Thud.
The iron gate closed as we walked down the corridor toward the cell.
Step.
A guard walked beside me.
Step.
Our steps echoed steadily across the stone floor.
My body felt sluggish and worn down from the battle.
A tremor spread through my hands after taking someone's life.
I don't know if I will ever get used to the feeling.
It's their eyes.
I've always watched people's eyes—whether in this world or the last.
You can perceive most emotions simply by watching their eyes.
Where they look.
How they look.
If their pupils widen or shrink.
If they tremble or stay still.
And it's even worse in their last moments.
Before their lives end.
The tremble of their irises.
The way their eyes widen just slightly.
You can almost see the fear as it devours them.
I hate it.
Taking someone else's life—even if they killed before. Even if they succumbed to madness.
It's all under the influence of this sickening game.
Of what they call entertainment.
Innocent children taken from their homes and thrown into an unknown environment, forced to kill each other just to survive.
No one should ever experience something like this.
But even worse than death itself—
Was being the only survivor.
Knowing the reason you stand and breathe is because another gave their life.
The guilt that clings to you.
It will stay.
Their faces resurface in your head.
Their voices and expressions.
The way they died.
The feeling of flesh against flesh as their resistance fades.
Their bodies turning cold.
Things like that can't be forgotten.
You will remember them.
Even if you don't want to.
Step.
The guard's abrupt halt brought me back to reality.
We stood in front of the cell as he searched in his pockets for the key.
The adrenaline from the fight had settled, and I felt the pain more clearly now.
I didn't have many injuries.
Just one.
I looked down at my right arm.
My sleeve was torn, hanging loosely, and a deep wound peeked out between the torn fabric; blood covered my skin.
The pain wasn't the real problem.
I had already adapted to it.
It only stung.
But the wound was deep.
Blood still gushed out of it.
I had even reinforced my arm with mana, but he still bit through it.
Did he reinforce his jaw?
Is that even possible?
I shook my head.
It didn't matter.
That wasn't important now.
What mattered was stopping the bleeding.
I needed to cover it before it became infected.
The guard inserted the key into the lock.
Click.
He opened the door and held it in place.
"Enter."
I paused for a moment, then lifted my injured arm slightly.
"Sir… can I get a bandage?"
Silence.
He watched me for a moment, his gaze shifting between my arm and face, before his lips curved into a smirk and laughed.
"Do you want us to bring you a personal healer as well, boy?"
Step.
He didn't wait for an answer and stepped forward, grabbed my neck, before shoving me inside.
Thud.
I hit the floor, and the door slammed shut behind me.
He spoke once more before leaving.
"Heal. Or just die tomorrow. It does not matter to us."
I placed my hands on the ground and pushed myself up.
'He could have just said no.'
Now standing, I felt their gazes on me.
The other teens watched me with wide eyes.
The reason?
I was the only one who returned.
My clothes were tattered, and my skin covered by blood.
They were clearly scared of wherever I went and what I did there.
I didn't spare them a glance, and none of them were confident enough to approach me.
I walked straight to the bed, climbed up, and sat down.
Only then could I finally rest.
The fight had been short but draining.
Fighting for your life—even for just five minutes—wears down both body and mind.
Drip.
Blood fell from my arm onto the floor.
'I need something to bandage it.'
But before that…
My head turned toward the stone wall.
Fifteen numbers were already written on it in red.
I shifted my legs, turning fully toward it. With my left hand, I brushed across the wound and let my fingers soak in the blood.
Then I began to write.
[32]
[41]
[11]
[...]
My fingers moved across the stone, drawing thin red lines until I wrote the final number.
[3]
Fifteen new numbers were added to the wall.
The red from yesterday had already darkened into a murky brown, and the fresh ones shone in a deep crimson.
'Thirty...'
It had cost thirty lives for me to survive.
And I already knew the number would only grow larger and larger.
'Will it be fifteen more tomorrow?'
My eyes remained fixed on the wall as memories resurfaced.
The first person I killed.
Number 14.
I twisted his neck.
The second was 32.
I smashed his head.
The third was 41.
A kick to his skull.
The fourth was 3.
I broke his neck.
Then came the memories of the others.
Their frightened faces when we entered.
Their lifeless bodies when I left.
My hand brushed lightly over the wall.
'I will remember.'
A soft voice came from behind me.
"What are you doing?"
My hand paused midair before dropping, and I turned my head.
She stood there with her small hands resting on my mattress.
Number 30.
Her black hair was disheveled from lying down, and her brown eyes widened as she looked at the wall behind me.
She spoke again before I could reply.
"These numbers… are they… us?"
Her voice was innocent, curious.
It baffled me for a moment.
Why would a girl like her talk to someone like me?
My clothes were torn and stained with blood.
My hands and face were colored red.
I didn't even want to look at myself.
Yet she still approached me.
She even gave me her portion of the food.
So I did something I hadn't done in months.
I spoke, answering her question.
"No. They are the numbers of those who died with me in the arena."
She tilted her head in confusion.
"Arena?"
I felt the others' eyes shift toward us, but I ignored them and explained to her.
"It's the reason we're here. To fight in the arena."
Her eyes widened at once.
A moment passed before she spoke again, voice shaking.
"We… we need to fight?"
I nodded.
Silence settled between us.
Her eyes shifted toward the wall behind me as she asked.
"Did… did you kill them all?"
I followed her gaze toward the wall before shaking my head.
"No. Most of them died fighting each other."
She exhaled softly.
"Then why are you writing their numbers on the wall?"
I glanced back at her, my voice dropping down to a whisper.
"To remember them."
She frowned slightly.
"Remember?"
I looked back at the wall, voice firm.
"Yes. Because they are the reason I'm alive."
Her whisper made my head turn.
"Thirty…"
Then she asked, her voice trembling.
"Will… will I need to fight too?"
I watched her for a long moment before nodding.
"We all need to fight."
Silence stretched between us.
Until—
"Will you remember all their numbers?"
Her brown eyes locked onto mine.
I answered, my voice firm.
"Yes. That's why I'm writing them down."
Her eyes trembled.
"Will you remember them forever?"
I turned back toward the wall, watching the red numbers written in rows across stone.
The price I had to pay for my tomorrow.
I answered.
"Yes."
She tried to speak, but paused, hesitated, then took a breath before speaking again.
"Will you remember me as well?"
I paused for a moment before looking back at her.
A small smile rested on her lips.
Not out of happiness.
But fear.
Her smile reminded me of something I once heard.
The greatest fear all humans universally share is—
The fear of death.
But not just the fear of death.
No.
It's the fear of ceasing to exist.
And when we speak of existence, most people will have a different answer.
But for most—
Existence was memory.
The memory of yourself.
How you lived.
Who you were.
What you had done.
If people would remember you.
That's why humans instinctively want children.
To leave something behind.
Something that remembers us.
A proof that we were here.
A proof of our existence.
Her question—
If I will remember her?
It doesn't come only from the fear of death.
It's her fear of being forgotten.
She wants me to remember.
That she was here.
That she existed.
And she's right.
Someone had to remember.
Not just her.
But—
All of them.
And—
I will do that.
My lips parted.
"I will remember you."
Until my tomorrow ends.