinct and grit, born from years of ducking falling pipes and sprinting through collapsing tunnels.
The fighters around them had shine — polished armor, smooth coordination. Luke and Elias had scars and calloused hands.
But right now, it didn't matter.
The rumble was chaos.
A woman with a halberd swept past, her weapon gleaming in the artificial light. Another fighter lunged too close, and Elias drove the blunt end of his sword into his ribs. The man staggered. Luke finished him with a well-placed kick that sent him sprawling into the dust.
"Thirty left!" shouted the announcer's voice, echoing from above. "Ten down, thirty remain!"
The crowd erupted again, their cheers rippling through the arena stands. Banners waved, nobles leaned forward, gamblers shouted odds. To them, it was entertainment. To the fighters, it was survival.
Luke ducked under another swing — slower this time. His limbs felt heavy. The air was thick with sweat and sand. His breath came sharp, every inhale stinging his lungs.
He glanced at Elias. "You still good?"
"Define good."
Luke managed a weak grin. "Not dead."
"Then yeah," Elias muttered. "Still good."
They had no right to still be standing. But somehow, they were.
---
Across the arena, stronger competitors had started forming loose teams — circling weaker ones, striking together, then turning on each other once the prey fell.
Luke saw it happen — three armored figures cornered a smaller fighter, knocked him unconscious, and moved on before the body hit the sand. The efficiency was chilling.
"They're hunting," he said, teeth clenched.
Elias nodded, eyes scanning. "We'll have to be faster."
"Or invisible."
A smirk twitched at Elias's mouth. "When have we ever been that?"
"Fair point."
They shifted position, keeping to the outer edge of the chaos, where dust clouds and fallen bodies made visibility poor. They'd strike only when someone got too close, then retreat. Hit. Run. Hide.
It worked. For a while.
Twenty minutes in, Luke's body started betraying him.
The bruise from his ribs throbbed with every breath. His arms ached. His blade felt heavier by the second.
Then, out of nowhere, pain exploded across his back.
A hammer blow — not sharp, but blunt, bone-rattling. He stumbled forward, falling to one knee. His ears rang.
Elias turned instantly, catching sight of the attacker — a broad man with blackened armor and a grin that looked carved from iron.
"Get away from him!" Elias roared, charging forward. He slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, the impact echoing through the arena.
They crashed to the ground, grappling for control. Elias jammed his elbow into the man's neck, using leverage to roll clear. The hammer swung again, missing by inches, spraying sand into the air.
Luke tried to rise — but his vision doubled. His body felt distant, slow.
"Up, Luke!" Elias shouted. "Move!"
Luke forced his legs to obey. He rose unsteadily, wiped blood from his mouth, and stumbled toward Elias.
The crowd gasped as the hammer-wielder came at them both again, swinging wide.
Elias ducked low; Luke barely managed to raise his sword. The impact jolted through his arm, pain sparking like lightning.
They worked together instinctively — Elias feinting left, Luke striking right, alternating pressure until they drove the giant backward.
Then Elias saw it — an opening.
"Now!"
Luke drove his blade forward, striking the man's thigh. The blow didn't pierce fully, but it made him falter. Elias slammed his boot into the man's knee, dropping him.
Together, they struck once more.
The man fell.
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
But Luke barely heard them. His pulse roared in his ears, his breathing ragged.
"Twenty-five left!" the announcer called.
Elias leaned on his sword. "We're not… we're not dying here," he panted.
Luke laughed breathlessly. "You said that before."
"And I'll keep saying it till one of us listens."
---
They pressed on, dodging, countering, surviving.
The air grew hotter as the artificial sun above blazed brighter. The rumble had become a storm of silhouettes — fighters collapsing, dust rising, banners fluttering.
By the time the number hit twenty-three, Luke could barely lift his weapon.
His muscles screamed with each swing. His fingers trembled from the vibration of each block.
Then he made a mistake.
He hesitated.
A fighter — a woman in pale armor with twin daggers — slipped in close. One strike sliced across his shoulder. The other slammed into his side, sending him sprawling.
He gasped, clutching his ribs.
"Luke!"
Elias barreled in, parrying her next blow. Sparks flew. Their swords tangled. He shoved her back with brute force, but she moved like smoke — fast, light, relentless.
Luke tried to rise again, vision spinning. "I'm fine," he wheezed.
He wasn't.
The crowd was on their feet now, voices blending into a tidal roar.
Even those watching from the Undercity — projected holograms flickering across the walls — leaned closer.
And in one corner of the gallery, Reina sat stiff, hands clasped. She didn't move. She didn't blink. But her eyes followed every swing, every breath.
---
Back in the arena, Elias was losing ground. The dagger-fighter had cut his sleeve open, and blood slicked his forearm.
Luke staggered to his feet, raising his sword. He swung, barely catching her off balance. Elias used the moment to land a solid punch across her jaw.
She fell — but so did Luke, collapsing to his knees.
Elias knelt beside him, one hand gripping his shoulder.
"Stay with me," Elias said.
"I'm not… going anywhere," Luke murmured, forcing a grin.
"Good." Elias looked up — twenty-one fighters still stood. "One more. Just one."
But that was when the ground shifted.
A massive shadow fell across them — another fighter, easily two heads taller, his armor dented and scorched, but his eyes burning with fury. He carried no weapon now — only fists wrapped in steel.
Luke and Elias barely had time to brace.
The first punch sent Elias sprawling. The second hit Luke square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs.
He crumpled, gasping, sand in his mouth. The world blurred.
Elias lunged up again, yelling wordlessly, but the giant caught him mid-stride, slamming him to the ground.
The crowd screamed — some cheering, some pleading.
Luke crawled forward, dragging himself through the dust. His vision flickered between light and dark.
He saw Elias pinned, the man's arm raised for the final strike.
Something in him snapped.
Luke surged up with a hoarse shout, swinging his sword one last time. The blade connected — not a clean hit, but enough to make the brute grunt and falter.
Elias seized the moment, twisting free. He grabbed Luke's arm, trying to pull him back —
Too late.
The man's elbow came down hard, catching Luke across the face.
Everything went white.
Then silence.
---
When Luke came to, he was lying flat on the sand. The noise of the crowd was distant, like waves heard underwater.
Shapes moved above him — medics, guards, Elias kneeling at his side.
"You stupid bastard," Elias whispered, half laughing, half frustrated. "You really don't know when to quit."
Luke smiled weakly. "Did we win?"
Elias shook his head, chuckling through the exhaustion. "Not even close."
The announcer's voice echoed across the arena:
"And we are down to twenty! Twenty fighters remain!"
A roar rose like thunder.
Luke blinked up at the false sun, its glow washing over the field of fallen fighters. He could just make out the shape of the giant still standing — raising his fists in triumph.
And though the loss burned, Luke couldn't help but smile.
They'd made it this far. Against all odds.
He looked at Elias, still kneeling beside him, and murmured, "Next time… we don't fall first."
Elias nodded. "Next time, we don't fall at all."
The medics carried them off the field as the crowd chanted, a rumble that followed them even as the gates closed behind.