Sunlight slammed into Cyril's face the moment the gates opened. It wasn't warmth—it was exposure, like spotlight casted over fresh meat. He squinted against it, stunned for a bit, until the roar of the crowd hit him like a tidal wave.
A thousand voices, maybe more than that.
Cheers, jeers, and shouts of excitement from people who think that cold, bloody, battles to the death are just entertainment.
The arena was circular, carved from stone and layered with dust and blood, it looked like a Spartan colliseum. Gates lined the perimeter like jaws waiting to open, far above, behind metal grates and shaded balconies, sat the privileged—overseers, handlers, nobility watching above. And around the lower tiers: slaves, chained together in lines forced to watch even if they were against it.
Cyril was shoved forward into the sand.
His wrists finally free of their shackles. His legs were steady, but they ached. Pain lingered, but beneath it, there was something else, not just The Flow, rage.
All the bottled up anger Cyril had from being in this situation resided underneath, It pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.
Dormant.
Waiting.
"Face east, boy!" one of the guards shouted behind him.
"You die standing!"
Cyril didn't move, his eyes swept the stands. No sign of Miren, no signs of escape, just the pit and the moment.
The gate across from him creaked.
It opened slowly—iron groaned on old hinges—revealing his opponent.
'That's one big, ugly motherfucker'
A man, if you could still call him that. Seven feet tall, big as a silverback gorilla, with arms like battering rams and tattoos carved into his skin. His eyes glowed a faint red and a shock collar buzzed around his neck, whatever drugs or treatments they pumped into him turned him into a monster in the shell of a man.
The crowd erupted.
"Breaker! Breaker! Breaker!"
The man—Breaker, apparently—strode forward barefoot, dragging a spiked chain behind him. His muscles twitched with every step, leaving deep foot prints in the sand.
Cyril swallowed hard.
The Flow stirred.
He could feel it clearer now—present in the air, the ground, even in Breaker. It was like threads woven through the world, invisible yet tangible within his reach, vibrating in rhythm with his breath.
Miren's voice replayed in his head.
"Pain makes the strong, power keeps them alive."
Cyril slid into a low stance, nothing about it was trained but it was instinctual. Every fiber in his body screamed to run—but another voice, lower and more ancient, whispered:
Fight, What Sovereign Has Ever Ran?
Breaker roared and charged.
Cyril dodged just in time, the spiked chain whipped past, slamming into the ground with enough force to shatter it. Shards exploded around him, he rolled, scrambled upright, and dashed backward.
He had no weapon, no armor, and definitely no training.
Just the flow and an unwavering spirit to not let himself meet his end here.
As Breaker charged again, Cyril reached, not out—but in.
That hum beneath his skin—it wasn't faint anymore, It surged, hot, electric, alive. He didn't understand it, nor did he know how to control it, but in that moment his instincts took over.
He thrust his hand toward the sand.
The earth rippled.
Not like an earthquake—more like a breath, but that was all he needed. The sand shifted beneath Breaker's charging feet, just enough to make him stumble. His foot sank, his charge wavered.
A chance.
Cyril moved.
He ducked inside Breaker's reach, ignoring the screams of his muscles, and slammed his fist into the man's ribs. It was like punching a brick wall—but there was a sound, ripple.
Breaker faltered.
The Flow answered.
Not perfectly, not cleanly but it answered, responding to his call.
Breaker recovered fast, swinging the chain in a wide arc. Cyril tried to leap back, but the metal links caught his arm mid-spin. Pain exploded across his bicep as spikes tore skin. He hit the sand, hard.
Blood streamed down his arm.
The crowd roared.
"Bleed for us!"
"Kill the freak!"
Cyril coughed, rolled, and barely avoided the follow-up strike. The ground trembled where the chain landed, he hurriedly scrambled to his feet, breathing ragged, vision blurred.
'I'm not going down that easy, fuckers!'
Cyril used whatever method he could to regain his composure, and cursing out the crowd in his head was the best method at the moment.
'Think, damn it. Think!'
He couldn't overpower this man, not with strength.
But maybe…
He dropped into a low stance again and extended his hand. This time, he didn't try to force the Flow, he felt it, understood it.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't energy.
It was motion.
Direction.
A current.
And in that moment, he caught it.
Breaker charged again, raising the chain overhead.
Cyril took a breath and moved.
The Flow surged through his limbs, his feet found impossible balance. His body turned—not dodging, but riding the motion—and Breaker's chain swept past harmlessly.
Cyril twisted with the momentum, placed his palm against the side of Breaker's exposed chest—and pushed.
'Bye bye, big motherfucker.'
The pulse that erupted from his hand wasn't fire or lightning.
It was force, a blast, like a shockwave trapped beneath his skin, Cyril let it lash out all at once.
Breaker flew.
The giant's feet left the ground. He soared backward like a ragdoll, crashing into the arena wall with a loud crack. Stone shattered, dust rose, and silence fell upon the arena.
Then the crowd erupted.
Cyril staggered back, panting.
His arms trembled, bloodstill flowed from his wound, but adrenaline drowned the pain. His whole body felt light and heavy all at the same time. He fell to his knees, breathing hard.
From the high balcony above, Master Dren watched with narrowed eyes. No clapping, not even a reaction.
Only calculation.
The gates behind Cyril creaked open.
Two guards rushed forward—not to kill him, but to pull him back. One of them paused to look at the crater where Breaker lay unconscious, then at Cyril.
"…"
Silence, the guard was shocked
As they dragged him back Cyril stared at the twin stars in the sky, the Flow still humming inside him, stronger now.
As the gates closed behind him and the roar of the crowd faded, Cyril didn't feel victory.
He felt hunger.
Because whatever he just awakened in the pit—it wasn't done yet.