Metal scraped against metal—clang, clang, clang.
The sound echoed endlessly through the suffocating cell.
Max Tharions sat slumped against the damp wall, head bowed, eyes fixed on the cracks in the worn concrete floor.
Three days.
Three days since they'd thrown him into this hellhole—a cramped cell no bigger than twenty square meters, lit by two flickering neon lights. The stench of rust, piss, and something rotting in the corner filled every breath he took. It was torture.
"Hey."
Max didn't look up. Didn't even flinch.
"Hey, I'm talking to you."
The voice came from the man across the cell—the only other occupant besides Max. Sharp brown eyes stared at him with unsettling intensity. His black hair was streaked with gray—far too much for someone barely in his twenties. His face was a map of scars—too many, too deep—like a living battlefield.
Like Max, the man's hands were chained to the wall. Unlike Max, his mouth never stopped running.
"When someone talks to you, you answer. Basic manners." The man sneered. "Or did your parents never teach you that?"
Max stayed silent. Same as the last three days. There was no point responding—he'd learned that on day one.
The man let out an irritated grunt, then shifted to find a more comfortable position. His chains rattled, producing a metallic sound that had become all too familiar to Max's ears. A sound that reminded him freedom was something long gone from his life.
"Fifty years ago, the world collapsed."
The man's voice dropped, as if talking to himself—or maybe to the ghosts of his past.
"The plague came. Turned people into monsters. Nearly everyone died."
Max had heard this story a thousand times. Everyone alive in this era knew it—the tale of the Great Plague that destroyed the old civilization and birthed a new, crueler world. But Max never reacted to this man's rambling. He just sat there in silence, hoping the guy would get bored and shut up.
But no. For whatever reason, even though Max never responded, the man kept talking every single day.
"The survivors became Immunis. The new humans, they called them."
There was laughter at the end of his sentence—laughter that sounded like mockery, like a bitter joke only he understood.
"Stronger. Faster. Some even got freaky powers that broke the laws of nature."
The man spat on the floor, hard. Though Max had been staring down the whole time, he could see the saliva hit and bounce off the concrete—physical proof of this man's hatred for the world.
"People said it was a blessing."
His voice lowered, but emotion clung to every word.
"God gives trials, but also gives strength to endure them. That's what they said."
Suddenly, veins in his neck bulged. His face flushed red. His voice rose—nearly shouting.
"A blessing?! What blessing?!"
The man laughed—a sound that bordered on insane, full of rage that had been held back too long.
"That's not a blessing! It's a curse! God just prolonged our suffering! Gave us the plague, then pretended to help. When really His plan was simple: let humanity destroy itself!"
Behind the man's ranting, something could be heard from outside the cell.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps. Heavy. Steady. Approaching.
But the man didn't care. He leaned forward instead, eyes widening with a frightening expression. His gaze pierced Max, as if trying to read something hidden behind that empty face.
"You know why He gave us that power?"
His smile widened—an unhinged grin.
"Not to save us. But so we'd kill each other. He sits on His throne, watching the bloodshed He designed Himself. He enjoys it."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The footsteps stopped—right in front of their cell door.
Crakk... crakk...
The steel door rose with an ear-splitting screech. Light from the corridor outside flooded in, washing over the room that had only been lit by dim, pathetic neon lights.
Two men appeared in the doorway. Both wore crisp black suits, dark sunglasses, and polished shoes—they looked like high-class office workers. But their solid builds and the way they carried themselves—a military bearing that couldn't be hidden—betrayed their true nature.
These weren't ordinary guards. These were men trained to kill.
The one on the left had a long scar splitting his chin—an old wound hardened into a permanent mark. His gaze was cold, like a predator sizing up prey.
"So you're the one who made me leave my lunch."
His voice was heavy, echoing between the walls. The smile on his face twisted—full of undisguised hatred.
"Release this bastard."
His partner—the unscarred man standing on the right—moved forward with purposeful steps. His hands reached for the shackles binding Max's chains to the wall.
Clingg. Clakk.
The sound of metal striking metal echoed through the cramped cell. One by one, the restraints came off. Finally, the chains at Max's wrists were freed from the wall—though the cuffs still circled both his hands.
Max stood slowly. His legs trembled—not from fear, but because three days of barely moving had left his muscles stiff and weak. He swayed for a moment before finally finding his balance.
They walked out of the cell.
From behind him, the prisoner—that chatty bastard with the brown eyes—grinned wide.
"Heh. Let's see what you choose."
His voice sounded like a devil's whisper.
Duughh!
The steel door slammed shut with a heavy echo. Max didn't look back. No reason to.
