The deafening roar of the crowd was the only thing anyone could hear in the colosseum. Today was especially loud, so loud that the noise actually reached the city gates.
A young blond man bitterly cursed the circumstances that had dragged him here. Seven months ago, he'd inherited his family's estate. Where others inherited wealth, land, and security, he inherited debts. And not the respectable kind. His family had gone broke maintaining the illusion of luxury.
He'd tried paying it all back, but his debtors had run out of patience.
And so he was sold into slavery.
Something he never imagined could happen to him.
The slaver he was handed off to dabbled in every category of the trade. As his luck, or lack thereof, would have it, he was thrown into the deadliest of them all.
Combat slavery.
Men and women forced to fight and potentially die for their masters' profit. Ultimately, though, it all boiled down to entertainment for the masses.
Nobles and commoners alike gathered in droves just to watch strangers kill each other. A barbaric pastime… yet accepted and celebrated, and then they all went about their lives.
Pendrick had been fighting for a few months now, and he'd become decent enough. The other combat slaves under his master had taught him a bit, not out of kindness, but because their owner was the temperamental sort. Too many losses meant he'd torture everyone else.
Pretty stupid, really, since injured slaves couldn't fight… but no one had ever accused the man of being intelligent.
On a normal day, Pendrick could scrape by with his life.
But today wasn't normal.
Today, their master decided to "go big" and enter them into the largest tournament in the city.
The level here was far beyond anything he'd faced.
This was the kind of place where becoming a veteran was a miracle. Fighters who'd managed that legendary task tended to have had some screws loosen upstairs. Not a great environment for someone like him.
"Good people of Lukaria!"
The announcer's voice boomed all the way into the slave chambers.
"It has just been confirmed that the great Baron Fernand has granted permission for the participation of the star of the Lukan Arena, Gewalt!"
The crowd exploded in another round of cheers.
Pendrick's stomach dropped.
Yeah… today could very well be the day he died.
---
- Prestige Booth -
In an elevated booth reserved for nobles and wealthy merchants, the atmosphere shifted immediately after the announcement.
"That isn't fair, Lord Fernand."
Baron Henry Fernand sat at the front of the booth, surrounded by nobles desperate to stay in his good graces.
"With Gewalt entering, the rest of the competitors barely stand a chance."
"That's been true for the last nine years. Nothing to be done about it," another chimed in.
Their words sounded like complaints, but their tone said otherwise—they were simply making conversation.
Anyone who knew the Baron would recognise the smug glint in his eyes. Thinly disguised praise always stroked his ego.
Meanwhile, in the corners of the booth, the merchants glared from a distance. They avoided mingling with Fernand; he despised those of common birth, money or not. To him, they were forever beneath the nobility.
"Damn it! We're going to take losses again!" Gordon hissed. He was a weasel of a man, but one of the richest merchants currently present.
"We could just bet on Gewalt instead of our own fighters."
"That'll cover some losses, but if our fighters walk out half-dead, or don't walk out at all, we still have to pay for recovery or replacements."
From the centre of the merchants, a tall, imposing man had yet to speak since his arrival, beyond a few greetings. Gavis Balroc, the second-richest man in all of Lukoria. His unique amber eyes were fixed not on the arena, but on the tunnel the fighters would emerge from.
"Actually," Balroc's deep, gravelly voice broke through the merchant's chatter, silencing them at once. "There might be an upset this time."
---
- Slave Chambers -
"The draws for the first matches are complete! Participants Sabnock, Pendrick, Treno, and Doman—step into the arena!"
Pendrick flinched at hearing his name. He didn't recognise the others. For all he knew, they were seasoned killers.
Instead of heading toward the tunnel, he slipped deeper into the waiting area. His heart hammered against his ribs. He slid down against a wall, breathing hard, trying to calm himself, to absolutely no effect.
"All you have to do is live… just don't die…"
Trying to downplay the situation only made his mind focus on the details instead. His thoughts were spiralling, and he clutched his head trying to make them stop.
"Damn it…"
"Pretty scary, isn't it?"
His head snapped up.
Someone else was here?
He was sure he'd gone far enough to be alone.
"Ah… sorry to intrude."
Across the deeply secluded section of the chamber, someone sat cross-legged on one of the benches, relaxed as if they weren't here to fight for their lives. Strength and confidence radiated off him in a way Pendrick envied.
The strangest part was the helmet he wore. It was a heavy, shell-like thing with a padlock strapped under the chin.
"Okay!" the man clapped once. "Let's start over. Frid!"
"…What?"
Pendrick's pensive green eyes stared at him, thrown off.
"Frid. My name. Nice to meet you!"
He held out a hand for a handshake… from across the room.
"Pendrick…" he answered quietly.
He stood from the ground and walked over, accepting the handshake.
"So… shouldn't you be heading out there?"
The reminder punched Pendrick's nerves awake. Nausea climbed up his throat.
"It's not that easy."
He swallowed it back down, taking measured breaths to regulate himself.
"Why?"
Frid tilted his head, the tone of his voice innocent. As if he were genuinely questioning the obvious circumstances for his emotional turmoil.
"Because I'm afraid of dying, unlike some of you psychopaths in this place." The reply came out sharp, but he played his frustration down in caution of setting this stranger off and meeting his death here before he even stepped out into the field.
Frid broke out into a loud, booming laughter, as if he hadn't heard anything funnier in months.
