While the applause thundered above and indistinct chatter filled the air, the coliseum's gate groaned open.
What greeted Luke were two burly men, each roughly 1.8 meters tall, clad in armor engraved with unfamiliar crests—symbols that echoed the dignity of medieval knights, though there was nothing noble in their presence.
One of the 'knights' approached the unconscious boy Luke had defeated, inspecting his limp body before dragging him away by the feet. The boy's arms trailed behind him, lifeless, leaving a thin red smear on the stone floor. The other knight marched toward Luke.
Luke's muscles tensed. Still barehanded and smeared in his opponent's blood, he
took up a fighting stance, his eyes locked on the knight with a fiery gaze, unsure whether another battle was about to begin.
The knight halted just a few feet away and spoke, his tone cold and composed.
"Good job, Number 00001. You handled your opponent with caution and control. Minimal bloodshed, maximum efficiency. Follow me—the next battle is about to begin."
Luke didn't move.
Should I follow this man? What happens if I do... and what if I don't?
His fists remained clenched, gaze fixed. The knight's face—like the sea of onlookers above—was blurred, hazy,
almost deliberately obscured in Luke's mind.
The knight noticed his hesitation and leaned in slightly, voice low and sharp.
"You wouldn't want to end up like your 'friend' over there."
Luke's eyes flicked to the boy being dragged away.
Is that what waits for those who resist?
Feeling trapped and with no better option, Luke exhaled slowly and lowered his guard.
"...Alright."
"Good choice."
The knight turned without another word, leading him down a narrow passageway lit by flickering torchlight. The air grew colder with every step.
Then Luke heard it—wailing. Sobbing. Echoes of crying voices layering over each other like a twisted choir. As they stepped into the wider corridor beyond the gate, Luke stopped dead.
Tens of thousands of children filled the cavernous space—some younger than the boy he had just fought, others barely older. They huddled in corners, clung to one another, or sat alone in stunned silence. The smell of sweat, blood, and fear clung to the air like rot.
What the hell...? Who are these kids? What is this place?
Then he saw it—the boy from before—still unconscious, still being dragged by the other knight, heading left down the hallway. Luke's knight turned to the right.
They walked into a narrow corridor, barely wide enough for two men to pass. The walls pressed close like the jaws of a beast, the arched ceiling above dripping moisture in slow, steady taps. A single torch lit the way, its flame jittering as though afraid of the darkness.
Suddenly, the knight stopped.
"This is where you'll be staying for now. Food will come at fixed intervals. Use that bucket for your business."
He lit a nearby torch on the wall, revealing the chamber within.
Luke stepped in.
He was alone again.
But the silence didn't last. Above him, through a narrow window high on the wall, came the sounds of violence—cheers, laughter, and the brutal cries of children fighting for their lives.
He looked up.
Dust whirled in the bloodstained sand of the arena. Tiny figures clashed, fists flailing, some going down in a matter of seconds. A boy ran, only to be caught and slammed to the ground by a knight in silver.
The crowd roared with approval.
Beneath the frenzy of the coliseum, the world was stone, shadow, and fire. The chamber was vast—wider than any cathedral and carved from the very bones of the earth. Pillars loomed like titans, bearing the weight of a place built for suffering. It could hold an army. But tonight, it held only him.
Luke stood bare-chested and blood-smeared. His breath came slow and steady, echoing in the hollow quiet. Dozens of unlit torches lined the walls; only a few burned, their weak flames casting wild, restless shadows.
He had already fought. He had already won.
Now, in this place where neither prisoner nor spectator truly existed, Luke waited.
Just… waited.
Victory had bought him time. But not peace.
Luke stared through the narrow slit high above, his breath catching as he watched the chaos unfold—children tearing into each other with bare hands, some crying, others screaming, all fighting for their lives. Blood painted the sand. The cheering above only grew louder.
His heart pounded. A sickness stirred in his stomach.
"Why was I alone in the arena?"
His voice was low, but strained—like it had to push past the lump forming in his throat.
The knight stood still near the door, his silver armor catching flickers of torchlight. After a pause, he finally answered.
"You were the opener."
Luke turned, his brows furrowing.
"Opener?"
"The first to fight. The first to perform. They always start with a one-on-one to pull the audience in… make them lean forward."
His voice lowered, almost thoughtful.
"One child against one child. Simple. Clean. Controlled."
He nodded toward the window, where the battle raged.
"But now the real entertainment begins."
Luke's expression twisted. His eyes widened as the realization hit him. His jaw hung slightly open, the horror crawling up his spine like cold fingers. The flickering firelight seemed to darken around him.
"No…"
He whispered it, almost inaudibly, as if saying it too loudly would make it more real.
I was just the warm-up. The opening act to soften the bloodlust...
The knight turned toward him, voice devoid of sympathy.
"The crowd's blood is up now. And thanks to you, they're ready to feast."
Luke's hands shook at his sides. His gaze returned to the window where a small girl screamed as she was dragged down, fists flailing against someone twice her size.
He backed away from the wall, his face pale.
He had won his fight. But he'd also started the massacre.