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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1 The Red Arena

''Cough!''

''Cough!''

In the depths of a dark room, tucked into a dim corner that lacked any semblance of light, an emaciated young boy was huddled under the covers of a thin, tattered blanket with his eyes tightly shut.

His face—the only part of his body not covered by the blanket—looked scrawny and weak, as if the boy hadn't eaten a meal in days.

And yet, the existence of a half-eaten loaf of bread on the ground next to him betrayed a different story.

Cracking his eyelids open, the boy glanced at the seated figure beside him whose hoarse coughing reverberated throughout the vast, silent room: A young girl barely 13 years old lay there, huddled underneath her own blanket.

Her pale green eyes darted nervously as she constantly scanned her surroundings, but the fear and apprehension on her face were still impossible to hide while her body trembled from the cold.

Almost as if feeling the boy's gaze, the young girl looked at him and shivered in fear before she stammered out in a low, weak voice

''I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to wake you up!''

The boy stared at her for a few seconds before eventually shaking his head and turning away, not bothering to deal with the girl's terrified demeanor.

Unlike him, the girl was still a newcomer in the Bloodpit and had yet to get acclimated to the true horrors of this place. She had just gone through her first battle to the death two days ago, her baptism so to speak, and with her next fight coming up the day after tomorrow, it was no wonder she was so terrified.

The horrors of the 'Red Arena' weren't limited to the Bloodpit alone and the boy knew that all too well!

The public fights these children were forced to partake in every 3 days were the least of their worries. After all, a win meant you got to live and see another day, while a defeat meant either being crippled or outright dying!

The single loaf of bread these children were allocated after every fight along with a small jug of water, were perhaps an even bigger source of danger for them. These rations were never enough for any of them to keep their stomachs full, let alone in a cold, inhumane place like this.

Even worse, having to save such measly 'rations' and consume them over the span of 3 days meant that you had to safeguard your food for those 3 days too… days and nights!

When the boy was first tossed into the 'Red Arena', he experienced all of the horrors this place had to offer, his situation way worse than the girl's.

After barely scraping by his first fight in the Bloodpit, he was thrown straight into the Slaves' Pen without a care for his injury-ridden body. His left arm hung limply by his side like a broken doll, with his shoulder either broken or dislocated, while the dark patches of blood seeping through his clothes indicated that the pain coming from his ribs was nothing to scoff at either.

And yet, the guard didn't give him a second glance as he tossed that loaf of bread on the ground along with an iron jug that ended up toppling over, spilling most of its contents on the cold stone floor. 

Nevertheless, after wolfing down most of the bread and extinguishing his searing thirst using a third of the remaining water in his jar and coughing up some blood in the process, the boy found a relatively isolated spot and hugged the rest of his bread before eventually falling unconscious as exhaustion finally kicked in.

By the time he woke up, he was horrified to find out that both his food and water had disappeared from his embrace… most likely stolen by some other prisoner.

Of course, the Slaves' Pen was a shared space where more than a hundred prisoners lived together, so it was no surprise that someone would take advantage of the time one of them was asleep to rob them of their food and water!

That day, the boy learned one of the harshest truths of the Red Arena.

That he couldn't survive alone!

No one could… not in this place!

Without having someone else keep an eye out while you slept, you were bound to lose your rations and starve until your next fight. 

…If you even made it until then.

The boy, no, Cyrus had learned this the hard way, having starved more than a handful of times in the 3 years he'd spent in this place.

Unfortunately, the cruelty of the Red Arena didn't stop there.

Even if you teamed up with someone, you couldn't truly let your guard down either.

After all, it was not uncommon for one's companions to die, or even worse, to be pitted against each other in a fight in the Bloodpit.

Cyrus had lost more than a dozen partners in the last 3 years, one way or the other, with the trembling young girl beside him being his most recent one.

After throwing one last glance at her shivering body, uncertain if she was shaking from fear, the coldness of the prison floor, or both, he closed his eyes as one last thought flitted through his mind

''I wonder how long this one will last… I wonder how long the both of us will last.''

Unfortunately, Cyrus's dream of resting any more was short-lived.

He didn't have enough time to fall asleep again before the giant iron door of the Slaves' Pen opened with a bang, instantly waking up all of the still-sleeping prisoners.

As the warm sunlight illuminated the dungeon's corners, its blinding rays forcing some of the prisoners to groan in unwillingness, the tall, armored guard scanned everyone before his loud voice reverberated throughout the silent room

''Slaves 298 and 702. You are up!''

------------------

As the guard's voice trailed off, more than a few dozen gazes seemed to land on Cyrus from the nearby prisoners, some of them pitiful while others clearly relieved

''Seven-hundred and two? Is he the next victim?'' 

''…Ah, so be it. At least it's not one of us!''

''It was bound to happen sooner or later anyway. He's been here for a couple of years but he's barely fought in any main matches. Even if he's not old enough to take on that monster, any of the stronger slaves would have taken his life, too. In the end, it's his own luck that ran out. Who else can he blame?''

The whispers of some of the other prisoners harshly grated his ears as Cyrus opened his eyes, still struggling to get used to the sudden influx of light that had suddenly filled the Slaves' Pen. However, his body had already started to grow cold despite the cover of his blanket after hearing the guard's merciless order.

