[The Waiting Room – The Grand Arena]
Prince Cyril departed, leaving behind the lingering, cold scent of his perfume—and with it, a silent terror that settled into the features of every fighter. I sat in my place, gripping the hilt of my blade, and turned to the man sitting beside me. He looked like a veteran of these pits; his body was a map of scars, yet his eyes were clouded with hesitation.
"You..." I said in a low voice. "What is this 'Law' that everyone speaks of?"
The man looked at me with genuine astonishment, as if I had asked about the color of the sun. "You really are new here, aren't you?" He sighed bitterly and extended a hand. "My name is Kyle. And you?"
"Ray," I replied.
"Listen well, Ray," Kyle said, leaning in closer so no one else could overhear. "The Law is simple, yet horrifying: First, it is strictly forbidden to scratch any 'Noble Blood.' If you cause a single drop of blood to fall from a member of the Royal Family or their inner guard, you and everyone connected to you will be erased from existence. Second, never raise your eyes toward the Royal Box above. You are permitted to look only at the dirt and the blood. If you look at the Kings, you are considering yourself their equal... and the punishment is the immediate gouging of your eyes."
I smiled coldly, feeling the heat of my eyes stir in their sockets. "Interesting laws. Has anyone ever broken them?"
Kyle's expression shifted; a deep sorrow settled in his voice. "No one has dared... except for one man, five years ago. It was a legendary clash between Valerius, the 'Hero of Draka' backed by the nobles, and Oraks, the 'Master of Mercenaries.' Oraks was a former slave who carved his path through blood until he became a leader feared by all. But in their eyes, he remained nothing more than 'Filthy Blood'."
Kyle continued, his eyes gleaming with the memory of the fight. "The arena was packed with thousands. The duel began, and Oraks was clearly superior. In a decisive moment, Oraks plunged his blade into the Hero's stomach, leaving him bleeding before everyone. At that moment, the King's eldest son, Lord Darin, stood from his royal seat. He could not bear to see one of his lineage humiliated and bled out by a slave."
"Darin ordered the fight to stop immediately," Kyle followed with suppressed rage. "Oraks could not stomach the injustice. He raised his head in hatred and looked directly into Darin's eyes in the Royal Balcony, screaming at the top of his lungs: 'Where is the justice?! I won with honor!'. Darin's fury ignited. A few days later, we found Oraks' decapitated body in the arena. Valerius, the 'Hero of Draka,' was declared the winner of the tournament on the pretext that his opponent had broken the Law. Everyone knows Oraks was the true champion, but power is what writes history."
Kyle went silent for a moment, then looked at me seriously. "So be careful, Ray. Do not raise your head, and do not touch your masters."
I stood up slowly, my massive frame casting a long shadow across the room. I adjusted my black scarf, feeling the power of "The Wraith" surging through my veins. I looked toward the corridor leading to the arena, where the crowd and the Kings awaited.
"I will make the Kingdom see today," I whispered to myself, a smile never leaving my face. "What it truly means... to break a Royal Law."
[The Grand Arena of Draka – Dark Waiting Corridors]
The stone corridors beneath the stands were like the intestines of a giant beast—cold, damp, and reeking of curdled fear. The light from the torches on the walls flickered with every roar from the crowd above, as if the stones themselves trembled at human madness. I sat in my spot, my large frame occupying most of the rickety wooden bench that groaned under my weight. I was cleaning my heavy blade with a tattered rag; the sound of metal friction was the only rhythm to counter the noise of the outside world.
Beside me, Kyle looked different. He wasn't the veteran fighter who had lectured me on the laws moments ago; he looked like a man trying to cling to every shred of hope left in his soul. He tightened the strap of his leather armor for the tenth time, then turned to me suddenly.
"You know, Ray..." Kyle said in a low voice, a raspiness in his throat I hadn't noticed before. "I really, really hope to win this cursed competition."
I didn't answer. I kept my grip on my blade, my eyes focused on the sharpness of the steel. In my world, wishing is the first step toward falling, and words do not protect necks from swords.
Kyle smiled a pale smile, as if reading my silence. "I know what you're thinking... 'This fool talks of winning.' But think about it—1,000 gold coins! That amount isn't just gold to me. It's a ticket out. I'll take my family far away from this filthy pit. We'll live in the best part of the Green Suburbs, far from the smell of dragons and blood."
He paused, his eyes shining with a strange spark, a glint I didn't see in the eyes of the killers I met every night. "My little daughter... I promised her. She dreamed of a certain dress—a silk dress she saw in a noble's shop window. She talked about it for months. I will buy it for her, Ray. I will see that smile on her face, and that is enough for me to face any monster in this arena."
Then Kyle went silent, looking at me intently, as if trying to pierce through the black scarf covering my features. "What about you, Ray? What is your dream? What drives someone like you, with all this power and coldness, to enter this slaughterhouse?"
"My dream?" I muttered the word as if it were a foreign language I hadn't heard in centuries.
