The morning began with the harsh sound of metal striking metal, a guard dragging a club along the bars of each cage to rouse the slaves. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space, making sleep impossible and announcing the start of another day in the Arena's brutal routine. Velrith had not truly slept, maintaining her state of alert rest against the wall, and the sound brought her to full awareness immediately.
The fever from her infected brand had not broken. If anything, it felt worse. Her head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Her shoulder burned with a deep, pulsing pain that radiated down her arm and across her back. The flesh around the numbers was hot and swollen, the infection spreading slowly through the tissue. She felt weak and unsteady, her body fighting a war against itself that drained energy she desperately needed.
But weakness could not be shown. She forced herself to her feet along with the other slaves, moving stiffly to avoid aggravating the brand. The dominant male and his lieutenants rose leisurely, stretching and taking their time, secure in their positions. The lower-tier slaves, including Velrith, moved quickly and nervously, knowing that slowness invited violence.
The guards opened the cage gates one by one, moving down the row with practiced efficiency. Each cage's occupants were ordered out into the narrow walkway between the rows. The slaves formed rough lines, shuffling and adjusting positions to avoid standing too close to any of the stronger prisoners. The air was thick with tension and fear. No one knew exactly what the day would bring, but the general understanding was that it would involve pain.
Commands were barked in the guttural demonic language. Velrith's body continued its automatic processing of the sounds, parsing meaning from tone and context. The commands were simple: move forward, stay in line, remain silent. The consequences for disobedience were demonstrated when a slave near the front of the line stumbled and fell. A guard immediately delivered a vicious kick to the fallen slave's ribs, the impact making a dull, meaty sound. The slave struggled back to their feet, gasping for air, and the line continued moving.
They were herded through the maze of underground corridors, ascending gradually toward the surface. The path was different from the one they had taken to reach the cells, winding through sections of the Arena structure that Velrith had not seen before. The walls changed from rough volcanic rock to more deliberately carved stone, then to sections reinforced with iron and obsidian. The temperature rose as they climbed, the cool dampness of the deep underground replaced by the dry heat of the volcanic realm.
After perhaps twenty minutes of walking, the corridor opened into a massive outdoor space. The transition from enclosed darkness to open sky was shocking and disorienting. Velrith's eyes, adjusted to the dim torchlight of the cells, were immediately assaulted by the harsh brightness of the demon realm's sun. She squinted against the painful glare, raising one hand to shield her face while her vision slowly adjusted.
This was the Arena training yard. It was enormous, easily two hundred feet across and roughly circular in shape. The floor was not stone but sand—deep, hot sand the color of rust and blood. The sand had been raked smooth recently, creating a uniform surface unmarked by footprints or disturbances. But beneath that fresh layer, the sand was stained dark in places, evidence of old blood that had soaked deep and could never be fully cleaned.
The training yard was surrounded by high walls made of the same black obsidian as the rest of the Arena structure. The walls were smooth and unclimbable, easily thirty feet tall, with a narrow walkway running along the top where guards could observe from above. Several guards were already positioned there, watching the slaves being herded into the yard with expressions of bored indifference.
One side of the yard featured a large covered area, its roof supported by thick wooden beams that had been stained black by age and weather. This covered section housed the weapon racks—long rows of wooden frames holding practice weapons of various types. There were wooden swords of different lengths and weights, wooden spears, wooden axes, wooden maces, and other implements designed to train without immediately killing. The practice weapons were crude and worn, their surfaces covered in old bloodstains and dried sweat from countless previous users.
Near the weapon racks stood several wooden posts driven deep into the sand, their tops wrapped in thick, stained cloth. These were striking dummies, used for practicing blows and building strength. The cloth wrapping was shredded and torn in places, revealing the wood beneath, dark and splintered from thousands of impacts.
Along the opposite wall was a raised platform, about four feet high and twenty feet long. This was clearly the observation area for the instructors and overseers. Several figures already stood there, watching the slaves being assembled in the training yard. They were too distant for Velrith to make out specific details, but their postures radiated authority and power.
The slaves from multiple cage sections were gathered together in the yard, roughly two hundred in total. They stood in a loose mass in the center of the sand, surrounded by guards positioned at regular intervals around the perimeter. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the heat rising from the rust-colored sand made the air shimmer and distort. Within minutes, sweat was running freely down Velrith's face and body, soaking into the iron collar welded around her neck, the metal heating against her skin where the engraved words "Property of Arena Master Volgath—Expendable Class" pressed into her throat. The salt stung her eyes and made her already feverish condition worse.
