The coliseum managed to be, at the same time, bizarre and macabre in strangely complex intensities. This uniqueness became even more evident when one looked at the audience: men and women who faced the brutality of the arena with a mixture of fascination and horror. However, unlike other spectacles, this event was mandatory for everyone, including those who still couldn't discern what was truly happening before their eyes.
In the section reserved for students, young apprentices who dreamed of one day becoming winged ones watched in silence. For them, that scene could mean one of two things: a shock capable of crushing their ideals or a burning stimulus that would strengthen their resolve.
"Very well, children,"
the teacher's voice cut through the uncomfortable silence.
"I want you to observe this fight closely. Do not close your eyes. I repeat: do not close your eyes. Anyone who does will receive a failing mark from me. Our goal today is to take advantage of the betrayal of these failed revolutionaries to better understand some of the enemies you will face when you become winged. Now, can anyone tell me the advantages and disadvantages of fighting a troll?"
The children's wide eyes reflected complex questions, born amid the chaos of blood and death. The teacher himself, who recognized the boundless horror of the scene, knew he couldn't simply soften the truth. Still, he saw an opportunity there: to use that cruel and barbaric circus to expose the students to the true face of the dungeons and the monsters that inhabited them.
"They are extremely strong and hard to kill,"
answered a student, her voice trembling, yet firm.
"Their regeneration and petrification ability make them… almost immortal."
The creature emerging from the gate seemed to confirm every word. It was bipedal, but deformed beyond the bearable. Its proportions were so grotesque they resembled a modernist painting: nothing seemed in the right place, each detail was a misshapen error that evoked strangeness and disgust.
The teacher gave a satisfied smile.
"Very good… I expected nothing less from my favorite student."
He looked again at the monster, now taking a few steps out of the shadow.
"But of course, these creatures are not immortal. For any adult wyvern and its rider, a troll would be nothing more than a grotesque, exotic feast. However… for new riders, facing them can be a real headache."
He raised a finger, pointing to one of the nearest gates.
"Observe Noah Hohenstaufen."
A nearly anxious gleam crossed his eyes.
"He will probably show us something worth noting."
Everyone shared the same curiosity: to see how the great families fought. The great families were known for their overwhelming strength and for feats that had shaped the Empire, but they had always remained secretive about their own abilities. They rarely accepted incursions alongside lesser families; they preferred to act among themselves or in tandem with other great houses, always ensuring that their secrets remained hidden.
The chance to witness the firstborn — one who had most likely grown up immersed in the art of war and how to win it — was too exciting to ignore. Even the teacher, who used the fight as a pedagogical justification, was more interested in absorbing the secrets that might be revealed than in fulfilling his role as an educator. He wasn't the only one: the entire audience seemed entranced, attentive to the strategies the great families might expose before an enemy that, alone, was already feared like a fortress.
The surprise, however, came when it became clear the families had opted for an unusual approach. Well… not so unusual. After all, the commoner who entered last had already applied a similar tactic in the previous round.
"They're going to split up… but that's not stupidity,"
murmured someone among the instructors.
The crowd looked on in confusion. In front of the gates, there were now formations of two combatants positioning themselves to block the exit of the giant beast.
"Are you crazy?"
shouted a man from the stands, drawing nods of agreement from many others.
The crowd, in its ignorance, could not understand. That privilege was reserved only for those who knew the art of war — and, above all, the nature of trolls. A single one was already considered a formidable enemy. In a group, they were the embodiment of catastrophe. And still, it was surprising to see high-ranking nobles lowering themselves to study combat strategies against "simple" creatures. After all, it was rare for these aristocrats to descend into the central dungeons and even rarer for them to protect the people of the outskirts from the horrors that emerged from the forest where many hidden dungeons expelled such creatures. The stigma they carried was one of arrogance and indifference. However, the posture of young Noah Hohenstaufen revealed something different: a deeper and more pragmatic understanding, capable of adding new layers to those who, until then, seemed untouchable on their pedestals.
