The bloodstained arena of Lurde Monte was packed to the brim with spectators. While ten of the chosen slaves were led into the armory, the rest were herded into another chamber.
Among those brought into the armory was a white-haired boy—Elias. His eyes roamed over the rusted swords, bent shields, splintered bows, cracked spears, and dulled daggers. He tested a few weapons in his hand but quickly found most of them unworthy. Many were broken or worn beyond repair. When one slave attempted to lift a spear, its shaft snapped instantly—evidence of the poor quality they were expected to fight with.
Elias's gaze was suddenly drawn to a dagger hanging on the back wall, coated in a thick layer of dust. He reached for it, pulled it from its brown leather sheath, and revealed a dark iron blade laced with faint red markings. Testing its weight, he swung it lightly—nearly injuring a frail slave beside him. Elias quickly sheathed the dagger, raised a hand in apology, and stepped aside to wait.
Meanwhile, in the center of the arena, a ritual was underway. Four bald figures in crimson robes—followers of the cult known as the Blood Moon Sect—sat around a large sigil painted in blood-red dye. Two held their hands over their chests, the others above their heads, chanting in a language no one could understand.
In the northern stands, a golden statue of a woman stood tall, nearly twice the height of an average adult. Her long hair fell to her waist, and her arms were stretched outward. A massive gold-plated cauldron sat before her.
The crowd was alive with noise:
"—Who did you place your bet on?"
"—On my slave, of course!"
"—Is he even competing?"
"—Who do you think will win?"
"—I can't wait for the fights to begin!"
In the royal box, seated beside Queen Estella, Hedric leaned in to speak.
"Your Majesty, forgive my impertinence... but may I ask something?" His eyes remained fixed on the arena.
"Ask, Hedric, but mind your words. A misplaced sentence here could be your end," the queen replied, hiding a smirk behind her fan.
"Do you truly think it's right for our young prince to be married at such an age?"
"This is no ordinary marriage, Hedric. It's a small but crucial step toward continental peace. Both King Ernold of Elarion and His Majesty desire this union."
"...So what you're saying is..." Hedric trailed off, falling into thought.
"I see you understand. Then do not question it again. Deliver the girl to the palace—soon," the queen said, her tone final.
Moments later, a mystical voice echoed through the arena, as the sigils before the stands lit up:
"Honored citizens of Gravmire, before the games begin, let us pay our respects to the queen who has graced us with her presence!"
Everyone stood and bowed toward the royal box. Even the slaves and guards knelt.
From behind a magical veil, the queen's voice rang out, unmistakably hers:
"I, Queen Estella Reymonds, consort of King Franklin Reymonds, greet our noble people. Today, we offer our devotion to the great goddess Selkarya. The warriors you see before you will fight in her name—hoping to win her mercy."
"To our divine protector, I offer my reverence. And I envy these savages who shall spill blood in her honor."
Thunderous applause followed her speech.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the voice returned. "Now, let us announce the first round!"
"As always, the warriors will face a Class-B beast. The victor shall be the one who lands the killing blow—not the one who deals the most damage."
Rules:
You may attack one another.
You may wait to fight the beast until the others fall.
All survivors except the final victor will be sacrificed.
The sigils dimmed, and a magical barrier rose around the arena to protect the audience from stray attacks.
A massive oak door—nearly four times Elias's size—creaked open, dragged by heavy chains. Red eyes glinted from the darkness beyond, followed by a low growl. Elias stood at the front of the right row, his small frame trembling only slightly. Determination burned in his eyes. He wasn't the only child—but he was certainly the youngest.
From the shadows emerged a beast. White fur, crimson eyes, and three bushy tails—it was something between a fox and a porcupine. Saliva dripped from its fangs as it eyed the slaves hungrily.
When the beast let out a ferocious roar, one of the nearby warriors collapsed, clutching his ears. Two more bled from the ears and collapsed screaming. A bald man with a long beard and massive axe charged at the creature, leaping with both hands raised. Just as his weapon neared its snout, the beast ducked and fired three quills from its back.
The spikes tore through his abdomen. His body hit the ground limp. The crowd roared in delight.
Two warriors—a muscular man clad in partial armor and another curly-haired fighter with no armor—rushed in from either side, attacking in tandem. The curly-haired one slashed at the beast's front leg, while the armored man leapt and drove his blade into its shoulder.
The beast howled in rage. It clamped its jaws around the curly-haired man's head and flung his corpse at the other, who slammed into the barrier with a sickening thud. One was now headless, the other unconscious—perhaps from the impact, perhaps from the beast's assault.
But Elias noticed something the others hadn't: the beast's wounds were healing. Slowly, but surely.
What the hell? he thought, still unmoving. These men don't even use magic—how are they supposed to win? Something's off...
He glanced at the crowd. They were laughing, cheering as another short-haired man was torn to shreds.
A few arrows flew, landing near the beast's eye—but none pierced it. After swallowing a half-eaten man, intestines spilling from its jaws, the beast spat out the lower legs and let out a sonic roar that knocked out several more fighters.
This isn't a real match, Elias realized. It's a spectacle. A massacre. We're the show.
He turned to a trembling boy beside him—only four or five years older—ripping at his own hair, too terrified to notice the wetness beneath his tunic.
Elias closed his eyes. He needed to think. He recalled his training, the practice he had done with the element of water—its harmony with Elemir energy.
Water is the purest of all elements. It senses everything. Let your mind become clear like water. Focus.
With that, he activated a technique he had only recently begun to master—an instinctual awareness. He could feel, hear, and perceive everything around him.
From within that silence, he tuned into a familiar voice—Hedric's.
"I didn't think the first round would be a sacrifice match," Hedric said. "And using the demonic fox, Tricarnis… that's unexpected."
"A shame for you," Estella smirked. "Oh right—your slave is among them, isn't he?"
"But this is tradition," she continued. "One round with a Class-B beast always adds excitement—and reduces the number of finalists."
"And increases the sacrifice count," Hedric replied, his lips twitching. "And this beast—unless you use magic, it's unbeatable."
"Exactly," the queen said with a delighted smile. "Watching these filthy mongrels get shredded is quite fun."
Suddenly, her joy turned to confusion.
Back in the arena, Elias detected a foul stench and stepped away. When he opened his eyes, the beast was right in front of him, its putrid breath washing over him.
Surprised that Elias didn't faint, the beast narrowed its eyes. It ignored the unconscious boy beside him. There was something different about Elias—something… enticing.
A dark aura had begun to emanate from the boy's body—an aura that only appeared when his killing intent surged to the surface.
Tricarnis roared at him, the sound knocking two other slaves unconscious.
Elias didn't flinch. Apart from the saliva now clinging to his face and his ponytail coming undone, he was unharmed.
Enraged beyond reason, the three-tailed beast opened its jaws—to devour him whole...