They walked through a long, dark corridor. Neon lights overhead flickered erratically—on, off, on again—like an unstable heartbeat. Their dim glow bounced off bare concrete walls covered with graffiti and old bloodstains. The chains at Max's wrists clinked with every step—cling, clang, cling—accompanying their heavy footfalls through suffocating silence.
At the end of the corridor, an old elevator waited. Its door hung open wide, like the maw of a giant beast ready to swallow them whole. The elevator walls were riddled with rust holes, and from inside came the sound of massive chains grinding against each other.
The scarred man pressed a button. The panel displayed numbers from 1 to 1000—showing just how deep this underground prison complex went. He pressed 1.
Max didn't even know what floor they were on now. Maybe negative one hundred. Or deeper.
Crakk... crakk...
The elevator began its slow descent. Violent tremors shook the entire steel box. The rusted chains above their heads groaned like a wounded animal. The smell of old oil and corroded metal filled the air, making Max want to vomit.
Ten minutes. Ten full minutes trapped in that cramped, foul-smelling box, accompanied only by the endless screech of grinding metal.
Finally—
Ting.
The elevator door opened. And in that instant, Max was greeted by something completely different.
"OOOOHHHHH!!!"
The roar of thousands hit like a crashing tsunami. The sound was so loud, so massive, Max could feel it in his bones—a physical vibration penetrating his body. Blinding light struck his face. Fresh air—mixed with the smell of dust, smoke, and blood—assaulted his lungs, which had grown accustomed to the stale air of the underground cell.
Max squinted, trying to adjust to the brightness after three days in darkness.
And the sight that greeted him... was extraordinary.
The Arena.
A massive gladiatorial arena stretched before his eyes—a circular stadium with towering stands surrounding every side. Tens of thousands of spectators packed every corner. They screamed, jumped, threw things down, showering the arena with trash and food.
The arena's high walls were covered in wild graffiti—anarchic scrawls, symbols of long-dead rebellions, provocative phrases painted in blood-red. Dust and smoke billowed from the arena's center, creating a thin haze that made everything look like a living nightmare.
In the middle of the arena—at the center of the blood-soaked circle—stood a massive man. His body was covered in tattoos, his hair spiked like a porcupine's quills. Both his arms were encased in thick metal plating with menacing green skull graffiti. Fresh blood dripped from his body—but it wasn't his own. Around him, corpses littered the ground. Bodies that were no longer whole, with limbs scattered and blood pooling in the arena sand.
And more horrifying—among the corpses, some were still moving. The undead. Zombies. They moved slowly, stumbling, but never stopped pursuing the tattooed man.
"OOOOHHH! A DEVASTATING BLOW FROM IRON FIST!!"
The commentator's voice exploded from speakers mounted throughout the stadium. His voice dripped with excessive enthusiasm—like he was commentating a sports match, not a life-or-death battle.
BRAKK! One zombie's head exploded. Blood and chunks of flesh sprayed in all directions. The crowd roared louder—hysterical screaming that sounded like a mix of joy and madness.
"Move. Now."
The scarred guard shoved Max's back roughly, forcing him forward. Max nearly stumbled but managed to keep his balance.
They walked along a narrow path circling the upper section of the stands—a corridor separate from the regular spectators, standing higher, as if designed specifically for VIPs.
From here, Max's view was unobstructed. He could see the entire arena clearly: the dusty circle of earth, the scattered corpses, the crowd screaming like possessed people.
This was the new world. A world where death was entertainment.
The VIP corridor ended in front of a plain steel door, stark against the graffiti-stained walls and dried blood of the hallway. Two black-uniformed guards stood at its sides, hands resting at their waists, eyes sharp and alert. They nodded when the two men escorting Max approached. Without a word, the door opened.
Once the door shut behind him—Duughh—the roar of the Arena vanished. Instantly. The world contracted, leaving only Max and the sterile white corridor stretching before him.
Step by step, he descended a long flight of stairs. Four minutes passed in suffocating silence, broken only by the echo of chains and heavy footsteps.
Finally—a blinding white light appeared.
Courtroom.
At first glance, anyone would think cathedral. The high ceiling stretched toward the sky, a remnant of the world before the Plague. A large, rectangular room, pristine, cold. Dozens of eyes—officials, lawyers, witnesses, maybe reporters—immediately fixed on Max. Sharp, judging, filled with hatred.
At the far end, atop a raised podium resembling a throne, sat a middle-aged judge. His black hair streaked with gray, his maroon robe a symbol of absolute authority.