''Two-hundred and ninety-eight?'' The young girl's voice seemed to mirror his thoughts as she mumbled carefully by his side, her voice no different from a mosquito's as her eyes peeked through her own blanket, looking at Cyrus.

''Mist- uhm, senior… you are number seven-hundred and two, aren't you? But who is two-hundred and ninety-eight?'' The girl wasn't sure how to properly address Cyrus, stammering for a moment before eventually deciding to call him senior.

The boy in front of her was barely a year older than her, but she had already heard from the other prisoners how he'd spent a few years in the Red Arena by now. Unfortunately for the girl, Cyrus didn't seem to be willing to satisfy her brimming curiosity. No, it was uncertain if he had even heard her in the first place.

Turning around, he instead stared at one of the deepest corners of the dungeon, where a thin, bone-like young man had already stood up and was now making his way toward the exit.

''Two-hundred and ninety-eight.'' Cyrus mumbled to himself as he watched the towering youth march towards the waiting guard with long strides, not even sparing him a glance in the process.

Cyrus couldn't help but feel his heart grow colder as he realized who his opponent this time was going to be.

Slave 298.

Even if the tall youth wasn't the strongest among the prisoners in the Slaves' Pen, he was definitely among the top 20! 

He wasn't a fighter Cyrus should be pitted against… not yet at least!

Putting aside the youth's towering frame that was almost 190cm(6'3ft) tall, nearly 20 cm taller than Cyrus, or his extremely long limbs that looked almost unnatural in proportion to his slender body, just his age made their fight more than just 'skewed'.

After all, this was a 17-year-old youth, someone who had spent more than 5 years in the Red Arena and a prisoner who was close to becoming an 'Ironbound' warrior!

Unfortunately, Cyrus's thoughts were interrupted there, as the guard's cold gaze landed on him for the second time, indicating that he wasn't willing to wait much longer.

With an apathetic expression, Cyrus stood up and picked up what was left of his loaf of bread along with the small iron jug that still had some water left in it, before following the guard toward the exit.

Cyrus knew that his fight with the slender youth wasn't going to be the opening for the day, but rather, the last one. It was going to be the main event!

This was why the guard had personally come to pick the two of them up and separate them from the rest of the herd.

After all, it wasn't uncommon for prisoners to fight in secret when they found out who their opponent was, and take them out inside the Slaves Pen either by sneak-attacking them or ganging up on them.

The organizers of the Red Arena knew this as well, which was why they only revealed the participants of the main event a few hours before the fight, giving those slaves some time to prepare and ensure they'd be at their best… both physically and mentally.

As for the remaining fights prior to that, they weren't of any importance to the organizers.

If any of the slaves were crippled or ended up dying the night before, the guards would simply choose some replacements among the rest of the idle slaves. That was why their full focus was always on the main event!

''Move it, you worms! It's time to go.''

The guard's cold voice reverberated throughout the Slaves' pen, causing the ears of some of the weaker prisoners to ring in the process. Then, without even throwing another glance at Cyrus or the tall youth who should be following from his left and right respectively, the man led the way deeper inside.

As they exited the pen, Cyrus could see the familiar second guard who always stood there slamming the iron door with another bang, before plopping back down on his small wooden stool.

Cyrus had seen this scene so many times that he could almost say he was used to it by now. Unfortunately, it was impossible to truly get used to this place, when you were about to fight for your life in front of thousands of spectators who viewed your life as nothing more than a spectacle, merely used for their own entertainment.

The stone walls of the Red Arena, paving the way from the Slaves' Pen to the Bloodpit, were just as brown and lifeless as the first time Cyrus had laid eyes on them 3 years ago. Regardless of how many times he saw them, he always felt that same dreadful sensation in his heart as he followed the guard to that small waiting room that brought more anxiety than solace.

Staring at the man's broad, armored back that made him look like a mountain in human form, standing more than 2 meters(6'5ft) tall and dwarfing even the skinny youth by his side, Cyrus clenched his fists tightly while following him in utter silence.

Of course, it would be a lie to say that Cyrus hadn't thought of attacking the guard at any point during his 3 years of tenure in the arena. After all, fighting the guard once should have been easier than risking his life constantly for more than a thousand days straight… right?

For better or worse, however, Cyrus already knew how strong these guards were, immediately extinguishing any such thoughts. Each and every one of them was a bona fide Ironbound warrior who could effortlessly suppress any prisoner in the arena. Forget about Cyrus, even if the strongest slaves had a chance to fight against one of the guards, they'd be subdued in a matter of seconds before they were punished for their insolence.

And that was assuming the guards were also barehanded, fighting in the same conditions as the prisoners. If one factored in the armor they wore that covered them from head to toe, making them resemble war machines, even a dozen slaves banding together wouldn't have the smallest of chances against them… not when they were also famished and were provided with just barely enough food to survive.

With a solemn expression, Cyrus could only clench his fists, yet his expression remained just as apathetic as before, as he followed the man across the empty corridors of the Red Arena. Whenever he glanced at the slender youth by his side though, he couldn't stop his heart from sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss.

The Red Arena was truly hell, but this time… he really couldn't see a way to survive!

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