"BLOOD NO MERCY!"
The chant echoed across the arena.
Thud.
The gate slammed shut behind us.
The colosseum felt bigger than I remembered.
A vast circle of sand stretched out before us, easily over a hundred meters in diameter.
Stone walls, colored in a brown tone, rose dozens of meters high, enclosing the arena like a fortress.
And it wasn't just one gate.
Four massive black gates were set into the walls, one in each direction, their surfaces scarred.
Above the walls, rows of stone benches climbed upward in a wide circle, layer upon layer, high enough to hold thousands.
Colorful banners hung between the rows, numbers painted boldly across them.
The betting odds.
My gaze drifted to the left side.
High above the stands was a separate structure—an enclosed room built from pale white stone instead of the brown hue of the arena walls. A large glass window reflected the light, hiding whatever lay inside.
Opposite it stood a smaller platform, also constructed from pale white stone.
At its center was a raised pedestal, and behind it loomed a tall structure hidden beneath a heavy cloth. A closed metal door stood further back.
My head tilted upwards.
The ceiling above the arena was lined with countless lightstones.
Their glow poured down on us like artificial daylight. I squinted as I tried to look directly at them.
Step.
I slowed, then stopped near the center of the arena.
My head turned back toward the other teens.
They stood scattered behind me, hesitant, uncertain, some frozen in place.
But not all.
One boy stood apart from the others.
His arms were raised in a guard position, shoulders tense, posture grounded.
I focused on the number stitched onto his shirt.
[3]
He was like me.
A survivor.
I could see it in his eyes—the sharpness, the readiness, and the absence of hesitation.
His knuckles were swollen, streaked with dried blood.
I had to watch out for him.
Step.
Step.
The sound of boots snapped my attention away.
I looked around.
Guards in black armor had appeared, circling the arena's perimeter.
They stood evenly spaced along the edge of the circle of sand.
Their armor was pitch-black. No skin was shown. Faces hidden behind helmets.
Each held a long metal spear, its tip angled upward while the butt was planted firmly in the sand. Their grips were tight—ready to strike if ordered.
Before I could finish observing them—
Thud.
A door opened.
My head snapped toward the white platform.
The door behind it had swung open.
He emerged from it.
The crowd erupted instantly.
"John! John! John!"
John walked forward at an unhurried pace, waving both hands as if greeting old friends.
Applause and cheers rolled across the arena like a tide, growing louder with each step he took.
He reached the pedestal.
And the noise faded.
John wore the same red suit as before. The same white mask, with that painted red smile, hid his face. He bowed deeply toward the crowd, then straightened.
His voice carried effortlessly across the arena.
"Welcome back to the Colosseum, my dear guests. As I mentioned yesterday, our Blooding event is in full swing."
Applause broke out again, sharp and eager, before slowly dying down.
John raised a hand.
"So I hope you will give our little lambs the encouragement they deserve. And please, don't expect too much from them—they're still a bit shy."
Laughter rippled through the stands.
Behind him, the cloth was pulled away, revealing an hourglass. Silver sand pooled at its bottom, glittering faintly under the lightstones.
Two guards flanked it, hands gripping its frame, ready to start the time.
Boom.
Drums thundered.
Boom.
John gestured toward the hourglass.
"As you already know from yesterday's appetizer, our little lambs will be granted five minutes."
He paused, lifting a single finger.
"And there is only one rule."
The finger dropped as his arms spread wide.
"Only one will survive."
Boom.
The final drumbeat echoed.
John lifted his arm high in the air.
"Let's not wait any longer. Blood!"
The crowd answered.
"NO MERCY!"
The hourglass was turned as John's arm fell.
Boom.
The timer began.
Boom.
The drums roared again as I stepped backward, eyes locked on the others.
The first to move was number 3.
Smash.
He struck the boy beside him in the back of the head with a wide, brutal swing.
Thud.
The boy fell to the floor.
He didn't move again.
The crowd exploded at once.
"Number 3!"
"I bet on you!"
"Come on! Win this!"
The other teens froze at the sight of one of them dead.
Fear spread.
Step.
I took another step back and raised my arms into a guard position.
3 moved again.
He turned toward the next closest teen and lifted his fist again, ready to strike.
The boy froze, mouth opening as panic overtook him.
"Please! We don't hav—"
Smash.
His plea was cut short when 3's fist crushed into his face.
Thud.
Blood burst from his nose as he fell, painting his face crimson.
His limbs scrambled weakly across the sand as he tried to crawl away.
But—
Number 3 was faster.
He stepped in front of him and began raining down punches, one after the other.
The boy tried to shield himself, arms raised, but it was useless.
He started to beg between his cries of pain.
"Aghh!"
Smash.
"Please!"
Smash.
"Argh!"
Smash.
"I have a family!"
Smash.
"No!"
Smash.
"Aghh!"
Smash.
Until his voice died down.
Until his body stopped moving.
No one intervened.
We all stood there.
Watching.
As the boy was killed right before our eyes.
At first, fear rooted us in place.
But then it turned into instinct.
Everyone understood the same truth at once.
Intervene—and you become the next target.
We all kept watching silently as number 3 punched the boy even after he stopped moving.
The crowd's roar faded.
Did it?
It felt more like sound itself had disappeared.
Smash.
All that remained was the wet sound of a fist meeting flesh.
Crack.
The cracking of bones.
3 struck a few more times before stopping.
His grip around the boy's neck loosened, and he slowly rose.
All eyes were on him.
His clothes were torn and disheveled.
His face and hair were colored red.
His once pale knuckles were completely soaked, blood dripping steadily from his hands and staining the sand in a murky brown.
Drip.
The sight made my stomach churn.
It reminded me of the ship.
Sob.
A soft sob broke my thoughts.
Thud.
A girl dropped to her knees soon after.
"Ahh!"
Her scream shattered the silence.
Fear turned into chaos.
Boys lunged at each other like animals.
Smash.
Number 4 hit the ground after number 26's punch.
And all hell broke loose.
There was no hesitation now.
Only madness.
Fists flew wildly at those standing close.
Step.
I took another step back, distancing myself from the others as I kept watching.
Two boys surrounded the girl with the number 11.
She didn't even have time to react before one grabbed her hair and yanked her down while the other attacked her.
"Ahhh!"
Her scream cut through the arena.
I turned my head away.
Women.
Especially, girls made my mind weak.
It made me remember the little girl on the ship.
Her screams.
Her corpse.
I couldn't help.
I couldn't watch.
So I looked elsewhere.
Most of them swung wildly at each other.
Some formed pairs out of desperation.
22 held a smaller boy's arms while 23 drove a kick into his stomach.
Bam.
Again.
Bam.
And again.
I had seen this before.
I had seen it enough times.
It was always the same.
How humans turned toward madness.
How they preyed on each other, starting with the weak.
But—
Only humans did this.
The elves watched over each other.
The beastkin stayed close together.
The dwarves even protected the weak.
But humans—
Humans gave in.
To fear.
To despair.
They clawed at each other for the smallest gain.
They turned toward madness.
A small smile crept across my lips as a nickname resurfaced in my mind.
One given to humans by the other races.
I muttered softly.
"The Race of Sin."
It fit them perfectly.