At that moment, my hand stopped cleaning the blade. I dove into the depths of my consciousness. What was my goal? Revenge? Power? Mere survival? I remembered the "Internal Slaughterhouse"; I remembered the pain I felt as I rewired my own nerves. Does a monster dream? Does a weapon dream? I felt a heat stir in my sockets, as if laughing at Kyle's question. I found no answer. I was a void searching for a justification for its existence.
But before I could utter a word, the sound of massive brass horns blared from outside, tearing through the silence and cutting my train of thought. The ground shook beneath us, and the voice of the magical announcer began to fill the air with hysterical excitement:
"O great people of Draka! Children of dragons and heroes! Today, the sands are hungry, and the swords are thirsty! Welcome the victims... pardon me, the heroes of the opening round!"
[The Battlefield – Scorching Sands]
The giant door swung open, and two fighters representing the bottom of Draka's combat chain entered. The names they had chosen for themselves reflected their desperate desire for attention, even if they were foolish and laughable.
"On the right... the fighter who crawls like a disaster... The Rust Snail!" "And on the left... he who rages like an expired storm... The Thunder Onion!"
The stands erupted in laughter mixed with cheering. The "Rust Snail" was a short man wearing metal armor so heavy it made him move with a comical slowness, while the "Thunder Onion" was very thin, wearing a bright green robe and carrying a longsword that seemed beyond his capacity to hold.
The fight began. The start was bizarre; "Thunder Onion" began jumping randomly around his opponent, trying to show off phantom skills, while "Rust Snail" huddled inside his armor, waiting for an opportunity. The crowd was screaming: "Slaughter him! We want blood!"
Suddenly, the mockery turned into a horrifying reality. "Thunder Onion" lunged with a reckless attack, but his long blade got stuck in a gap in the "Rust Snail's" armor. The Snail exploited this moment, and with a sudden move, pulled a short dagger from beneath his plate.
Slice!
It wasn't a stab to the heart, but to the thigh. "Thunder Onion" let out a scream that tore through the arena's silence for a moment before he fell to his knees. Here, the laughter stopped. The crowd's eyes turned into those of hungry beasts. "Rust Snail" showed no mercy; he approached slowly and, with all his might, slammed his armored hand into his opponent's face until his nose shattered.
The duel ended when "Rust Snail" plunged his dagger into the neck of the "Thunder Onion." Blood flowed profusely onto the yellow sand, and the stands shook with victory cries. "Rust Snail" stood raising his blood-stained hand, ignoring his opponent's body, which was still twitching involuntarily.
To me, this wasn't a fight; it was merely a show for butchers.
[The Waiting Room – Return to Silence]
"Rust Snail" returned to the corridor panting, gold gleaming in his eyes more than victory. He looked at us with arrogance, but as soon as his eyes met mine, his head dropped instinctively, and he hurried past as if fleeing a predator.
A heavy silence reigned in the room once more. The remaining fighters looked at the ground, imagining their fate. Kyle was breathing deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. I looked at him and said in a low voice: "Don't look at your opponent. Look only at the path of his blade."
Kyle nodded, but his features suggested he was in another world.
Suddenly, the cheering outside died down, replaced by a different kind of noise—a clamor filled with profound respect and fear. The announcer's voice returned, but this time with a sharper, more serious tone:
"And now... ladies and gentlemen... prepare for the duel you have been waiting for! The duel that will show us the difference between a fighter... and Death Incarnate!"
My heart began to beat strongly—not from fear, but from anticipation.
"In the first corner... the man who has survived hundreds of battles... Kyle!"
Kyle stood up. He pulled himself from the bench as if dragging mountains behind him. He looked at me; his eyes held an unvoiced farewell. "It seems my time has come, Ray..." he whispered bitterly.
The announcer finished with a voice that shook the arena: "And against him... from the Elite Squad... he who dwells in shadows and guards the throne... THE SURA GUARD!"
[The Decisive Moment]
The arena exploded in cheering so loud I felt the ground vibrate under my feet. This wasn't ordinary cheering; it was a collective scream of the title "Sura."
The Sura Guard entered from the opposite gate. He wasn't running; he walked with measured steps that made no sound on the sand. His black armor reflected the sunlight in a way that made him look like a black hole in the middle of the arena. He drew his long blade—the famous Sura Blade—slowly, and the sound of metal sliding against the scabbard was enough to make the hair on any fighter's neck stand up.
Kyle stood on the opposite side, looking very small against the Guard's terrifying aura. He gripped his sword tightly and turned toward the dark corridor where I stood in the shadows.
"Ray..." Kyle said in a voice audible only to me, a voice that trembled but was full of determination. "Wish me luck... I might need more than just skill today for someone to get their dress."
I didn't answer with words. I simply nodded, and I felt that strange energy in my eyes ignite with a faint red flicker. I knew, he knew, and the crowd knew... this was not a match. This was a public execution ceremony for a soul that dared to dream in a world that hated dreams.
Kyle walked toward the sands, and the iron door began to close slowly behind him, isolating him in the arena of death with that black monster, while I remained in the darkness, waiting to see... can dreams withstand the blade?