The cage was three steps wide, four steps long. I had counted. Many times.
Steel bars on three sides, a stone wall on the fourth.
In one corner, a bucket reeking of piss and despair.
The floor was blackened with blood and worse.
This was my world now. This box. This silence.
I sat against the stone wall, seeing nothing. The other prisoners talked—in whispers, prayers, curses for the captors, begging for mercy from invisible gods.
I said nothing.
There was nothing left to say.
Elena was gone. Mira was missing. Uncle and Aunt... maybe dead. My village was ash.
The boy who used to carve wooden horses didn't exist anymore.
What was left... was something else.
"You're new."
The voice came from the cage beside mine.
An old man with a gray beard, his hands scarred like a roadmap of violence.
His left eye was gone—just a hollow socket surrounded by puckered flesh.
I didn't answer.
"I'm talking to you, boy. I was here before you, so I'm your senior. You should respect me ."
Still nothing.
Words were for people who believed in conversation. Connection.
In the possibility that speaking might change something.
He laughed—a dry, bitter sound. "Silent type, huh? Good.
The ones who talk too much don't last long in here.
But since you're going to die within a week, I'll give you some free education."
"This game got bloodier ever since Valesia attacked our country."
I turned my head slightly. I wasn't interested, but I wasn't deaf either.
"This place," he pointed at us both, "is not just a prison.
It's entertainment. The rich bastards up there," he gestured at the ceiling, "they bet on us like we're dogs.
But there are rules, kid. Ugly rules."
He came closer to the bars separating us.
"Man fights man—killing's forbidden. Wound them, break them, but don't kill. They want us alive for return matches."
His single eye gleamed in the torchlight. "But man fights woman... that's different."
Something stirred where dead emotions used to be.
"If the woman wins," he went on, "she can gut you like a fish. Clean kill—or torture, if she wants. The crowd goes wild.
But if the man wins..." He smiled with rotted teeth. "Well, let's just say you get a special bonus.
You can do whatever you want with your 'prize.' Chain her down with the same chains she wore into the ring. Do anything."
That stir turned into a cold fire.
"They call it the Conqueror's Right. Most men live for those matches. Easy win, sweet reward.
" He studied my face. "But you don't look like most men."
I slowly stood and walked to the front of the cage. "What's your name?"
"Marcus. Been here two years. Seen boys like you come and go. You've got that look—like something inside you died even before you got here."
"Something did."
"Good. The dead last longer." He settled back against his wall.
"Your first fight's tomorrow.
Against Korran the Bear. He's killed six men in this cage alone—though officially, those were all 'training accidents.'"
Marcus laughed again. "He thinks he's going to enjoy breaking you."
I pressed my face between the bars and looked down the corridor at the other cages. Dozens of them. Dozens of broken people being fattened for slaughter.
"How many women fighters are there?" I asked.
"Three. The Viper—fast but weak. The Iron Maiden—built like a fortress but slow. And then..." His voice dropped to a whisper.
"There's Shira. They call her the Queen of Blades. There are others, but they're weak—mostly prey. But more girls are coming in these days."
I asked, "How many men has she killed?"
"Twenty-three. Twenty-three men walked into the ring with her. None walked out." Marcus's single eye turned distant. "She's undefeated. Unbroken. And angrier than hellfire."
I nodded slowly. "Good."
"Good? Kid, you don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." I returned to my corner, settling against the stone. "I understand this place thinks it's hell. But hell isn't a place you're sent to."
I thought... This place is bad for a man. For a woman, it's worse than hell.
I closed my eyes, saw Elena and Mira's faces once more—then pushed them away.
Hell is what you carry inside you.
"Arena"
They came for me at dawn.
Iron shackles around my wrists, a chain connecting them to my ankles. Long enough to walk, not to run.
Two guards flanked me as we walked the stone corridors that smelled of blood and fear.
The arena was a circle of sand surrounded by rising tiers of seats. Rich merchants, corrupt nobles, war profiteers—draped in silk and velvet, sipping wine while waiting for blood.
Above them all, in a gilded box, sat the man who owned this place. He didn't look like a commander.
He saw me and raised his glass in a mock toast.
My chains were removed.
A guard shoved a sword into my hand—dull, chipped, barely worthy of the name. Across the arena, another gate opened.
Korran the Bear emerged to thunderous applause.
He was massive—six and a half feet tall, shoulders like boulders, arms like tree trunks.
Scars covered his torso like trophies. His weapon was a two-handed axe that looked like it could split a horse in half.
The crowd chanted his name. "KORRAN! KORRAN! KORRAN!"
He raised his axe above his head, basking in their adoration. Then he looked at me and smiled—a predator spotting easy prey.
"FIGHTERS!"
"BEGIN!"
I realized then that this was a death match. Special. That's why we were given weapons.
And then... Korran charged.
A small boy versus a giant. The crowd loved it.
They didn't see us as people. Just sport.
Korran swung his axe in a wide arc aimed for my head. I sidestepped—no drama, no flourish. Just a simple motion. The axe whistled past my ear.
He stumbled forward—my sword drove into his ribs, angled toward the heart.
But my swordsmanship was average. He barely blocked it in time with his second axe.
He fell. Shock on his face—like he'd just brushed against death. Sweat froze on his brow.
I dropped my weapon.
The arena laughed.
Korran roared: "Are you mad? You think you can win without a weapon? That first strike was luck! Now you die!"
He charged again, throwing one axe while swinging the other—a clever tactic, honestly.
I dodged.
First, I struck his leg—he fell. Then a blow on his chest and than final blow to his face.
Three moves.
Done.
For a moment, the arena was silent.
Then applause erupted.
People congratulated me.
One voice shouted, "I bet on you! I knew you were strong!"
I didn't bow. Didn't celebrate.
I didn't even look at them. I just retrieved my sword, wiped it on Korran's shirt, and walked toward the exit.
"STOP!"
Commander Voss's voice—cold and sharp.
I stopped. Looked toward his box.
"That was... impressive. Unexpected.
" His cold smile returned. "Guards, take our new champion to private quarters. He needs rest."
As they led me away, I saw the crowd screaming in silence—whispers of amazement and fear.
They expected a show.
They witnessed an execution—effici
ent, clinical, emotionless.
Exactly like Elena's death.
Last time I heard... people were talking about just one thing — her fight with the Queen of Blades. Said it'd be worth watching."