While applause thundered overhead and the echo of voices blended into a haunting blur, the massive gate at the far end of the coliseum groaned open.
Luke flinched at the sound. It wasn't triumph he felt, but unease and a feeling that something was amiss.
Two tall men entered, each in dark armor with odd crests carved into it, majestic and archaic in style, like knights from another era. However, they didn't seem like heroes or savior.
One of them approached the unconscious boy Luke had just defeated, stooped, and grunted as he took him by the ankles. A tiny path of scarlet was left smeared across the stone as the youngster was dragged away, his arms flopping behind him, motionless.
Luke's breath hitched. His body reacted before his mind caught up—legs spreading, fists clenching, heart pounding. He took a stance. Not because he wanted to fight, but because he didn't know what else to do.
The second knight approached him. Slow. Unbothered. Luke's blood-slicked hands trembled slightly.
Was this another test? Another opponent?
But the knight stopped just short of him, standing within striking range.
"You did well, Number 00001," the man said, voice calm and clinical. "Clean finish. No excess. Follow me. The next battle is about to begin."
Luke blinked.
'Next battle?'
His feet didn't move. His instincts screamed to stay rooted, to demand answers.
'Why should I follow you? What happens if I don't?'
Luke thought.
The knight's face didn't register. Blurry. Like it was intentionally smeared out in his memory, a vague silhouette surrounded by dread.
The man leaned closer.
"You wouldn't want to end up like your 'friend' over there."
Luke's eyes darted toward the boy being hauled away, his head limp, blood still dripping from his temple.
His throat tightened.
'That could be me.'
Reluctantly, Luke lowered his fists. His voice was barely more than a breath.
"…Alright."
The knight nodded once. "Good choice."
He turned and walked without looking back. Luke followed, his steps heavy with dread.
The corridor was narrow, the torchlight dim and shivering. The deeper they went, the colder it became. The air tasted old. Dead.
Then came the sounds—muffled at first, but growing louder with every step.
Crying.
Dozens of voices, not just one. Hundreds. Stone halls reverberated with a mangled symphony of agony and fear
They turned a corner.
Luke froze.
There were children—thousands of them.
Some curled up against the walls, trembling. Others clung to each other in silent horror. A few sat motionless, their eyes wide and hollow. All of them—trapped. Just like him.
"What the hell is this…?"
His lips moved before he realized he was speaking.
Ahead, the knight dragging the unconscious boy veered left. Luke's guide turned right.
They moved into a narrower hallway with ceilings dripping with cool, sluggish condensation and walls that were near enough to brush shoulders. The route was illuminated by a single light, its flame flickering as if deciding to put itself out or push through with it.
Suddenly, the knight stopped.
"This is where you'll be staying," he said, flat. "Food will come when it comes. Use the bucket for waste."
He lit a torch near the door, revealing the chamber beyond.
Luke stepped in slowly.
The door shut behind him with a dull thud.
Silence.
But only for a moment.
Through a tall, thin window above, the world cried out. Shouts. Laughter. Yells. The sickening sound of breaking bones and the heartbreaking wails of children permeated the atmosphere like toxins.
He looked up.
He could see it—an arena—through the slit. Golden sand swirling with dust. Kids—fighting. Flying fists. Faces contorted with despair. Some fell quickly. A few of them fled. One child ran for the edge, but a silver knight seized him and pushed him into the mud.
The audience let forth a roar. He felt the vibrations in his chest. The weight of it all made the floor feel as though it could give way. This room felt like a mausoleum beneath the mayhem.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
The torches cast long, shivering shadows that looked like figures waiting in the dark.
He had won.
But the only reward was time. Not safety. Not mercy.
He stared through the narrow window again, jaw tight. The scene outside hadn't stopped—children shrieking, swinging, some crying as they fought to survive. The sand turned red. The cheers only grew louder.
His stomach churned. He felt it rising—guilt, nausea, horror.
His voice cracked as he whispered:
"Why… why was I alone in the arena?"
It wasn't just a question. It was a plea for what little humanity Luke had left inside.
The knight stood by the door like a statue, torchlight dancing on his armor.
After a pause, he replied.
"You were the opener."
Luke turned to face him.
"…Opener?"
The knight nodded. "First to fight. First to perform. One-on-one. It's tradition. Eases the crowd in. Controlled. Predictable."
His voice darkened.
"But that's over now."
Luke's breath caught.
The knight glanced toward the slit above.
"Now the real show begins."
Luke's eyes widened. His lips parted, a soft sound escaping—a breath. In denial of the sight he just witnessed he let out a trembling voice.
"No…"
His whisper barely reached his own ears. He was shaking.
'I was just the start. The warm-up. The spark to light their bloodlust.'
The knight turned to leave, his voice cold and final.
"The crowd's ready now. And they've got you to thank for it."
Luke's fists trembled. He turned back to the crack on the wall.
A girl no older than nine was dragged screaming across the sand. Her fists pounded uselessly against a boy twice her size.
Luke stepped back.
He had survived.
But he'd also started the slaughter.