Time passed as I trained.
Until—
"29!"
A guard's shout echoed.
It was time.
I climbed down the bed and followed him out of the cell.
The guard walked ahead, leading me down the corridor.
Step.
We passed the smithies.
Step.
The bath.
Step.
And reached the hall with the gate connected to the arena.
Step.
My legs carried me toward it.
But—
"Not there, slave. Follow me."
Confused, I looked to where the guard was heading, past the hall and toward another corridor.
I frowned, but followed him.
We passed the hall and entered another corridor.
The lightstones embedded in the wall were a bit brighter than the rest, newer.
He walked a bit further before halting in front of a wooden door.
Knock.
An annoyed voice answered from inside.
"Who's there?"
The guard sighed before answering.
"It's me. I brought the boy open the door."
Click.
Keys rattled before the door opened, light spilled out.
I waited, unsure, and glanced at the guard.
He gestured with his hand for me to enter.
I hesitated for a moment before stepping inside—
Step.
—and froze.
A cold shudder ran down my spine as I saw the scene inside.
Before me stood four guards—
Three of them were human and stood around a metal chair, laughing and drinking.
The last guard was a dragonkin.
His lips curved into a smile as he turned away from the chair and toward me, knife in hand.
The smell hit me first.
Blood and rot were thick in the air.
But that wasn't what shocked me.
It was the person in the chair.
Number 8.
He sat on the metal chair, limbs strapped to it with leather bands.
His head slumped forward, hollow eyes gazing at nothing. The skin around his eyes was swollen, and a gag was forced into his mouth.
They had removed his shirt.
His bare torso was covered with deep cuts, dried blood colored his pale skin.
Three knives were still embedded in his stomach, piercing his insides.
His left hand was pinned to the armrest with a blade driven through it.
There were no fingers left, only stumps. White bone was visible between torn flesh.
His legs—
They were almost uninjured, but his feet...every toenail had been ripped out, leaving marks of red on the stone floor.
And his right arm—
It wasn't there anymore.
Not cut.
The wound wasn't clean.
Flesh and bones hang grotesquely off his stump as if his entire arm were ripped apart.
On the floor beside the chair lay pieces of him.
Some of them had already started to rot.
The stench of blood, coupled with the state of his body, made me almost throw up.
Drip.
Blood dripped down from his fresh wounds.
Drip.
I forced the food that was about to leave my stomach down and shifted my gaze toward his face again.
The gag in his mouth was soaked red but moved ever so slowly, breathing.
He was still alive.
Broken, but alive.
"You are number 29?"
The dragonkin's voice cut through, making my head turn toward him.
He stared down at me, waiting for an answer.
I nodded once.
He brushed his bloodied hands off on a cloth that seemed to be Number 8's shirt.
"Good. You see—"
He gestured lazily toward number 8.
"We had to do quite the work."
His voice was calm, as if he hadn't just tortured a person.
"Do you know why?"
I shook my head.
He took one step closer, towering over me.
Then—
Bam.
He buried his fist into my stomach.
All air left my lungs as I folded in on myself.
Thud.
My legs gave in, knees hitting the floor.
He crouched down as he continued in that same calm tone while I gasped for air.
"It's because some son of a whore created trouble during the last match. Do you think you are a hero or something?"
His tone grew cold.
"You are not."
I felt something cold around my head, then pressure. His hand forced my head up, and our gazes locked again.
Red eyes stared down at me.
"You are a slave. Nothing more. Nothing less. We are your masters. If we say kill—"
He leaned closer.
"You kill."
Bam.
A kick followed, folding me over, and I fell to the floor.
Splash.
My face sank into a puddle of blood left behind from number 8.
The stench and the kick made me almost vomit again.
"Ghah!"
I gasped for air while forcing the vomit down.
Before I could regain my bearings—
"Do you understand?"
Came his cold voice.
I forced the words out.
"Yes."
"Good."
Clang.
Something metallic dropped to the floor before me.
I slowly pushed myself up and looked for the object.
It was a dagger.
His firm voice echoed again.
"Kill him."
My body froze.
"Come on, hurry. Or do you want to be the one in the chair?"
Fear took over, and before I knew it, my hand had reached for the dagger, firmly gripping it.
I swayed to my feet and stepped toward number 8.
My hand trembled as I raised the dagger.
Step.
His eyes shifted as I stood before him.
Slowly.
They found mine.
For a second—
I felt like there was some kind of spark in them.
Not hatred.
Not agony.
Something else...
A plea.
"...please.."
The word slipped through the gag, muffled.
But I heard him.
I stood there.
Dagger hovering before his chest.
If I hesitated—
They would continue.
They would torture him again.
For hours.
Maybe days.
He wasn't asking me to kill him.
He was asking me to end it.
To end his suffering.
His pain.
His agony.
My chest tightened.
My fingers, clasping the dagger's grip, stopped trembling.
This wasn't survival—
I drove the dagger forward.
Straight into his heart.
—it was just cruelty.
Blood gushed out of the wound, warm over my hand.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't move.
But his lips curled ever so slightly into a smile.
And—
His eyes closed forever.
I let go of the dagger, leaving it buried in his chest.
Silence filled the room.
"Good."
The dragonkin nodded.
"Bring him out."
Hands clasped my shoulders, shoving me out.
I stumbled as I was pulled back, but stayed upright.
Click.
The door opened.
One guard grabbed my arm and pulled me out.
Thud.
The door closed behind us.
The laughter inside resumed.
As if nothing had happened.
The guard pulled me forward, down the corridor until we reached the hall again.
He let go of my arm and shoved me toward the metal gate.
"Your fight is the next one."
That was all he said before turning around and leaving.