"Your spilled blood, anguish, and death are all entertainment for the gods… choose your suffering well."
At first glance, the domain of war looks almost normal — until it breathes. The soil pulses beneath one's feet, drunk on centuries of blood, and the air reeks of iron and smoke. Here, peace is the highest sin, and mercy the mark of weakness.
This is the Crimson Colosseum, a battlefield so vast it could swallow two continents. The people call themselves the Children of War and Cavalry — bred from bloodlines of endless slaughter. Every heartbeat in this place is an offering; every cry, a hymn to their god.
There are no priests here — only warlords. They do not pray; they conquer. Their sermons are battles, and their altars are corpses.
When the time comes for sacrifice, the chosen are those who have sinned — not by deceit, not by betrayal, but by weakness. The condemned are dragged in chains to the heart of the Colosseum, where the sun burns red and the ground itself trembles in anticipation.
The crowd gathers — millions strong — their roars shaking the heavens. Children clap. Mothers chant. Warriors sharpen their blades with reverence.
A single name is shouted above the chaos: Jaiz.
He blinks into the light, his body trembling, his mind fractured by fear. Just yesterday, he was with his family. Now, his wife and sons chant for his death among the crowd.
He had committed the unforgivable sin — he was kind.
Servas does not forgive gentleness. He does not reward restraint. His favor is bought in blood, not mercy.
The drums begin — thunderous, divine. From the opposite end of the Colosseum strides a warlord, towering and scarred, his eyes burning with holy madness. In his hands gleams a blade as long as a man's spine.
The slaughter begins.
A woman screams as she's cleaved in half. Another is lifted by her throat and dashed against the ground. The priests — no, the warlords — move in divine rhythm, cutting through flesh and bone as the people chant in ecstasy.
Jaiz runs. The sand burns beneath his feet. His breath comes in broken gasps. Around him, bodies collapse — headless, torn, unrecognizable.
Then silence.
A heavy shadow falls over him.
He looks up — and sees his own body. Headless. Kneeling. Blood pumping from the stump of his neck.
The last thing he sees is the heel of the warlord's boot, crushing his skull to dust.
And in that moment, Jaiz earns his greatest reward.
Death — the highest honor in the domain of Servas.