To an outside observer, there was more to see than blood and spectacle: one could perceive the raw logic the condemned inside were trying to improvise. Each person was allowed to choose only one item — a sword, a spear, a dented shield, or a shoddy mail coat — and that turned the distribution of power into a game of chess.
Those who came from old houses didn't pick junk: they chose the best blades, the spears forged generations ago. But even then, it was only one piece. Nothing covered the nape, nothing protected the legs; every cut could be fatal, every step could be the last.
The uniqueness of that macabre dystopia, however, didn't come from the weapons. It came from her — the last to enter the arena.
The girl hadn't picked anything. No sword, no spear, not even a mesh to properly cover her body. Stripped before a world that had already punished her, she walked calmly, almost indifferently.
While the others formed a protective circle around Matilda — improvising a wall of spears and steel — she broke expectations: instead of joining the group, she walked alone toward one of the farthest gates.
At first glance, it looked like suicide. To those who understood predator and prey, it was strategy.
An old man with a white beard — scars spread across his body like maps — watched the scene, assessing it with the authority of someone who had seen entire fields burn. He commented softly:
"If I were thrown into this arena, I'd do the same."
The young ones around him frowned.
"What do you mean?"
one of them asked aloud.
The old man smiled slowly, without the slightest rush:
"The gate she chose is the farthest from the others. Monsters prefer abundance: why waste energy chasing a skeleton when there's a living banquet just a few steps away? Predators hunt where the effort pays off."
The old man tilted his chin, as if delivering the inevitable conclusion:
"That group painted a target on their own backs the moment they decided to stick together — in a cluster — giving the enemy the chance to gather and strike with multiplied force."
He paused, savoring the curious gazes around him, like someone sharing an ancient, rough secret.
"And another crucial point… A pact forged out of fear cracks the moment the blade meets the first neck."
It was a short phrase, but its effect rippled through the arena like a stone in a lake. The meaning was simple and brutal: improvised alliances, united by obligation, don't survive the first drop of blood. The moment one dies, panic spreads; the "ally" becomes prey. Chaos makes the artificial unity disappear. A desperate person is more dangerous and unpredictable than any lone monster.
Suddenly, the girl's apparent madness no longer seemed foolish. Her choice wasn't surrender: it was a gamble — to become a lone target in order to force the predators to ignore her, opting instead for the mass of warriors huddled at the center of the arena.
Of course, such a strategy assumed she'd be able to kill the creatures emerging from the single gate facing her — and, with no weapon in hand, that task seemed far more difficult than simply trusting a group united only by fear.
The mass that hadn't heard the old man's monologue didn't understand a thing; many called her crazy. But a few experienced eyes saw: in the calm of that unarmed woman there was a risky strategy — and, to some, even enviable — a precise reading of the monsters' primal animal instinct, contrasted with the psychology of human fear.
The girl did not avert her gaze from the gate rising slowly, creaking like old bones. First came a single claw, then the entire paw — enormous, grotesque, gouging deep marks into the sand as if trying to tear the world open, its nails easily larger than the girl herself.
Murmurs spread through the crowd. But the girl, serene, murmured to herself, as if reciting a lesson studied long ago:
"Krampus. Lupine creatures, bipedal… ravenous to the point of madness. They never hunt alone. Weak when isolated, but together they are a death sentence. Intelligent, cunning, cruel. They play with their prey before devouring it alive."
Her eyes, cold as blades, shimmered in the gloom. With each word, she dissected not only the enemy but also the fear hanging over the other condemned. It was as if she were writing, in her mind, the execution manual for monsters.
"Arrogant beyond measure,"
she murmured, clenching her fists,
"but they bleed like us."
The plan was already forming in her mind, rough, simple, cruel. And when the gates finally burst open, revealing three, four, five, ten Krampus — one for each gate — all eyes turned not to the Queen-Mother, not to the armed nobles… but to her.
Then, in a gesture that scandalized the arena, the girl crouched down. She squatted, arms crossed over her chest covered by messy hair, like a defenseless child waiting for a blow — a fetal position, but held upright, like a corpse refusing to fall.
"What… the hell is she doing?!"
someone shouted from the stands, between nervous laughter and whistles.
The old warrior, however, did not laugh. A crooked, almost ironic smile tugged at his white beard. He saw what the others couldn't.
"Master, what do you see that we don't?"
asked the young man beside him, suffocating with curiosity.
The old man clicked his tongue, savoring the revelation like old wine. His eyes sparkled, as if he were witnessing a masterpiece in the form of madness.
"Insight."
The entire arena held its breath when the last gate groaned and finally revealed the creature before the girl. The ground trembled beneath its weight: a colossal Krampus, nearly three meters tall. Its bony shoulders jutted out over a meter and a half, dry muscles covered by sparse, filthy fur. Its claws — so long they scraped the stone beneath the sand — gleamed like rusty iron blades.
The others had already charged — nine beasts like the one from the last gate ran like a black wave toward the circle of winged youths and their wyverns, drooling with sadistic delight at the abundant flesh and scent of panic.
But not the last one. This one sensed something different.
At the foot of the gate, there was a human. Fragile, curled up, arms covering her chest, motionless like a prey without will. An easy meal.
