The light stung Julien's eyes like needles as he was yanked into the open.
The deafening roar of thousands assaulted him all at once, a wave of cheers and howls vibrating through the massive stone arena. It was a sea of bodies, all screaming for blood.
He squinted. The sun was brutal. His body felt like dead weight.
Around him were others—men and women, ragged, bruised, malnourished, barely human. Some old, some young, all in the same filthy rags as him. Chains dangled from ankles, dried blood crusted on their skin, some trembling, others gritting their teeth like they'd seen this before.
Peasants. Criminals. Fodder.
A man next to Julien whispered, voice cracked and low. "Welcome to the meat grinder, newbie." He had no teeth, only gums and one cloudy eye.
Julien didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat burned, and his mind refused to catch up. He just stared at the center of the arena where sand soaked with old blood turned a sickly brown.
Above, Flash Bang's voice continued echoing:
"And now, the king's gracious gift for the common folk! A little dessert, if you will, before the main course! Our cherished prisoners, the wretched and forgotten, will now entertain us in a… special warm-up round! Hahahaha!"
The crowd jeered, tossing scraps and bones into the arena.
"Will they cry? Will they run? Will they beg? Who cares! Because what's coming is gonna tear them to pieces either way! RELEASE THE HOUNDS!"
A loud clang echoed.
Julien flinched.
From a grated gate on the far end, a pack of mutated beasts lunged into the ring. They weren't just dogs—they were monsters, bred for carnage. Grey-skinned, spines protruding from their backs, eyes glowing faintly red, foam already dripping from their fanged maws.
Someone screamed.A woman broke and ran.The crowd loved it.
Julien's body froze—his heart pounded, ears ringing.
He wasn't ready. None of them were.
But instinct kicked in when the first beast lunged at the toothless man beside him, tearing into his shoulder like paper.
Blood sprayed.
The man shrieked. Julien fell back, scrambling, slipping on blood and sand as chaos erupted.
Everyone moved.
Some tried to fight with rusted chains, some ran, some just dropped and prayed. One of the bigger guys picked up a broken femur and started swinging like a madman, catching one of the hounds in the eye.
Julien's legs moved without asking.
A flash of claws.A scream behind him.He didn't look back.
His breath burned in his lungs. His muscles screamed. But something shifted in his head—an old survival instinct he didn't know he had, awakened by the taste of death.
He grabbed a shard of iron off the ground, probably once part of someone's shackle.
One of the beasts noticed him—its body low, snarling, stalking like a predator playing with food.
Julien stood his ground, barely. Legs trembling, blood on his face—not his own, not yet.
"Come on then," he muttered through gritted teeth, voice hoarse and cracked. "Let's fucking go."
The beast lunged.
Julien didn't dodge. He couldn't.
But he moved—and that rusted piece of metal drove straight into the side of the hound's neck.
Not deep enough. It thrashed, throwing him down.
Pain shot through his ribs as he hit the ground, vision blurring. The beast howled, blood leaking from its wound. Julien coughed, rolled, dodged the next bite by inches.
Someone else tackled the monster with a chain, shouting something incoherent as they both went down.
Julien gasped for air, still gripping the bloody shard.
This wasn't a fight.
This was a slaughter disguised as sport.
And yet—he was still alive.
Barely.
But alive.
-----------
VIP Section, East Balcony — Ring of Valor
"Another pack of useless rats," a noblewoman sneered behind her silk fan, dabbing perfume beneath her nose. "They die like they were born—naked and whimpering."
Beside her, Lord Caldras adjusted his monocle, barely watching the carnage below. His real attention was focused on a single figure—one who moved differently.
"Hm..." he murmured, stroking his chin as his eyes locked onto a red-haired boy, caked in filth and blood, holding a piece of rusted metal like it was a blade forged for kings.
"Interesting…"
This boy—that one there—he didn't belong.
Not because of his appearance, no. There were plenty of starved, half-naked wretches down there. But this one—
His eyes.
Wild, yes. Frantic, of course. But not broken. Not yet. Most of the arena fodder died with dull eyes and cracked spirits. But this boy fought with a strange desperation—as if his body hadn't caught up to the horror yet, as if his soul was burning too hot to notice the chains around his ankles.
Lord Caldras leaned forward, curious.
He watched as one of the hounds lunged again, and the boy moved—not fast, not skilled, but instinctively. Survival etched into every twitch of his trembling limbs.
He fought like an animal that had never seen a sword, yet still dared to bare its teeth.
The other nobles were laughing. Pointing. Betting on which wretch would die last.
But Caldras had seen this kind of defiance before.
"He's new," he muttered to himself. "Or foreign."
Another beast tackled the boy. This time, the boy didn't move in time.
He was slammed hard into the bloodied sand, metal shard flung from his grip. The creature snapped at his face, jaws closing in.
Julien grabbed the monster's throat with both hands, nails digging deep, trying to keep the teeth away.
It snarled. He screamed.
The crowd roared.
He wasn't going to make it. Not this time.
But then—
Another convict—half-blind, crazed—rushed the hound from behind and smashed its skull in with a rusted shackle. Both men collapsed after, unmoving.
The last beast whimpered, cornered by three other prisoners. One stabbed it with a bone dagger, another held it down with a chain, and the final crushed its ribs with a stone.
The gong rang.
Silence.
Only five remained.
Out of twenty-three.
The arena floor was littered with mangled corpses and twitching limbs. The sand had turned red, sloshing like mud beneath the heat.
Julien didn't get up.
He lay there, eyes half-open, chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths. Blood trickled from his mouth. His fingers still clenched, even though his weapon was long gone.
From above, Caldras narrowed his eyes.
"He'll either die in the next match or kill something he shouldn't."
He waved for his steward.
"Mark that one. The red-haired boy. If he survives another round, I want him brought to me."