On the other side of the stands, far from the children and their instructors, a young man sought from his master the ultimate guidance. After all, the bearded man rarely erred in his predictions and displayed such deep technical knowledge of what was happening that, at times, he seemed almost sentient.
"It's about to start… Master, who should I watch?"
The boy awaited the guidance, but the bearded man took a while to respond. His distant gaze reflected the weight of doubt — as if he were calculating a chess move on a board with too many pieces and too little time. The pupil longed for clarity; the master, however, seemed more contemplative than ever.
After an eternity of silence, the elder finally spoke, his voice laden with hesitation:
"If you wish to learn the hidden forms of the great arts from the Empire's highest houses, watch the Hohenstaufen firstborn, Noah. But if you're looking to understand the arts of synchronicity and deep group combat harmony, pay attention to the Hohenzollern twins. For a basic but extremely precise and flawless fight, almost theoretical, I recommend the young girl from the Nassau family. But…"
His voice faltered, as if the next sentence weighed more than all the previous ones. He took a deep breath before concluding:
"If you want to learn how to face horrors you've never seen… and how to use every low and crooked trick to win while being weaker than your opponent… watch the commoner."
The revelation struck like thunder. Not just for the pupil, who stared at him open-mouthed, but also for many others who, silently, pretended not to be listening and yet absorbed every word from the elder.
"But… wasn't it just luck?"
the boy insisted, as if he needed to pull the truth from his master's throat.
The old man scratched his heavy beard and replied with a resigned sigh:
"That is my opinion. But honestly… I would prefer if you settled for Noah Hohenstaufen."
The creatures emerged into the arena still confused by the situation. They had never seen so much "food" gathered in one place — and in their bestial ignorance, they even seemed happy. They lingered, trying to understand the environment, hesitant like predators drunk on abundance. But this game changed quickly.
It was common that, when faced with terror, many would freeze. Even in nature, some prey chose surrender, allowing themselves to be devoured alive rather than fight. Now, everyone in the coliseum watched in anticipation: who would be the first to understand that there would be no cavalry, no shelter? That the only way out was fierce, savage, relentless combat?
The surprise wasn't who acted first — but how fast. As soon as one of the creatures leaned out from the farthest gate, something black and sharp flew toward it, piercing both its eyes at once.
"So she had a plan…"
murmured the old bearded man, recalling the earlier scene.
He still wondered why the girl's first action, after defeating the lupine, had been to tear off its fingers with those long claws, almost like giant skewers. Now he understood the trick. She hadn't given the troll a chance: hadn't waited for it to get its bearings, hadn't allowed it to catch the scent of prey or get a feel for the terrain. She left it blind before it even knew where it was.
The deafening roar echoed, and immediately the other creatures understood: there would be no easy feast. Every piece of flesh would have to be earned through battle and blood.
As the members of the great families advanced, others hesitated, trying to reason how to bring down something so colossal. For them, death came swiftly. One was grabbed and had his head crushed like a ripe fruit in the creature's mouth, grotesquely human teeth grinding bone. Another was eviscerated; others were torn apart or smashed. Trolls were creative in their cruelty: the method didn't matter — only satisfying their hunger.
"And now… what will you do?"
the old man whispered, following the girl.
She seemed to know exactly. After blinding the creature, she attacked its leg, conjuring an ice spear that drove straight into its knee. The monster toppled, screaming in pain, only to be surprised by another ice spike aimed at its ear. As a reflex, it wrapped itself in hardening magic, turning almost to stone, while ripping the spear from its eyes and relying on its monstrous regeneration.
But the girl didn't back down. She jumped, and at that exact moment her wyvern beat its wings once, lifting her into the air. Together, they soared up to the troll's face level. The synergy between rider and mount seemed impossible — while everyone else fought with honor or strategic exhaustion, she attacked in a dirty, desperate, cruel way.
