The metallic door opened with a loud rattle and whining groan that echoed through the small brick room.
Footsteps followed, slow, deliberate, heavy.
He was ready this time.
He shut his eyes tight and raised his left palm in front of his face so the light wouldn't blind him. But it didn't matter. The brightness hit like a blade. Even through his hand, it burned, searing orange spilling through the cracks between his fingers, painting his skin red. It wasn't light; it was punishment. It pierced through his palm and stabbed into his eyes, tearing at what little peace he had found in the dark.
Then came a voice.
"Was it go—" a gruff voice started, then stopped mid-sentence.
Silence followed. The boy stayed still, hand pressed tight over his face, his breath uneven.
Then a low chuckle broke the quiet. It grew louder, a snort, then a laugh, until the sound filled the room.
"Ah… ha… ha… boy, you really made my day," the man said, voice rough with amusement and mockery.
"Get up."
The boy obeyed. His body tensed, expecting pain, but it didn't come. The ache that had once consumed him was gone. His arm, the one that had been broken, no longer screamed.
Surprised, he loosened his hand, lowering it slightly. That was a mistake. The light stabbed through the edge of his palm and seared his vision white. He hissed and pressed his hand back up to his face.
"You won't be needing that anymore," said the man, his voice closer now.
A large, rough hand gripped his right arm. The boy flinched at the sudden touch.
"Don't move," the voice warned coldly. "Or I'll break it again."
He felt the sticks and cloth around his arm being ripped away. The skin underneath prickled from the sudden exposure, cold air brushing over tender flesh. Yet… there was no pain. The arm was fine, fragile, but healed.
"Now walk," commanded the voice.
So he walked forward, palm still shielding his eyes.
Then a heavy palm landed on the back of his neck, thick fingers gripping tight. The touch froze him. The pressure wasn't crushing, but it was steady, a reminder of power, of what could happen if he disobeyed.
"Did I tell you to stop walking?" the man growled, voice low and dangerous.
The boy swallowed and moved again. The hand eased, still resting against his neck like a leash.
The corridor stretched on. The only sounds were their footsteps, the man's heavy and slow with what sounded like heavy boots echoing through the walls, the boy's light and uneven as his feet slapped onto the cold stone floor. The air was cold and damp, smelled faintly of stone and rust as it scraped beneath his feet.
His thoughts spun wildly.
Where was he?
Who was this man?
Why and how was he healed?
Was this the one who attacked him?
And if so… why keep him alive?
He didn't know. None of it made sense.
The orange glow behind his palm dimmed, so he slowly lowered his hand. He squinted and blinked rapidly as his vision blurred and adjusted. The hallway around him was dim, lined with dull orange lights that flickered along the walls. His shadow stretched thin and short, and behind him, a much larger one loomed, solid as a wall.
The man walking behind him was massive. Shoulders broad, steps heavy. His presence alone felt suffocating.
The boy's voice cracked as he tried to speak. "W… where a… am I?"
The man snorted, amused. "You're lucky, boy," he said. "Seeing you stumbling around half-dead is what saved you."
The boy frowned, confused. 'What?' he thought.
"I don't know who you fought or who you owe," the man continued, his tone flat and cold. "But you're alive, which means someone wanted you that way. Not out of kindness, out of cruelty."
He paused, letting the words settle before continuing.
"You see, letting someone like you live… broken, starving, useless, that's worse than killing. Because it gives you hope. Hope that you'll climb out of the pit. Hope that you'll be free. Hope that you'll survive."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a growl.
"And hope's the cruelest thing you can give the weak."
The boy's hand tightened into a fist. The word weak echoed in his mind like an insult carved into stone.
"But today…" the man's tone shifted, rising, "you have an opportunity. A chance to prove you're more than the trash they left you as. A chance to be remembered."
They turned a final corner. A wooden door stood ahead, light leaking from its edges. Beyond it, muffled cheering echoed, rough voices shouting, chanting.
"Today," the man said, his tone swelling with excitement, "is a day to be remembered!"
The boy's heart pounded.
Without warning, the grip on his neck tightened. He was yanked forward. The wooden door flew open with a deafening crash, flooding him with light and noise.
Before he could react, the hand on his neck vanished, replaced by two enormous palms clamping down and seizing his shoulders.
He was spun around, face-to-face with his captor.
The man, no, the creature, was monstrous.
A pig's face twisted with madness loomed over him. One ear was gone, the other twitching with agitation. A long, jagged scar cut through his milky left eye, the other wide and glinting with madness. His snout flared with every heavy breath, and the scent of sweat and iron poured off him.
"Today," the creature bellowed, "YOU FIGHT FOR GLORY!"
Before the boy could breathe, his elbows were pressed into his sides and he was lifted and thrown.
The world spun. His stomach lurched. Then came dirt, rushing up to meet him.
He twisted mid-fall, slamming into the ground shoulder-first, rolling through dust and grit. The impact tore the air from his lungs.
When he finally stopped, the roar of the crowd swallowed him whole.
Wooden walls surrounded him, forming a pit. He looked up and a crown of viewers circled the rim. Some figures beastlike with fur and heads of different animals. Others with scales and long torsos that disappeared behind the railing. Humans with both dirty and clean clothes. All of shouting and laughing with a crazed look in their eyes as they pumped their hands in the air cheering. Coins rattled in hands. Drinks spilled onto the dirt below.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" a voice thundered from above, booming and theatrical. "YOUR NEXT CHALLENGER — NUMBER SEVENTEEN!"
The crowd erupted in chaos.
"Today, he fights not only for survival and our entertainment," the announcer continued, voice climbing to a fever pitch, "but for GLORY!" shouted the announcer, his words swallowed by the chaos as the audience chanted in unison.
"GLORY! GLORY! GLORY!" the mob screamed, stomping their feet and shaking the stands.
The boy was confused and terrified.
"If you have not placed your bets, place them now as the fight will commence!" charismatically reminded the crowd.
Then came the sound, something striking metal.
The boy turned, his body trembling.
From the far end of the pit, something slammed against its cage. Again. And again. A guttural growl echoed, wet and vicious. The boy squinted through the dust and saw eyes, yellow, glinting, unblinking.
Something slammed against the bars of a cage again and again, growling with feral fury. Saliva splattered through the gaps, glinting in the light. The shape behind the bars was too dark to make out, but its eyes glowed yellow and hateful.
"Looks like one of our opponents is getting impatient," the announcer chuckled.
"Now without further ado, let the fighting BEGIN!" he yelled with excitement.
A metallic click rang out. The bars began to rise.
The crowd roared.
The boy's heartbeat drowned everything else out.
Whatever was behind those bars, it wasn't human.
And it wanted him dead.