The crowd of slaves was a mixture of fresh arrivals like Velrith and veterans who had survived previous training sessions and Arena combats. The veterans were easy to identify—their bodies bore extensive scarring, their movements were confident and economical, and their eyes held a cold, calculating awareness. The fresh arrivals were nervous, fidgeting, looking around constantly, their fear obvious in their body language.
Movement on the raised platform drew attention. One of the figures stepped forward to the edge and raised one hand for silence. The guards immediately began shouting and using their whips to enforce order, driving the slaves into tighter formation and stopping all conversation. Within seconds, the training yard fell into complete silence except for the sound of heavy breathing and the distant crackle of torches.
The figure on the platform was an instructor demon, and even from a distance, his presence was intimidating. He was not as large as some of the overseers, but his body was lean and efficient, built for speed and endurance rather than brute strength. His skin was darker than most slaves, a deep charcoal grey that seemed to absorb light. His horns were thick and swept back, their surfaces covered in carved symbols that Velrith could not read from this distance.
But it was the scars that truly marked him as a veteran. His body was a living map of violence survived. Long, clean slash marks crossed his chest and arms. Circular burn scars dotted his shoulders and neck. One side of his face was disfigured by what appeared to be old claw marks, the tissue raised and twisted, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer. His left eye was missing, the socket scarred over, but his remaining eye was sharp and focused, scanning the assembled slaves with predatory intensity.
The instructor demon spoke, his voice carrying easily across the yard despite not shouting. The demonic language flowed from him with the confidence of absolute authority. Velrith's body processed the sounds, extracting meaning from the harsh syllables.
"You are expendable. You exist to fight and die for the entertainment of your betters. Most of you will be dead within a month. Some will last longer. A very few might survive long enough to earn status beyond expendable. But do not deceive yourselves—you are all meat for the Arena."
He paused, letting the words sink in. Around Velrith, several slaves shifted nervously. One began to quietly sob, the sound immediately drawing a sharp look from the instructor.
"Today you begin training. You will learn the basics of combat. You will learn to hold a weapon without dropping it like the pathetic worms you are. You will learn to move, to strike, to defend. Or you will die in your first match and feed the worms that crawl in the Arena sand."
The phrase "feed the worms" was delivered with particular emphasis, clearly a common threat or saying in this place. The instructor's scarred face twisted into something that might have been a smile, but held no warmth or humor.
"The rules are simple. Fight when told. Obey instructions. Survive if you can. There is no mercy here. There is no fairness. There is only the Arena, and the Arena demands blood."
The instructor gestured to the guards, who immediately began moving among the slaves, grabbing individuals and dragging them toward the weapon racks. The selection seemed random, but Velrith noticed that the guards tended to grab the fresh arrivals rather than the veterans. This made sense—the veterans had presumably gone through this process before and knew the routine.
Velrith was grabbed by a guard, thick fingers clamping around her upper arm with bruising force. She was hauled out of the crowd and pushed toward the weapon racks. Several other slaves, perhaps twenty in total, were being assembled in a loose line near the covered area.
The instructor descended from the platform, moving with a fluid grace that spoke of extensive combat experience. He walked along the line of selected slaves, his single eye examining each one with cold assessment. When he reached Velrith, he paused, his gaze traveling over her white skin, her prominent curves, her elegant black horns with their red and purple lines, and finally settling on the fresh brand on her shoulder. The infected wound was obvious, the swollen, discolored flesh weeping fluid that ran down her back.
"Fresh meat," the instructor said, the words holding contempt and dismissal. He reached out and prodded the infected brand with one finger, applying pressure deliberately. The pain was immediate and intense, causing Velrith to gasp and stiffen. The instructor watched her reaction with clinical interest, then moved on to the next slave without comment.
The line of selected slaves was ordered to approach the weapon racks. The instruction was simple: each slave was to select a practice weapon and return to the sand pit. The choice seemed to be theirs, but the instructor added a warning.
"Choose wisely. Choose wrong, and you die tired. The weapon must fit your body and strength. A sword too heavy will slow you. A spear too light will break. Think, if you are capable of thought."
Velrith approached the racks, her fevered mind struggling to process the decision. She had no combat training in either of her lives. Joseph had been a sedentary reader, his only physical activity the occasional walk to the convenience store. This new body, Velrith's body, was equally untrained, though it possessed natural demonic strength and resilience that had allowed her to survive this far.