The monster shivered with delight. It wouldn't need to fight. Wouldn't need to compete. That meat was his — surrendered, docile. With every step, the ground shook and the audience closed their eyes, unable to watch the inevitable.
It lowered itself. The putrid stench of its breath filled the air as it stretched its head to sniff her. It wanted to savor before the first bite, to feel the panic rise from the girl's skin when their eyes met.
And that was when it sealed its doom.
With a dry, brutal crack, a spear of ice pierced the creature's mouth, shooting upward like white thunder and bursting through its skull. The body collapsed, crushing the arena's sand, while black blood gushed in waves, covering the girl entirely.
She did not flinch. Did not move. She merely raised her face slowly, now painted in scarlet and rot. Her eyes gleamed with ecstasy, and a cold, almost reverent smile formed on her lips.
"Their only weakness…"
she said, her voice slicing through the stunned silence of the arena,
"…is their own arrogance."
The crowd, which seconds earlier had mocked her, was now silent. The Krampus's giant body still twitched on the ground, but the girl didn't look at it. She stood still, savoring every drop of the bloodbath. As if the slaughter were a baptism.
And in her mind, a new idea began to sprout — dark, cruel, inevitable.
The girl sat on the soaked sand, as if the arena were her macabre throne. The still-warm body of the Krampus gave one final twitch, and thick, hot blood spurted from its open skull. She didn't hesitate: she plunged her hands in, spreading the scarlet liquid across her face and hair, painting herself entirely until not a trace of pale skin remained. Her small wyvern, still perched firmly on her shoulder, wasn't content to simply bathe — it sank its teeth into the creature's exposed brain and began to feast, ripping chunks of gray matter with repulsive cracks.
The audience shuddered. The girl — for that's what she was supposed to be — bathed in the scene as if it were a baptism of fire and blood. What should have been an act of revulsion became a ritual. With every gesture, she made it clear: innocence was gone, only survival remained.
With a sickening calm, she began ripping the beast's fingers off one by one, like someone harvesting ripe fruit. Each pop of a joint echoed through the arena.
When she was done, she held ten black, curved claws — far too large for such small hands, yet in her grip, they looked like improvised spears.
The crowd's eyes fixed on her, forgetting for a moment the massacre unfolding at the center.
And the massacre was no small thing.
The circle of nearly forty winged youths and their wyverns tore apart like soft flesh beneath a blade. The long-bearded old man had been right: the first blade had already found a neck, and the bondless pact had shattered. What followed was pure butchery.
Spears missed and pierced allies. A wyvern spat fire in the wrong spot and set three boys ablaze, who ran screaming until they collapsed. Cries of terror mixed with the sound of bones crunching beneath the Krampus' claws. Many did not die by the monsters' hands, but by the involuntary betrayal of desperate comrades.
Meanwhile, the monsters lived up to their infamous reputation. Agile, cunning, they toyed with their prey. One impaled a girl from behind and hoisted her like a banner, licking the blood as it dripped until his tongue touched her exposed spine. Another tore the arms off a boy, one at a time, just to prolong the scream before smashing his skull into the sand.
Above, the audience roared — at times excited, at times horrified. And down below, the contrast was brutal: amid the chaos of death, the only one who seemed unshaken was the girl covered in blood.
While nobles — protected by houses and titles until that day — died like cattle in a slaughterhouse, she raised her head with cold eyes. She no longer looked like a prisoner, but a predator waiting for the moment to hunt.
Of the forty-one who had entered, only eighteen were still breathing. Breathing — barely: gasping, covered in dust, sweat, and blood — not even knowing if it was their own or their fallen companions'. They had once been dukes, baronesses, children of great bourgeois houses… but now, in that arena, they were nothing but broken children: trembling bodies, teary eyes, pride reduced to dust.
The weight of shame crushed them as much as exhaustion. None of them had ever been in a real battle, but every one — without exception — had imagined glory, victory, heroic deeds. And now they knew the truth: there was nothing heroic about screaming while claws tear through your flesh; there was nothing glorious about stabbing your own ally with a spear in the chaos. There was only pain. And disgrace.
Their eyes inevitably fell on her.
The last to enter. The one who hadn't even received a pair of boots. Who had no weapons, no armor, no defense. And paradoxically, was the only one who didn't seem tired.
Sitting cross-legged on the soaked sand, still as a bloodstained statue, the girl watched the closed gate before her. Beside her lay the deformed body of the Krampus she had killed alone — coldly, without hesitation — still sprawled like a grotesque trophy. Atop the corpse, the small wyvern finished its meal, tearing apart what remained of the skull.
Suddenly, she slapped her palm on the ground. A dry, firm sound. The wyvern lifted its bloodied head and awkwardly ran to her, wings barely open, stumbling in its own haste until it settled curled around the girl's neck. No one smiled. The girl kept staring at the gate, as if she knew something worse was still to come.
The eighteen remaining instinctively moved away from one another. They had learned the hard way that staying close only brought death — friendly fire, misguided spears, uncoordinated blows. Still, even separated, their eyes burned with one conviction: they would protect the Queen-Mother to the end. It was all they had left of dignity — for themselves and their families.
And time for thought was over.
The gate's chains began to groan again, dragging like bones breaking in the silence of the arena. The wood trembled. The air grew heavier. And everyone knew that, behind that darkness, something was already salivating for their flesh.