A day of rest. A day of food. Then, the pit.
Arya had become a spectacle, a name that stirred excitement and resentment in equal measure. Seven days of relentless combat had forged him into a legend within these blood-soaked walls. The crowd no longer just cheered for him—they waited for him to fall. No one rises without others wanting to drag them down.
Once again, he entered the pit, and once again, fighters came at him. And one by one, they fell.
Raghav and Rudra fought at his side, their backs against his, moving like a single force. Strike. Dodge. Counter. Survive. They had learned each other's rhythms, their movements fluid, a dance of blood and steel.
But something unsettled Arya.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow on the balcony above. A figure watching him. Familiar. But before he could place it—
Upendra stood.
The Kaalrath
"This is becoming dull," Upendra's voice echoed over the arena. "Let's make it interesting."
The iron doors groaned open, and from the darkness, something emerged.
A figure, clad head to toe in blackened armor, stepped into the pit. A towering presence. A jagged, brutal sword gripped in gauntleted hands.
A Kaalrath.
The crowd gasped. Arya felt the shift in the air. This was different.
The Kaalrath moved with terrifying precision. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just death.
Arya barely dodged the first swing—a blade the size of a man cleaved through the space he had occupied a second before. The force sent dust spiraling into the air.
Raghav and Rudra struck from both sides, their weapons glancing off the thick plates of the Kaalrath's armor. No effect. The figure turned and slammed an armored fist into Raghav's chest, sending him flying.
Arya darted in, aiming for the gaps in the armor. His blade found purchase—a strike to the shoulder.
No blood.
The Kaalrath spun, its blade carving through the ground as Arya leapt back, barely avoiding the lethal arc. It was an executioner, methodical and relentless.
They had to work together. Fast.
Strike high. Strike low. Weave. Evade.
The battle dragged on. Sweat. Blood. Pain.
Arya finally saw it—a flaw. The armor was thick, but it had weaknesses. Joints. Seams.
He shouted to Rudra and Raghav, directing their blows. Distract. Misdirect. Expose.
The opening came. Arya lunged. His sword drove through the gap beneath the helmet, piercing flesh.
The Kaalrath fell.
The silence was brief. Then the crowd erupted.
"They killed a Kaalrath!" someone shouted.
Upendra's smirk returned. "Impressive."
But Arya wasn't looking at him. He was looking up. At the shadow on the balcony. Watching. Waiting.
Three weeks passed.
Day after day, the three were thrown into the pit. Day after day, they survived.
But something had changed. The audience had lost interest.
Arya always won. There was no suspense. No thrill.
Upendra's profits dwindled. The bets shrank. The crowd grew restless.
His dominance in the underworld rested on the pit's ability to entertain. And Arya was ruining it. No one wanted to gamble on a fight with a predictable ending.
In a moment of overconfidence—and desperation—Upendra made a reckless decision.
He stood before the crowd, arms raised. "If they want a real challenge… then I will be the one to give it to them."
The arena exploded with cheers. A fight they had not seen before. Warlord against warrior.
Raghav and Rudra looked at Arya. Something in his eyes had changed.
This wasn't about survival anymore.
It was about ending it.
The pit fell silent as Upendra entered. No armor. No tricks. Just power.
Arya took his stance.
The fight began.
Upendra was fast. Faster than Arya expected. The first strike came like a hammer, a brutal punch to Arya's ribs that sent him reeling.
He barely had time to recover before another blow crashed into him. His vision blurred. His body screamed.
This wasn't like before. Upendra was ruthless. Precise.
Arya countered, landing a sharp kick to Upendra's side. The warlord barely flinched.
The crowd screamed for blood.
Upendra smiled. Then he truly attacked.
Arya blocked, dodged, countered. But Upendra had spent his life mastering brutality. Every movement was calculated.
A punch to the jaw. A knee to the gut. A crushing elbow to the back of the skull.
Arya dropped to a knee, gasping.
Upendra grabbed him by the throat and lifted him, slamming him into the ground. The world spun.
But Arya wasn't finished.
With the last of his strength, he twisted, locked his legs around Upendra's arm, and brought him crashing down. The warlord's face met the dirt.
Arya scrambled up. Blood filled his mouth. His muscles burned.
Upendra rose, growling. "That all you got?"
Arya wiped the blood from his lips. "Not even close."
They clashed again. Fists. Kicks. Strikes. Dodges. Blocks. An unrelenting war of pure will.
Arya saw it—the opening.
With a final surge, he drove his knee into Upendra's stomach, twisted, and slammed his elbow into the side of his head.
Upendra crumbled.
The arena was silent.
Arya had won.
He staggered back, panting. It was over.
Then—
Upendra moved.
He lunged, grabbing Rudra and dragging him forward. A blade against his throat.
The warlord's face was bloodied, but his grin was wide. "You think this is your victory? You think this means anything?"
Arya's fists clenched. His body screamed. But he knew what had to be done.
In a final, desperate move, he launched forward. A strike to Upendra's wrist. A twist. A reversal.
The blade turned.
A heartbeat later, it was over.
Upendra fell.
Dead.
The arena was silent.
Arya let out a slow breath. He looked at Rudra, then at Raghav.
No words were spoken.
They were free.
And the world would soon know it.