Pendrick gritted his teeth. "What's so funny?"
"Sorry, sorry." Frid waved a hand. "It's just wild that that's your reasoning."
He reached into the eye opening of his helmet. Pendrick quickly deduced that this was his version of wiping off tears. In some way, the absurdity of it all only served to piss him off even more.
He started walking away, figuring he would rather go get it over with than sit here and be ridiculed by this weirdo.
"The guys you're matched with aren't a threat to you," Frid called out casually from behind him, across the distance he had now put between them.
"And how do you know that?"
Frid crossed his arms, and while Pendrick couldn't see his face, he felt the air around the man change.
"Because, unlike you, they rushed out into that arena without a second thought. People who don't contemplate the weight of their own lives won't get to keep them for much longer."
He stood and walked toward Pendrick, which instinctively made him take a step back. When Frid reached him, his hand dropped onto Pendrick's shoulder. The air around him eased significantly, his jovial mood returning.
"That's just how things are!" He exclaimed with the same enthusiasm from his introduction earlier.
Pendrick looked incredulously at who he believed to be the strangest man he'd ever met. Snapping back to reality, he noticed that while his body still screamed bloody panic, his mind had eased.
'Did he—?'
"Pendrick! Get out there now! They're about to call you for the third time!"
Frid lightly punched Pendrick's chest, which was actually enough to push him back a couple of steps.
"Good luck out there. Let's have more interesting conversations when you get back."
---
- Arena Floor -
As Pendrick approached the end of the tunnel, he rubbed the spot on his chest, still a little stunned by how much force had been behind that casual gesture of encouragement. He cast a glance back toward where he'd left the man.
Frid had gone out of his way to attempt to ease the nerves of a potential opponent. In places like this, that was unheard of. Competitors didn't reassure each other; they sized each other up, ignored one another, or tried to preemptively break others down just to improve their odds.
Pendrick's opinion of him had flipped completely. Just minutes ago, he'd wanted nothing more than to curse the man out. Now?
He couldn't help feeling appreciative. A small smile tugged at his lips before he even realised it.
'If I get out of this alive, I'll humour him and his "interesting conversations".'
The announcer spotted him emerging and shot him an annoyed look. Pendrick would've felt bad if he wasn't literally walking out to risk his life for other people's amusement.
"Okay… now that all the combatants are finally present, without further delay, let's get the tournament started!"
The arena exploded with noise. Screams, cheers, jeers. It all blended into a single chaotic roar.
"Kill that Pendrick guy first!"
Pendrick caught that one specifically… along with the supportive chants that followed. He sighed.
He wondered if that whole "wishes come true if you put them out into the world" thing was true. He immediately dismissed the notion, though. If that were real, he wouldn't be here at all. Also, apparently, half the audience wished he'd die, which he vehemently hoped against.
The fighters were directed to spread into the four corners of the field. Pendrick stretched his arms, rolled his shoulders, and swung his sword a few times while studying the others.
Exactly what he expected: bigger men, rougher faces. Two of them were scarred enough to look like they'd been carved out of bad decisions and close calls.
'A spearman and two swordsmen.'
His attention lingered on the least scarred one. A brown-haired man with a toned build and a longsword at his hip. Something about his handling of the weapon was off. His posture read "cocky," but Pendrick couldn't tell if it was empty arrogance or earned confidence.
Not that he had time to safely find out.
He was going in blind. No intel, no preparation. No strategy.
"That's just how things are…" he muttered, echoing Frid's words.
"Okay. Let's just… not die."
The announcer strutted back into the centre of the arena, arms wide, voice booming with showmanship.
"The preliminary round will feature matchups of four fighters—two will advance to the main tournament! This is for the sake of efficiency and, of course, the highest quality entertainment!"
He continued, lifting a finger with each point.
"Rule one: no such thing as ring outs!"
"Rule two: the fight ends when only two men are undoubtedly left standing!"
"Rule three: kill or don't kill, all up to the fighters' discretion!"
"And with that… let's have an exciting show!"
The other three exchanged glances. Then they all sprinted straight at Pendrick.
"Shit!"
Pendrick bolted out of his corner to avoid getting boxed in. Reaching the middle of the arena, he immediately found himself weaving between sword swings and lunging spear thrusts, every movement done on instinct and desperation.
He barely twisted out of the way of a sword thrust aimed straight for his face. For a moment, he locked eyes with the brown-haired swordsman, cold bronze eyes against calculating green ones, before a second blade came for his ribs and a spear swiped at his legs.
Pendrick staggered back, breaking through the chaos, retreating just far enough to force the three into each other's space. None of them could swing recklessly without risking hitting an ally.
His breaths were already ragged. Not ideal for so early into the match.
The three finally broke their tangled formation, spreading out again to circle him.
Pendrick shifted his stance, eyes darting between them, mind alert and scouring for an opening.
'If I can take one down, that significantly eases the headache…'
Then something flickered in the corner of his vision.
He turned out of impulse.
In the tunnel, behind the heavily scarred swordsman, a familiar silhouette stood. The thick, weighted helmet. And through its narrow eye opening, vivid pink eyes. They looked like they were scanning coldly, searching for something.
He snapped out of it to the sound of footsteps, fast approaching.
Pendrick's head snapped to the right just in time to see the spearman already mid-charge, his full weight behind the thrust, the spear's tip gleaming inches from Pendrick's face, about to pierce through his skull.