The laughter from the hall didn't stop after they left. It rarely did. There was always someone to laugh at. Always someone bleeding.
This time it wasn't me.
Two recruits near the front had gone from bragging to brawling in seconds. A shove turned into a punch. A punch turned into a chokehold. One boy, lanky with bright blue sleeves, kept slamming the other into the wall with his elbow. The other finally buckled and collapsed with blood running down his cheek.
No one stepped in. The recruiters didn't even look up. A few guards watched like it was entertainment. One of them threw a crust of bread at the winner, who caught it with a grin and stuffed it into his mouth before wiping blood off his knuckles.
That was the test. That was all it took to be noticed.
I didn't cheer. I didn't flinch. I watched every movement, every feint and slip. The taller one had overcommitted with his left. Could've taken him down with a low grab. The boy with the blue sleeves left his back open twice. Sloppy. Cocky.
I'd have killed both of them.
If they let me.
Someone sat down beside me.
No one had done that in days. Maybe weeks.
His armor creaked when he moved, layers of old rust and leather groaning like they hadn't been flexed in years. He stank of iron and sweat, but not like the others. It was cleaner. Sharper. He still carried the smell of blood that came from something bigger than rats.
"You got a name?" he asked, his voice rough like broken gravel.
I didn't look at him. "No."
He chuckled. Not kindly, not cruelly. Just… amused.
"Good. You don't need one until someone remembers it."
We sat in silence for a few seconds. The fight had ended. One recruit was dragging the loser across the floor by his boots. No one stopped him.
"You're not like the rest of them," the man said.
I turned slightly. His eyes were tired, rimmed with red, but focused. Too focused for someone who looked like he'd already lived past his prime. A faded clan sigil marked his shoulder. One I didn't recognize.
"You don't beg," he said. "Don't brag. Don't talk. Most of the time that means you're dead inside. But you…"
He tilted his head.
"You're angry."
I didn't answer.
He kept going.
"I used to think it was strength that made men dangerous. It's not. It's hunger. That sharp kind. The kind that doesn't go away when your stomach's full."
I finally spoke. "You recruiting me?"
He scoffed. "No. I'm giving you a chance to stop dying slowly."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a black token. It was chipped, like a coin that had been chewed on. A faded etching covered one side: three broken swords in a ring.
"Tonight. East gate. Back tunnel behind the waste carts. If you show up, you fight. No weapons, no name, no second chances."
"What happens if I win?" I asked.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You might get to fight again."
He stood up and left without another word.
I stared at the coin for a long time before slipping it into my ragged cloak. I didn't ask questions. I didn't weigh the risk. I'd been ready to die for weeks. The only difference now was that someone might remember how.
That night, the halls quieted early. The fires burned low. Most of the others had already passed out on their benches or left to sleep in the barracks outside. No one noticed when I slipped out the side door.
The waste carts reeked worse than I did. Rotten meat, burnt hair, oil sludge. The back tunnel was half-buried in mud and broken crates, barely tall enough to crouch through. Rats the size of cats scattered as I entered, but I didn't flinch. Rats were the least of my concern.
The air inside was damp. Faint torchlight flickered deeper down, orange against the stone. Voices echoed, low, tense, excited.
I followed the sound.
At the end of the tunnel, the space widened into a circular pit carved out beneath the center itself. Faded murals lined the curved walls, ancient warriors locked in battle. The ceiling was low and curved like a broken dome. Metal bars lined the upper rim, forming a cage overhead.
About two dozen people stood around the edge. Some wore scavenged armor. Others had robes, cloaks, masks. Every face was shadowed. Every voice quiet. A few stared at me as I entered, but no one spoke.
I stepped forward and dropped the token into the center ring.
It clinked against the stone.
A man stepped from the crowd, he was bald, bare-chested, scars running like rivers across his torso. He cracked his knuckles and smiled with half his teeth missing.
No announcement. No rules.
The fight began the moment he moved.
He was fast. Faster than he looked. Came in swinging with a heavy right hook meant to take my head off.
I ducked.
My body moved before my mind caught up. It wasn't instinct. It was hunger.
His second punch clipped my shoulder. Pain flared, but I didn't stop. I stepped into him, drove my elbow into his gut, then bit his neck.
He screamed.
I didn't let go. I bit until I tasted blood and then drove my knee into his groin. He dropped, gasping.
I grabbed the edge of his jaw and slammed his head against the floor.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The crowd didn't cheer. They just watched.
I stood over him, blood dripping from my lips, chest heaving. My shoulder throbbed. My hand shook. My body swayed.
But I was still standing.
A voice broke the silence.
"What's your name, fighter?"
I looked up. It was the man in the rusted armor.
I didn't answer right away. I let the blood drip. Let the silence stretch.
Then I said it for the first time in a long while.
"Vaun Cravik."
The name echoed in the pit.
Somewhere above, someone wrote it down.