The platform had gone eerily quiet.
Dust still hung in the air from the last scuffle, curling lazily in the dim glow that bled from the runes etched into the jagged stone walls.
The prisoners stood in a loose half-circle, watching with bated breath as their leader rolled his shoulders and flexed his wrists, eyes never leaving the boy standing at the center.
The boy who had already humiliated them.
The boy who looked too calm for his own good.
"So…" Arlo tilted his head back and smiled faintly, his tone was steady, almost curious. "Are we doing this or not?"
"You've got fire, kid," the boss said, voice a gravelly rumble. "But that pride? It'll be beaten out of you like it was beaten out of all of us."
He cracked his knuckles, righteous satisfaction flickering across his face.
To him, this wasn't cruelty, it was tradition.
Every Dragon that fell into this pit always learned the hard way.
And this bastard was about to learn it too.
The boss lunged without warning.
His fist, the size of a hammerhead, shot forward.
Air boomed with the force of it.
Arlo twisted, barely catching the punch on his forearm, but the sheer weight behind it flung him across the platform.
His back slammed against the jagged wall, stone biting into his skin.
Arlo groaned but pushed himself upright.
The impact hurt, sure—but not as much as it should have. His body throbbed with pain, yet beneath it, there was something else: a steady, pulsing cold knitting the bruises back together.
The boss didn't let him breathe.
He charged again, closing the distance in a blur.
A knee drove into Arlo's gut, knocking the wind from his lungs. Then came an elbow across his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
Arlo stumbled, spit blood, and grinned.
"Not bad."
The boss frowned.
"Crazy bastard…" one of the prisoners muttered from the sidelines.
The beating continued.
Fists, knees, boots—every strike like a boulder crashing down on him.
Arlo blocked when he could, but his arms were too slow, his footing too unsteady. Again and again he was smashed against the wall, driven into the floor, left coughing through blood.
But his eyes stayed sharp.
Every blow taught him something.
The rhythm of the boss's strikes.
The way his shoulders tensed before a punch.
The half-step he always took before kicking. Arlo's body screamed in protest, but his mind was clear, drinking in every movement like a sponge.
And beneath the pain, that excitement only grew.
A heavy fist came swinging toward his temple.
This time, Arlo ducked low, felt the rush of wind as it sailed over his head, and drove his elbow up into the boss's ribs.
The man grunted, staggering back a half step.
Arlo's lips curled.
The next punch came in harder, angrier. Arlo raised his arm, caught it on his forearm—and this time, instead of being flung away, his feet dug into the stone, his body holding.
Shock flickered in the boss's eyes.
Another strike was sent at him.
Arlo slipped aside, knuckles grazing his cheek but not connecting fully.
He countered with a quick jab of his own, landing square on the boss's jaw. It wasn't enough to drop him, but the sound of it echoed across the platform, sharp and clear.
The onlookers muttered louder now. Some leaned forward, eyes wide.
The fight grew faster, heavier.
Fist against fist, bone against bone.
The boss snarled, striking harder with every blow, but Arlo was no longer just surviving—he was responding. Blocking, dodging, striking back. His movements sharpened, fueled not by experience but by instinct and that strange, surging heat mixed with cold in his veins.
Blood ran down his chin, his knuckles were raw, but every successful counter sent a thrill rushing through him.
He was learning.
He was winning.
A hook came wide. Arlo ducked beneath it, driving his shoulder into the boss's chest.
They crashed back into the stone wall, cracks splintering across the surface.
Arlo didn't stop—he hammered a fist into the man's ribs, once, twice, three times, each blow harder than the last.
The boss shoved him off with a roar, but his breathing had quickened, his stance no longer perfectly balanced.
He shook out his arm as if it had gone numb.
Arlo wiped blood from his brow with the back of his hand, chest heaving. His grin was savage now.
"You're strong," he admitted, voice rough but steady. "But I'm getting the hang of this."
The boss's jaw clenched. His pride burned hotter than his fists.
"You little—" He cut himself off with a furious swing.
But Arlo met it head-on.
Their fists collided with a thunderous crack, shockwaves rattling the stones beneath their feet.
This time, it was the boss who stumbled back.
Gasps erupted from the watching prisoners.
Their leader—their unshakable, brutal boss—was being forced back by a boy.
And the boy wasn't even close to finished.
The boss spat blood, eyes narrowing with something Arlo had not yet seen in him: doubt.
"You monster…" the boss muttered under his breath.
He could tell just from a glance that the boy was only still a Flame just like him, and from the smell he was giving of he was probably a new one.
Yet this monster was displaying strength and control of a far higher rank.
And the worst part is he was only getting better and stronger the more they fought.
His gaze darted to the others, and for the first time, he barked an order. "Don't just stand there! Help me put him down!"
One by one, they surged forward, chains rattled, boots thundered, twenty hardened prisoners closing in all at once.
Arlo's confidence faltered for the first time.
"Shit…" he muttered, raising his guard.
They hit him like a tidal wave.
Blows rained from every direction—fists slamming into his back, knees driving into his sides, boots cracking against his shins.
Arlo swung wildly, landing some hits, sending a few bodies staggering back, but another would always take their place.
He blocked one punch only to catch a kick to the ribs.
Dodged a knee only to take an elbow to the back of the skull.
The world became a blur of fists and fury, his body reeling under the relentless onslaught.
He roared, shoving them back in a burst of strength, but the circle closed around him again.
For the first time, he realized—numbers could crush even monsters.
The boss's voice rang out over the chaos. "Drive him to the edge!"
The minions obeyed.
They pressed harder, blows becoming herding strikes rather than killing ones, forcing Arlo back step by step.
He fought like a beast cornered, fists flying, blood spraying, but the numbers were too much.
Stone grated beneath his boots, his heel slipped.
He realized too late—he was at the very edge of the platform.
"Shit—!"
A dozen bodies slammed into him at once.
The ground vanished beneath his feet.
And then he was falling.
The air tore past him, the shouts above fading into distant echoes.
Darkness swallowed him whole, broken only by the faint, eerie glow of runes carved deeper into the pit's walls.
He was plummeting into the unknown again.
And his heart thundered with exhilaration.
To be continued…