She then conjured an ice hammer, which came crashing down on the creature's head. The impact made the brain slosh inside the skull like shaken pulp. The troll, stunned, tried to grab her; its eyes smoked as regeneration struggled to restore the impossible. But it was pierced again. Desperate, it stumbled back — only to step on another spear, precisely positioned, that drove through its foot and unleashed a scream so sharp it seemed to crack the arena itself.
Meanwhile, the families finished their fights using predictable methods. Noah, with his cutting blade; the Hohenzollern twins, with their synchronized spears; even the young Nassau. All, in the end, chose the same conclusion: separate the trolls' heads. They won, yes, but in a nearly anticlimactic way.
No battle, however, compared to hers. The commoner had no ancestral sword, no refined art, no methodical strategy. She fought dirty. She threw sand in their eyes, pierced vulnerable points, used the lupine's corpse as a distraction, created improvised traps, struck cruel spots. She even ripped off the creature's genitals and, in an abominable gesture, tried to impale it with its own severed member while the troll, helpless, still struggled to regenerate.
Even the cruelest in the crowd — accustomed to the arena's violence — felt something unusual and uncomfortable. For the first time, in the face of that massacre, many felt a strange and unexpected sensation.
Pity.
Of the eighteen initial warriors, only six remained. Even so, that number was surprising: after all, the enemies were trolls — creatures capable of destroying entire villages. But considering who the competitors were, it made sense.
Winged warriors, even the youngest ones, were strong beyond measure. Their magic, deeply linked to the lineage of their wyverns, made them exceptionally dangerous. They were children, yes — but that was far from meaning weakness. They were the Empire's elite, and they earned the name they carried.
In the arenas, it was common that after magical feats, displays of strength, or unlikely survival, certain warriors would receive nicknames that honored them — titles that turned them, in the crowd's eyes, into almost mythical beings. To earn such an honor, however, required repetition, grand feats in multiple battles. Yet, amid the horror still unfolding, a name was already beginning to take shape for the girl who refused to deliver the final blow to her enemy.
"Holda's not going to kill that creature, ever?"
someone in the stands asked.
The name Holda wasn't common in the Empire. It carried a singular and sinister weight. Holda had been one of the most feared mages of ages past: a powerful witch who, for years — even before the alliance with the Benefactors — had shown kindness to her people, but unmeasured cruelty toward invaders. A spectral, symbolic name… and now, the only one capable of describing the young woman torturing the troll.
The monster screamed, wept, while its eyes were destroyed and its limbs nearly severed by a massive ice axe — a weapon that seemed to ignore the creature's stony hardness entirely. She had the ability to kill it right there, with no effort. And yet, she didn't. She let the limbs regenerate… only to chop them off again.
"Is she… intelligent?"
the old man murmured.
The elder stroked his beard with renewed interest. Until then, he had tried to decipher in her actions something more than simple madness. It took him several long minutes, but he was finally beginning to understand.
"Master, what happened? Why did you say that lunatic is intelligent?"
the young man beside him insisted.
The boy wasn't alone: everyone around shared the same confusion. To them, the girl seemed to lack honor. She gave the creature no chance to defend itself. Worse: she appeared to take pleasure in the pain she inflicted. In the public's eyes, with each second she delayed ending the troll's suffering, she lost her shine. It was a dangerous game, because everyone knew that, in the arena, being the center of attention brought inestimable benefits — including the chance to stay alive. Going against the Empire's principles and against the crowd's opinion in the arena, however, was like signing one's own death sentence.
The master then asked a simple, yet heavy question:
"What would you do if you were exhausted… and knew more enemies would appear the moment you brought down the last one standing before your sword?"
The boy blinked, as if the answer exploded in his mind. His eyes lit up with sudden understanding.
"I would prolong the fight as much as possible… to rest enough before the next one."
The old man smiled. A tired, but satisfied smile.
"That, my boy, is the cunning of the wicked… in its purest form."