.
.
.
—
/Scribble…/
/Scratch scratch…/
/Clink… Step… Stop…/
Being dragged by the chains around his neck, Dale was led to a small, somewhat decorated office by the guards where an old man sat down before a table, writing something down without much care.
Throughout the entire journey, Dale never even got a glimpse of the sun, what an unnecessarily ominous place...
"Is it him?" The old man asked without raising his head, focusing instead on the piece of parchment above his table
"Number 13, ready for his eighth consecutive fight."
"Send him to the armory to get equipped and prepare for the upcoming presentation, make him somewhat presentable as well, don't mess this up, high scores are valuable."
His voice was cold and somewhat mechanical, almost as if his replies were all automated.
He didn't even think about them, they just flowed to his lips automatically.
