"This is… torture."
Mika groaned, dragging his feet through the bustling city streets. Having no servants meant he had to walk around by himself, and that? That was unacceptable.
"Probably time to ask the King for two or three servants…"
The realization settled in—he had none.
The reason was simple. The King didn't trust anyone to care for Mika. When Mika was born, he had been surrounded by servants and maids, but on his eleventh birthday, the King had fired them all, leaving Mika to fend for himself.
Yes, his father sent knights to stock the fridge, but Mika had to cook his own meals, wash his own clothes, and handle everything on his own.
It was a lonely childhood.
But Mika—the new Mika—wasn't about to live like that.
"I need servants and maids to live my lazy life…" he muttered, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.
He paused, thinking.
"Yeah… maybe I shouldn't ask the King. I should find my own. That way, I'll have servants loyal only to me."
That sounded much more beneficial.
Mika halted mid-step, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a shop window. His red eyes narrowed slightly before he quickly pulled up his cloak hood, hiding them from view.
'If I remember correctly… only royalty have colored eyes.'
He scanned the crowds—every passerby had grey eyes, the common eye color of ordinary citizens.
'The Verhault bloodline carries red eyes. The Lyre Kingdom's royals have turquoise. Those blessed by the gods… they have two distinct colors.'
The Holy Maiden's eyes gleamed with gold and silver.
And Louis—the Blademaster—was rumored to have the most unique eyes of all: Sapphire Blue and Amethyst Purple.
Mika had only seen sketched images of Louis from novel promotions, but even he couldn't deny that the man was attractive.
Shaking the thought away, Mika continued down the street, keeping his head low, avoiding attention.
'No one knows what Mika looks like. As long as I hide my eyes… no one will recognize me.'
Mika stopped in front of an expensive-looking hotel, its towering structure bathed in golden light, meant to dazzle those who passed by. To an ordinary person, this place was nothing more than a luxurious retreat for nobility, a pristine sanctuary for the rich to lounge around and waste their wealth without a care.
But Mika knew what lurked beneath the surface.
This was no mere hotel—it was a gateway to something far more sinister.
Stepping inside, his eyes swept across the grand hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating the extravagance beneath—polished marble floors, velvet-draped walls, intricately carved pillars lined with gold filigree. Even the air smelled of lavender and aged wine, a carefully crafted illusion of comfort and refinement.
Nobles crowded the space, draped in fine silk and embroidered coats, every single one adorned with jewelry—necklaces heavy with gemstones, rings stacked upon fingers, expensive brooches pinned onto tailored fabrics. Their laughter rang through the hall, a symphony of arrogance, their voices laced with careless indulgence as they gambled away fortunes as easily as they breathed.
It disgusted him.
These were the kind of people Mika despised—the ones who thrived on power, who thought money granted them control over everything, over lives, over fate, over justice itself.
Then, for a brief moment, Mika thought of his mother.
A flash of anger surged through him, but he forced himself to remain composed. There was nothing he could do about the past.
The only thing he could do now—was survive.
Ignoring the glances thrown his way, Mika walked further inside, seeking out a small, isolated table near the edge of the room.
A single chair. A single vase.
Inside it, a lone Nightshade flower—its deep purple petals curled delicately under the soft glow of candlelight.
A deadly bloom. A silent invitation to something far more dangerous.
A worker approached him, their expression calm, professional.
"Welcome to Hotel Rosemery. Do you have a reservation, sir?"
Mika gave a slight nod, moving with deliberate ease as he retrieved a stack of crisp bills, placing them on the table with practiced precision.
His tone remained steady—calm, measured.
"A normal-sized room. Twin bed. Three vases of Wolfsbane. A bottle of Nightshade wine."
For just a fraction of a second, the worker hesitated.
A flicker of surprise flashed across his face, barely noticeable—but Mika caught it instantly.
He hadn't expected a stranger to know the underground arena's secret code.
But the worker masked his reaction quickly, bowing his head in silent understanding.
"Very well. Your room is ready. Please follow me."
Mika leaned back slightly, watching as the worker gathered the money, hands moving with calculated precision.
