The hall was abuzz with anticipation.
The warriors who had yet to enter the pit leaned forward, their gazes fixed on the massive screen where Maeve's battle—or rather, her effortless erasure of the competition—had just played out. Even those who had been indifferent before now paid full attention. If a mere girl in a witch's hat could wipe out an entire set without breaking a sweat, what else would this tournament bring?
Ash, however, heard none of it. He was trapped in his own mind, drowning in the weight of his thoughts.
[Focus. Focus, Ash. You knew what you were getting into. The air in this wretched pit stinks of death, a cloying, metallic tang that clings to the back of my throat, a constant, sickening reminder. But I will not flinch. I will not recoil. Fear is a luxury I cannot afford, a weakness that will be punished here.]
[They speak of prizes, of gold and glory, of fleeting pleasures. Let them have their trinkets. I am not here for such paltry rewards. I am here for him. For the phantom that haunts my every waking moment, the echo of a life stolen, a body broken. Muda's life. My life, now. A debt that demands to be paid in blood, in fire, in the crushing weight of retribution.]
[They think they know pain? They think they understand the depths of despair? They know nothing. How many times have I felt pain far worse than death itself?]
He remembers times when memories came to him that time was miserable, painful alone away from anyone's eyes, just enduring, not wanting to throw his second chance even though he started in negative.
[I already signed my death warrant. I can't turn back now; I have to do it. Redemption. That is the true prize. Not for them, but for me. For Muda. For the life that was taken, for the memories that haunt my dreams. I will not let his suffering, my suffering, be in vain. I will not let his killer walk free. I will not rest until the ghost of Muda can finally find peace. Funny enough, I didn't know the guy, but why do I feel a strong urge to avenge him? … Well, I guess because of the memory because of the body… I have debt to pay in return for this life for his life.]
[For the souls put on as a prize because of my mistake, I will correct those mistakes; I will save them. Not because I'm some kind of righteous saint, because I'm not. I'm not a saint or a saviour but a tenant, and I have a debt to pay.]
"ASH!"
The name rang out, shattering his trance. He blinked, dragging himself out of his mind's abyss, only to find the entire hall staring at him. Some looked amused. Others are curious. A few irritated.
Had they called his name before?
"Ash!"
He turned toward the voice—Maeve.
She was looking up at him, her violet eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadow of her hat. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a knowing edge to it.
"So that's your name?, Ash! You were zoning out," she muttered. "They've called your name three times."
Ash exhaled through his nose, shaking off the last remnants of his internal spiral. With measured steps, he pushed off the bench, straightening his back as he walked toward the pit's entrance.
The murmurs In the hall grew as he passed. Some are whispering about Maeve's fight. Others speculated if he was another monster waiting to be revealed.
Ash walked toward the pit's entrance, the weight of a hundred stares pressing down on him. The moment he stepped past the threshold, the noise of the hall faded, replaced by the cold silence of anticipation.
The air here was different—thicker, heavier, tainted with the lingering scent of blood and death. The Slaughterhouse Pit wasn't just an arena; it was a graveyard-in-waiting.
As Ash descended the stone steps leading into the battleground, he took in his surroundings. The pit was massive, its walls towering high, carved from rough, ancient stone darkened by the stains of past battles. Cracks lined the floor, some filled with dried blood, others with the remnants of shattered weapons. Chains hung from the edges, swaying slightly, as if moved by an unseen force.
Kael nudges his elbow on Uren, whose attention for the moment is diverted. "Look, he came." Uren directs his gaze back to the pit, recognising the figure, and sits straight, folding his arms and looking dead serious. Kael wanted to throw a punchline, but he held himself back, reminding himself, This is not a time.
Ash's gaze flicked to his opponents. There were many participants roaming around or standing straight, but his eyes instinctively went to the most potent opponents. A beastman in his hunting form with fur like black steel and fangs that gleamed under the pit's flickering light, his muscles coiled like a predator on the hunt.
A mage, wrapped In enchanted robes, his fingers already crackling with shakti, anticipation lighting up his silver eyes.
A knight, clad in heavy armour, his greatsword resting against his shoulder, stood unmoving as a mountain but exuding an aura of pure dominance.
A brute, his body covered in ritual scars, gripping a war hammer that looked heavy enough to break stone.
And finally, a woman in assassin's garb, her twin daggers glistening with something posion, perhaps.
Every single one of them had survived the first round. That meant they were killers. Survivors. Monsters, just like him.
Above, the announcer's voice boomed across the pit.
"AND NOW, THE FINAL FREE-FOR-ALL MATCH OF THE NIGHT! A BLOODBATH TO DECIDE OUR NEXT CHALLENGER!"
The crowd roared, filling the space with deafening excitement. Ash rolled his shoulders, inhaling deeply. His mind settled.
No distractions.
No hesitation.
Kill or be killed.
Rewinding all the teaching Master Kael gave him, while Kael looked down at him with curiosity and utter confidence in his student.
The countdown began.
Five. The beastman cracked his knuckles, his grin revealing sharp canines.
Four. The knight shifted his stance, gripping his greatsword with both hands.
Three. The mage whispered an incantation under his breath, the air around him sparking with raw energy.
Two. The assassin twirled her daggers, her movements so fluid she barely seemed real.
One. The brute grinned savagely, his hammer already swinging into position.
A deafening GONG rang out.