She examined the available weapons. The wooden swords varied in length from about two feet to over four feet. Some were straight and simple, resembling human longswords. Others were curved or had unusual shapes that she did not recognize. The weight varied significantly—some looked light and fast, others heavy and brutal.
She tried to apply logic to the choice. Her body was curvaceous and relatively small compared to many of the larger male slaves. A heavy weapon would tire her quickly. But a weapon too light might lack the impact necessary to do damage, even in practice. She needed something balanced, something that could work with her current weakened state.
Her hand reached out and grasped the hilt of a wooden sword roughly three feet long. The moment her fingers closed around it, she knew it was wrong. The grip felt unnatural and awkward in her palm. Her fingers did not align properly with the grooves worn into the wood. The weight distribution felt off, the balance point too far forward. She tried to adjust her grip, shifting her hand up and down the hilt, but nothing felt correct or comfortable.
She lifted the wooden sword from the rack, the movement clumsy and hesitant. The weapon wobbled in her grip, the tip dipping down toward the sand despite her attempt to hold it level. Her wrist ached immediately from the strain of the unfamiliar position, and her fevered body made the weight feel even heavier than it actually was.
Around her, other slaves were making their selections and returning to the sand pit. Some moved with confidence, clearly having handled weapons before. Others fumbled like Velrith, uncertain and afraid. The instructor watched all of this with his single eye, cataloging strengths and weaknesses, making mental notes about who might survive and who would die quickly.
Once all the selected slaves had chosen their practice weapons, the instructor ordered them to form pairs. This pairing was not random—the instructor walked among them, pointing and directing, deliberately matching inexperienced slaves with larger, stronger opponents. The purpose was obvious: this was not training, it was culling. The weak would be identified and broken immediately.
Velrith found herself paired with a large male slave, easily six and a half feet tall and heavily muscled. His body bore old scars but also relatively fresh wounds, suggesting he was a recent arrival who had already survived several training sessions or minor combats. His horns were massive and curved, the tips sharp and dangerous. He held his wooden practice sword with casual competence, the weapon looking small in his large hands.
The male slave looked down at Velrith with an expression of predatory satisfaction. She was small, female, clearly weak and feverish, and holding her weapon like she had never seen one before. This would be an easy victory for him, a chance to demonstrate dominance and perhaps earn favor with the instructors.
The instructor's voice carried across the training yard, delivering the command that would begin the violence.
"Fight. First to yield or fall unconscious loses. Losers receive no food today. Winners receive double portions. Begin."
The large male slave did not hesitate. The moment the command was given, he moved forward with surprising speed for his size, closing the distance between himself and Velrith in three long strides. His wooden sword came up in a simple but effective overhead strike, aimed directly at her head with the clear intention of ending the fight immediately.
Velrith tried to react, tried to raise her own weapon to block or deflect the incoming strike. But her body was slow, weakened by fever and infection, and completely untrained in combat. Her hands fumbled with the sword grip, failing to bring the weapon up in time. She managed to shift her weight slightly, a desperate attempt to dodge, but the movement was too little and too late.
The wooden sword struck the side of her head with brutal force. The impact was stunning, a massive shock that traveled through her skull and down her spine. Her vision exploded into bright white light, then immediately darkened at the edges. Her ears filled with a high, piercing ringing sound that drowned out all other noise. Her legs buckled instantly, strength fleeing from her muscles as her brain struggled to process the trauma.
She fell face-first into the hot sand, her body limp and unresponsive. The wooden practice sword dropped from her nerveless fingers, landing beside her with a dull thud. She tried to push herself up, tried to regain her feet and continue fighting, but her arms would not obey. Her consciousness flickered like a dying flame, moments of awareness alternating with moments of complete darkness.
Through the fading awareness, she felt more impacts. The large male slave was not satisfied with a single strike. He kicked her ribs, the blow forcing air from her lungs. He struck her back with the wooden sword, the impact sending fresh spikes of agony through her infected brand. He wanted to make sure the victory was absolute, the humiliation complete.
The last thing Velrith registered before consciousness fled entirely was the instructor's voice, cold and dispassionate, delivering his assessment of her performance. "Pathetic. Next pair." Then darkness took her, and she knew nothing more. The training yard continued its brutal work around her unconscious body, indifferent to one more failure among the expendable meat that fed the Arena's hunger.