'The novel mentioned this… All the codes are related to death,' Mika thought, recalling the author's words.
Without another word, Mika rose to his feet and followed.
The atmosphere had shifted.
The moment he spoke those words; he was no longer just another wealthy guest walking into a noble hotel—he had just stepped into a world far more dangerous.
And there was no turning back now.
Mika followed the worker upstairs instead of downstairs, which was already off. He knew the underground arena was below, so why take him higher?
His eyes flicked around the hallway. Dim lighting, expensive wallpaper, carved wooden doors lined neatly along the walls. Everything about this place screamed wealth and nobility, but Mika wasn't fooled. It was just another layer of deception, hiding what really lurked underneath.
At the end of the corridor, the worker bowed his head before opening the final door.
Inside was a normal hotel room—lavish but standard. A bed, a couch, a desk. Gold accents lining the furniture.
A distraction.
Mika already knew the trick.
Without bothering to wait, he marched straight to the curtain, fingers curling around the edge of the fabric. Instead of pulling it apart like any regular guest would, he yanked it to the side, revealing the metal door hidden behind it.
'Just like the novel…'
The curtain itself was a teleportation gateway—an illusion crafted to hide the passage from unwanted eyes. If anyone opened it the wrong way, they'd break the magic circle, cutting off the access point entirely.
Mika pressed his hand against the cold metal, pushed, and stepped through.
The shift was instant.
A wall of thick, suffocating air slammed into him—the raw scent of blood, sweat, rust clinging to the atmosphere. It was damp, humid, heavy with the weight of death itself.
Mika grimaced, pulling his cloak higher to cover his nose.
"Ugh… this place reeks of death."
Now that he was inside, he could see the structure of the underground arena. Cracked stone floors. Narrow passageways reinforced with iron beams. The occasional flickering torch barely lighting the way. The deeper they went, the worse it got—rows of locked doors lining the walls, each leading to holding cells, training chambers, or places he didn't want to imagine.
Some doors had scratches on them, deep enough to carve into the wood.
Mika didn't linger on them.
The worker led him toward a balcony, where the true nature of the arena finally came into view.
Below, the pit stretched wide, lined with iron gates, its dirt floor stained a permanent red. Fighters clashed with desperation, some battered, bruised, barely standing, others moving with deadly precision.
And above them?
The crowd roared, drunk on excitement, gambling away fortunes, hungry for bloodshed.
Mika took a slow breath, watching the chaos unfold.
'So this is the underground arena…'
Seeing it in person was different from reading about it. The brutality, the noise, the reality of it all—this wasn't just some side event mentioned in passing.
It was a business. A game for the rich, and a death sentence for the poor.
"In here, Sir."
The worker pushed aside a thick red curtain, revealing a completely different room from the one outside. Unlike the main hall, which reeked of filth and blood money, this space was clean, well-furnished, almost welcoming.
A false sense of comfort.
Mika didn't bother acknowledging the worker, waving him off as he stepped inside. Without hesitation, he pulled the curtain back into place, shutting himself in.
Only then did he let out a sigh.
He knew he was acting rude, but in this place, kindness meant weakness.
No one survived the underground by showing humility or hesitation.
Sitting on the couch, Mika leaned back for a brief moment, his muscles relaxing slightly into the plush fabric.
But he didn't let his guard down.
"First rule in the underground arena: never drink what they serve first."
He already knew the trick.
Every first drink was a test, not a courtesy. Poison, sedatives, mind-altering substances—all methods used to weaken newcomers before deals were made.
And Mika had no intention of becoming someone's easy target.
A familiar shuffle of footsteps drew his attention. The worker had returned, this time carrying a tray with a single glass of red wine, the deep liquid swirling lazily inside the crystal.
Mika reached out, fingers curling around the glass—but instead of drinking, he kept his eyes locked on the worker, watching for any flicker of reaction.
Slowly, he tilted the glass forward, letting the wine pour straight into the tray below.
Not a single drop spilled past the edges.
Deliberate. Controlled.
A subtle silence hung in the air between them.
"Bring me Honey Narcissus Tea."
Mika flipped the empty glass upside down, tapping its bottom four times, each movement slow and intentional.
