Azeric thought they were taking him back to his cell. Same path, same silence. But then the turns changed. The steps kept going. Downward. Colder.
"Where are you taking me?" Azeric asked, voice low.
"Shut your damn mouth," one guard muttered, pulling his arm tighter.
The younger guard chuckled. "To the Iron Maw. You only got two fights and you're going South? Don't know if that's luck or a curse."
"Maybe some noble paid to move him," the guard muttered under his breath.
The younger one shook his head. "No. Warden's order. Direct." He sounded almost impressed, then glanced at Azeric. "You'll either die down there trying... or you make a name for yourself. Good luck."
Azeric didn't know much about the South Quadrant—only that they trained more there. That was it. No stories, no rumors. Just that the ones sent South either came back harder… or didn't come back at all.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Threats eliminated: 3
Synchronization remains: 10% (stable)
The walk to the Iron Maw wasn't far—but it felt like a descent. The halls grew cleaner, colder. No bloodstains, no echoing moans. This part of the arena didn't smell of filth. It smelled of stone, steel, and silence.
The Iron Maw.
No chants here. No dying laughter. Just low breathing and the kind of stillness that only men who knew how to kill could maintain.
Azeric stepped into the corridor leading to his cell.
Eyes followed him.
Not with cruelty, not with mockery—but something colder. Calculating. The gladiators of the South didn't cheer or sneer. They measured and watched how he walked, how he breathed, how the guards treated him. He wasn't one of them. But something about the silence told him they were already deciding if he ever would be.
Azeric stepped into his new cell.
It was bigger. Sharper. Built for someone expected to survive.
And he wasn't alone.
"Finally," said a voice from the far wall. "Thought they'd send another wailer."
The man sitting there was wiry, older, with eyes too alive for a place like this. He smiled like he knew something Azeric didn't.
"Name's Vance. You'll learn it. Or not. Depends on if you die quick." He pointed at a cot in a corner. "That's yours."
Azeric didn't speak. He just lowered his bruised frame onto the cot, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Strange—softness, here. In the West, there was only stone. Cold, unyielding, and honest. This felt like a lie.
Vance tilted his head. "West breaks your body. South breaks your rhythm. You'll see."
He kept talking—about the guards, the routines, the ones who vanished in the night. Azeric stood still, silent. He didn't respond.
Azeric glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "Why am I here?"
Vance shrugged like it barely mattered. "Probably someone likes you too much. Maybe they saw something nasty in the way you kill—messy, fast, a little too calm. That kind of thing gets attention."
He leaned back against the wall, smirking. "Here, they'll teach you to kill smarter. You do well enough here, rack up a few more bodies—they send you East. That's where the real prize is."
Azeric didn't respond.
Vance's voice dropped a little, like it was a secret. "East gladiators live like kings. You wouldn't believe the food."
He kept yapping after that—something about silk robes and women from the upper tiers, about a man who faked madness just to stay in the South longer. Azeric turned his back and lay down, face to the wall.
It didn't matter. Vance didn't stop. Words kept pouring out like a cracked pipe.
"You'll see them, the ones with the tattoos under their eyes—that means they've made the kill quota. East-bound, soon as someone dies up there. They don't even eat with the rest of us. Special mess. Special spoons. You believe that? Spoons."
Azeric didn't react.
"One of them told me once," Vance went on, "that the East fighters get silks rubbed with mint oil before a match. So they smell clean when they gut you."
Azeric buried his face deeper into the cot.
"Shut up," he muttered, the words barely audible, tight with warning.
Vance didn't.
"I once saw a man cry from touching warm bread," Vance mused. "That's the East for you. Turns killers into poets."
Still no response.
"And you? You look like one of them. Dangerous. Quiet. Pretty, in a mean way. You're gonna go far. Or die early. No in-between with your type."
"Did you know they pipe music into the East cells? Real music. Not the screams from the pit. Imagine that. A lullaby before a kill."
Azeric snapped.
He'd taken enough.
Fast. slammed Vance into the wall, forearm against throat.
The man didn't fight back. Didn't even flinch.
Just grinned wider.
"Shut up," Azeric growled, low and cold.
Azeric released him.
Vance laughed light and amused, like the whole outburst had been a performance just for him. He rubbed his throat, still grinning.
Azeric stepped back, breath steadying. It had come too fast. The anger, the reaction. He hadn't even meant to move.
He returned to the cot in silence, lowering himself onto it like nothing had happened, but something burned behind his eyes.
"You'll fit right in down here," he said, clearly delighted. "They're watching now," he said, brushing off dust. "Try not to be boring."