The knight turned toward the heavy iron door, his armored footsteps echoing like war drums on the cold stone floor. He didn't look back—just walked slowly, as if unbothered by the screams that continued to leak down from above, as if the massacre of children was nothing more than routine.
Luke watched him go, bile rising in his throat. His lips parted before he could stop himself, voice dry and raw.
"Who… am I? Where is this? What's happening?"
The knight paused at the threshold, his broad back framed in the torchlight. He didn't turn.
His voice came cold, precise. Detached.
"You are 00001. The first of tens of thousands."
"If you want to know more... survive."
The door groaned shut behind him with a metallic clang that echoed in Luke's bones.
And then—silence.
Or nearly silence.
Only the tortured roar of the crowd above remained. A storm of cheers and laughter blended with the animalistic shrieks of children fighting for their lives. The noise oozed through the cracks in the ceiling like blood from an open wound.
Luke stood frozen.
Then, slowly, he sank to the ground, his knees hitting the cold stone with a dull thud. The cellar was dim, barely lit by dying torches, their flames flickering like the last gasps of condemned souls.
He buried his face in his hands.
He didn't want to look through the narrow window anymore.
They're just children...
He knew it now—truly understood. The arena wasn't meant for criminals. It wasn't war. It was ritualized cruelty. A game for the monsters above. An altar built on broken bones and ruined innocence.
And he had been the one to start it.
The opener...Me
The title rang in his head like a curse.
A low, broken laugh escaped his throat.
"Haha…HAHAHA… HAHAHAHAHAH—THIS MAKES NO SENSE! HAHAHAHA!"
The sound bounced off the walls, jagged and empty. Laughter bled into sobs, and before he knew it, tears streamed down his face.
Luke was crying.
For the first time in years.
He wasn't just scared—he was crushed. Helpless. Alone in a pit built to erase names, strip humanity, and grind hope into dust.
"MOTHER... FATHER... AND MY SIBLINGS!"
He screamed, the sound raw and gut-wrenching. It echoed back at him like a mocking whisper.
They may have ignored him, overlooked him, pushed him aside—but they were still his. They were warmth, even if he'd only felt it in passing. Now, there would be no more birthdays. No arguments. No memories made.
His last memory of Earth was of blood seeping out of him, pooling around his body like a crimson grave.
And now here he was again—cold, bleeding inside, surrounded by shadows.
---
Time passed. How long, he couldn't tell.
Minutes. Hours. It didn't matter.
The tears stopped. His breathing slowed. The silence began to settle around him like dirt in a grave.
But he wasn't dead.
Not yet.
His mind clawed at something—anything—to keep from shattering. And then, it landed on the one thing that had never betrayed him.
Survival.
Years of martial training. Dozens of disciplines. He had poured his youth into technique, into reflex, into discipline. He wasn't a prodigy. He wasn't adored. But his body remembered.
It had moved on its own in that fight—calm, neutral, precise. The boy he fought had flailed in terror, swinging wildly just to delay death.
Luke? He controlled the moment.
That training had kept him alive.
And it would again.
Home...
The word surfaced in his mind like a fading memory. Home. A place of pain. A place of love. A place that was his.
No matter what it takes. I will survive. I will crawl through this hell. And I will go back.
Even if it meant becoming a monster just to endure the company of monsters.
---
Suddenly, the crowd roared once again—louder, more frenzied, as if something unthinkable had happened above.
And then the door opened.
Torchlight spilled into the cellar like an unwanted revelation.
The knight stood in the doorway. But this time… he wasn't alone.
Behind him poured a wave of broken bodies—hundreds upon hundreds of children, maybe more. Limping. Bleeding. Shivering. Some were blank-eyed. Others still wept. The smell of blood, piss, and
fear hit Luke like a wall.
They were herded like cattle into the dark.
The knight stepped aside and barked—
"You lot. This is where you'll be staying in the meantime."
Then he gestured toward Luke.
"That's 00001. The opener."
A smirk curled in his voice, if not on his lips.
"Behave yourselves."
The children didn't look at Luke. They barely looked at anything. Some collapsed on the floor. Others curled into fetal
positions. Some just stood—staring at the walls as if trying to imagine another world.
But there was no world left. Only this.
And Luke?
He sat among them.
Not the strongest. Not the bravest.
But the first.
-------
Luke sat in the corner of the cellar, knees still pressed to his chest, the torchlight casting long shadows that danced like ghosts across the floor. Around him, the moans, sniffles, and breathless silence of hundreds of shattered children filled the space like smoke in a suffocating room.
Then, he noticed the girl beside him.
She couldn't have been older than eleven. Her mint-green hair, though tangled and matted with blood, caught the torchlight strangely—almost unnaturally. Pointed ears peeked through the filth-streaked strands, twitching faintly at each sudden sound. She wore a thin, blood-stained tunic that barely reached her knees. Her small frame trembled with exhaustion, eyes wide and glassy—an animal awaiting the next blow.
She hadn't spoken. Hadn't even looked at him.
Still, something in Luke stirred—the will to reach out, however fragile.
"Uhm... hello," he said softly.
She flinched—not at his words, but at the noise.
And then came a sharp crack, followed by shouting.
Two boys, no older than fourteen, had begun to brawl just a few meters away.
One had long, unkempt auburn hair, his skin sun-browned and scarred. His shirt—a thin Osnaburg tunic like the ones worn by field slaves back on Earth—was torn, revealing bruises beneath. His eyes were wild with fury and survival.
"I WAS HERE FIRST! GO BACK AND LEAVE, YOU COWARD!"
he shouted, shoving the other boy backward.
The second had short black hair, pale skin like ash, and a face too composed for a child his age. His speech was refined, mannered even, but laced with venom. He too wore a slave's tunic—stained and filthy, but his posture remained proud.
"What do you know, you lowly beast? You reek of the gutter!"
he spat, his tone that of a boy who had once looked down on servants—who had likely never lifted a hand in his life until today.
The shouting echoed across the cellar, breaking the fog of grief for just a moment. Some children flinched. Others
ignored it entirely. The broken don't care for noise.
Luke felt something twist in his gut.
They were children.
Fighting. Screaming. Tearing each other apart, just like above.
He stood.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
His shadow stretched out over the stone as he stepped forward, his voice firm but steady, echoing with the tone of someone who had seen too much to be ignored.
"Both of you. Stop."
The words cut through the tension like a blade.
The boys froze.
Their chests heaved, eyes locked onto Luke—the first, the opener, the one who had stood alone and come back whole. They didn't know who he was, but they felt it. Authority. Gravity.
The auburn-haired boy took a half-step back, his fists still raised but trembling.
The black-haired boy's lip curled slightly, but even he stayed silent.
The cellar once again began to hush.
And Luke stood between them—not a king, not a hero…
…but as a 'brother'.