A code.
The worker's eyes widened slightly, just for a fraction of a second—before he quickly masked his surprise, lowering his head.
"As you wish."
With practiced ease, he collected the tray, retreating back toward the exit.
Mika watched him go, his expression neutral, his mind calculating.
"Haah… In the novel, the Holy Maiden saved Louis by raiding this place."
That was how the original storyline went.
But Mika wasn't following the original plot.
Luckily, he had read a spin-off story, where the author had explained in detail how Louis was brought into the arena, what steps were taken, what codes were used.
That knowledge was the only reason he was here.
Mika's gaze drifted toward the curtain, toward the world beyond it.
Outside this comfortable illusion, the true underground awaited.
And his plan was only just beginning.
Is what he was going to say.
But the truth? Mika had no idea how to get Louis out of the arena.
There was no plan, no strategy, no clear solution—just the vague idea that he needed the man.
He couldn't buy Louis outright. The King had left Mika with money, sure—but nowhere near enough to purchase an underground champion.
And even though Mika was a prince, nobody knew that.
He couldn't exactly walk up to someone and declare it, expecting them to believe him.
Mika groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he leaned against his knuckles, staring blankly ahead.
"Ugh... Maybe I should think about this first... What can I do?"
He huffed, frustration sinking in.
"Come on, think. That man is the key to my lazy life. I need someone to clean the garden while I find my new servants."
Before he could spiral any further, a loud scraping of chairs from the arena pulled him back to reality.
Mika leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes at the movement below. Fighters were being dragged out, their bodies beaten, barely able to stand.
Then—
"Ladies and gentlemen! I'm sure you're excited for more fights!"
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena, loud and confident, practically feeding off the energy of the restless crowd.
"Thanks to an unknown patron, we have something even more thrilling for you today!"
Mika clicked his tongue, watching the man stride to the center of the arena with a smug grin plastered across his face.
"The day you've all been waiting for is finally here!"
With a dramatic throw of his left arm, a spotlight flooded the metal-barred gate on the opposite side of the pit.
"Give an applause to our favorite fighter!"
Mika's eyes widened slightly as the door creaked open, revealing a towering figure stepping forward.
Through the shadows, a man emerged, moving with slow, deliberate steps—tall, broad, entirely unfazed by the deafening cheers that erupted around him.
"So... that is Louis."
Louis stood at 6'4", his muscular build unmistakable, hardened by years of battle.
His slightly dark skin bore scattered scars, each one a testament to how long he had been surviving in the pit.
His sharp eyes, though fierce, carried deep, dark circles, proof of endless nights spent fighting, barely resting between battles.
His long, silvery hair, messy and uncared for, hung loosely down to his midback.
The strands fell wildly, the bangs partially covering his face—though even if they didn't, the fatigue etched into his features was impossible to hide.
Dressed in a simple black shirt and worn-down pants, he looked like a man who had only ever known battle, a fighter with no luxury beyond survival.
And yet—despite the crowd screaming his name—Louis barely reacted.
His grip on his sword was loose, posture relaxed, expression blank.
Like someone who had long stopped caring about winning or losing.
Mika leaned forward, studying him closely.
Then—Louis tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking straight toward Mika's direction.
Mika's breath hitched.
There was no way he could see him from here.
Right?
Mika instinctively pulled back, fingers curling slightly into his knee.
"He… He didn't see me, right?"
But the way Louis tilted his head—direct, precise, completely intentional—was unmistakable.
Mika swallowed hard.
The announcer's voice shattered the tension.
"Today, we have a special opponent!"
The opposite gate groaned loudly, its rusted hinges fighting against the weight as it slowly creaked open.
A massive figure stepped into the light.
A large orc, hunched slightly, growling, thick saliva dripping from its fangs, muscles bulging with pure brute strength.
"Let's see if our Louis can continue holding his position!"
Mika's jaw tensed.
"That's an orc... I forgot this world also had fantasy creatures..."
He watched Louis.
Still calm.
Still silent.
Still watching.
Mika exhaled slowly, muttering under his breath.
"...Come on, Louis. Show me that you're worthy of the title of Blademaster..."