Max was forced to stand in the center, chains binding him, surrounded by the piercing stares of everyone present. Like a defendant paraded before a bloodthirsty crowd.
The judge opened a thick file, scanning it briefly before meeting Max's gaze with cold, unblinking eyes.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
The gavel struck three times, echoing through the vast room.
"Max Tharions." The judge's voice was deep, thunderous, reverberating like a storm across a dark sky.
"Under the National Criminal Code Post-Reconstruction, the defendant is charged with three primary offenses."
He glanced at his notes, then raised his voice—decisive, as if the verdict had been sealed long before this day.
"First. The defendant is found guilty of massacring forty-three government personnel—including police officers, soldiers, and civilian employees—during the riots in the Western Zone."
Whispers swept the room. Eyes glared at Max with disgust and fear. Max remained expressionless, a mask of emptiness.
But memories flickered—bright, painful flashes. Western Zone. Flames devouring old buildings. Screams of the dying. The acrid stench of gunpowder burning his throat. Blood pooling in the streets. And faces staring at him, eyes full of hope that perished in a single night.
"Second. The defendant is found guilty of slaughtering approximately one thousand people—beggars, outcasts, and residents of the Dead District."
One thousand. The number echoed like a death knell. Murmurs rose, stares sharpened like knives.
Dead District. A place even the government had abandoned. Where people died slowly, nameless, unrecorded. A place that should never have existed—yet did, because in this new world, there needed to be a dumping ground for humanity's useless remnants.
"Third." The judge paused. Silence fell—a choking, suffocating stillness, like the calm before a storm. Everyone knew, yet still wanted to hear it.
The judge stared at Max, unwavering.
"There is testimony from a witness named Ria Malvens, claiming that the defendant consumed his comrade—a woman named April, twenty-five years old—while she was still alive."
The courtroom erupted.
"WHAT?! Eaten alive?"
"He deserves to die!"
Voices overlapped, chaos threatening to consume the room. People stood, trembling fingers pointed at Max, faces flushed with rage and disgust.
Tok! Tok! Tok!
The gavel silenced the storm.
"Quiet!" The judge's voice thundered. "This court does not require your opinions! Only the verdict!"
The silence returned—tense, stretched thin, ready to snap.
The judge's gaze returned to Max, cold, emotionless—like staring at a corpse.
"Under Articles 17, 24, and 31, the defendant is guilty."
He paused deliberately, savoring the dramatic weight.
"And therefore… sentenced to death."
The words slammed through the air, crushing any remaining whispers.
The judge leaned back, continuing in a flat tone:
"As per regulations for all Class-A inmates sentenced to death, the defendant is given three options:"
He raised three skeletal fingers, thin, dry—like bones wrapped in skin.
"First. Public execution, to be carried out seven days from today."
Max remained unmoved. He wanted it over. Death. Nothing else.
"Second. Slow death in prison—without freedom, without light—until the body yields to time."
Whispers rose again, low, like the buzz of insects.
"Third." The judge lowered his voice, drawing everyone closer. Every ear strained.
"The defendant may fight for freedom."
He paused—an empty ritual before mentioning the third option, as if it were something rare.
"By entering the Arena."
The judge stared coldly at Max. Sinister. "I will not explain further. You—and everyone in this room—know exactly what that means."
Max knew.
He wasn't just a criminal. Not a mindless killer. Max had once been part of The Veil—a rebel faction, the last beacon of hope for the people. His face had been a symbol of defiance, courage.
To those sentenced to death, the third option sounded like hope. A chance. A final glimmer. But it was an illusion, a trap designed by the government.
No one ever truly won. Not for lack of strength. Some were talented—monsters in human form—who came close. But every time, the government intervened, sabotaged, crushed them at the final step.
In this world, freedom was never earned. It was permitted—and rarely granted.
Max only scoffed, cynical, staring back at the judge. The judge ignored him, standing and sweeping the room with exasperation before shouting:
"Do I need to say it again?!"
Not out of care for Max, but because forty death sentences had already been handed that day. Forty faces. Forty lives snuffed out. All a pile of bureaucratic monotony. Not guilt. Not compassion. Just exhaustion.
And now Max, once a symbol of hope, was victim number forty-one.
Max stood, chained, encircled by hatred. Twelve years of his life devoted to The Veil. Betrayed. Reviled. Yet the emptiness inside him remained. Even when April—the woman he loved, his only light—died before him, he felt nothing. Only a void, swallowing all emotion.
He sighed. Bowed his head. Stared at the floor.
Because before he stepped into this courtroom—even from the moment he was arrested—his path was already decided.
What he wanted… was death.