Arlo stood still, his hand still slightly raised from the casual strike that had turned the loudmouthed fool into a ragdoll against the jagged stone wall.
The man's body had left a shallow crater in the surface, cracks spiraling out like a spiderweb, fragments of rock skittering across the platform.
The silence that followed was heavy, tense, punctuated only by the distant echoes of dripping water from somewhere deeper in the pit.
Arlo dusted his palm slowly, like he had merely swatted away some annoying insect.
Then, with the faintest smile tugging at his lips, he raised his head, his sharp eyes cutting across the ring of prisoners still surrounding him.
"So," he asked, voice calm, deliberate, dripping with amusement, "who's next?"
The effect was immediate.
A low murmur rippled through the gathered twenty men.
Some shifted uneasily, others bared their teeth in crude grins. The man who seemed to be their leader — a tall brute with a scar running down the side of his face and a mess of unkempt dark hair — narrowed his eyes, studying Arlo like one might study a curious animal.
The others weren't so restrained.
"You little shit!" one snarled, cracking his knuckles.
"He thinks he's better than us? Fucking white head cuck bastards" another barked, spitting on the ground.
Chains rattled as one of the prisoners wrapped his around his fists, using it like makeshift gauntlets.
A few others pulled crude bladed fashioned from stone chips. Their eyes gleamed with hunger — not for food, but for violence.
The leader raised a hand as if to hold them back. "Don't rush—"
But Arlo's mocking little smirk killed any semblance of patience.
That was all it took.
A roar erupted as four lunged at him from different directions, their steps surprisingly coordinated.
These weren't "brain rot idiots" rushing blindly; their movements carried the weight of men who had fought together in this pit for who-knew-how-long.
Arlo moved instinctively, pivoting back as a chain came whipping at his face.
The metallic links whistled past his nose and cracked against the stone floor with a heavy clang.
He caught the arm of the man who had thrown it, twisted sharply, and drove his elbow into the man's ribs.
There was a grunt, air leaving the man's lungs—
—but before Arlo could follow through, another pair of arms hooked around his neck from behind.
A chokehold.
"Got him!" the man roared.
The third came from the side, slamming a fist into Arlo's jaw, snapping his head to the side.
Pain blossomed across his cheek, sharp and stinging, but instead of fear or anger, something familiar flickered in Arlo's chest.
Excitement.
His heart pounded faster, his blood roared hotter.
The fourth prisoner swept his legs out from under him, and in an instant Arlo was slammed onto the cold stone platform, a heavy knee driving into his stomach.
The air whooshed out of his lungs, yet his grin only widened.
More piled on.
A rain of fists and kicks descended, each blow accompanied by curses, grunts, laughter.
His body jerked and twisted under the assault, head snapping back from a particularly vicious punch.
His ribs screamed.
His knuckles split as he tried to block. A boot came down hard on his arm, pinning it, while another cracked against his temple.
Any normal person would have been broken within seconds.
But Arlo wasn't normal anymore.
Even as pain seared through his flesh, he noticed something strange: the hits hurt, yes, but they weren't breaking him. His vision blurred for a moment then cleared. His lungs burned but still drew air. Blood ran from a cut on his brow, but it wasn't blinding him.
Superficial.
That's all these injuries were.
'So this is it…' he thought, a chuckle bubbling up from deep in his throat even as another fist crashed into his face. 'This is what combat feels like?'
Arlo exploded upward with a surge of strength.
The man straddling his chest went flying as Arlo heaved him off. He drove his head backward into the nose of the one choking him from behind — cartilage cracked, hot blood spraying.
Twisting like a snake, he rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a boot stomp that cratered the floor where his skull had been.
His palm shot out, catching the wrist of another attacker mid-swing.
With a feral grin, Arlo squeezed until he felt bones grind, then yanked, hurling the man into his comrade.
They crashed together in a heap.
The sudden counter made the others pause. They hadn't expected him to shrug off the assault so quickly.
Arlo rose to his feet slowly, blood dripping from his nose, one eye already swelling. His chest rose and fell heavily, bruises blooming across his arms and torso. He was a mess—
—but his grin hadn't faded.
"Not bad," he rasped, rolling his shoulders. "But you'll have to hit harder than that."
The prisoners snarled, then regrouped.
This time, they didn't just charge.
Two feinted from the front while another darted behind, sweeping with his chain.
Arlo ducked the swing but caught a punch to the gut, doubling over—just in time for a knee to collide with his face. His teeth clacked together with a sharp crack.
Another seized the opening, looping a chain around his arm and yanking him off balance.
Arlo hit the floor again, but instead of panic, a wild laugh tore from his throat.
"Hahahahaha!"
The sound was manic, unsettling.
For a brief second, even the prisoners faltered, unnerved by the sight of their "victim" laughing through bloodied teeth.
Then the leader barked, "Don't stop! Keep pounding him down!"
The coordinated assault resumed.
Arlo blocked what he could, countered when there was space, but every dodge only left him open to another strike.
His jaw throbbed, his lip split, his stomach felt like it had been caved in — and still, his grin never left.
Every hit taught him something new.
Every dodge sharpened his reflexes.
His body was learning, adapting.
And his blood sang with the thrill of it.
At last, the group drew back, breathing hard, circling him once more.
Arlo stood hunched slightly, blood dripping from his chin, his shirt torn in places. His body screamed at him to collapse, but his spirit refused.
He spat red onto the stone floor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and raised his eyes to the ring of men surrounding him.
The grin came back.
"So," he asked again, his voice hoarse but steady. "Who's next?"
The words rang out like a challenge, echoing in the hollow chamber.
This time, there was no laughter from the prisoners.
No jeering.
Only silence.
Then the leader finally stepped forward, cracking his knuckles slowly, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement.
"You've got spirit, noble boy," he said, voice low, dangerous. "But let's see how long that smile lasts… when you face me."
The circle of men parted, making space.
Arlo tilted his head back, his grin widening even through the blood on his lips. His heart pounded, his body ached, and yet he had never felt so alive.
The true fight was about to begin.