The world was cold iron and blood.

Soren felt it in every swing of the hammer, every shout from the guards, every scrape of chains grinding against his wrists. The clang of iron on iron echoed through the narrow, dim-lit cells beneath the Colosseum, where men and women waited to die. Some were prisoners, taken from conquered lands. Others had been born here, never knowing sunlight.

Soren was somewhere in between. Once a soldier, now a slave.

He tightened his grip on the rusted shackles that bound his hands. They were forged with thick links, weighty and unyielding. The guards had made it clear—these chains were to stay, for every moment he had left. Some said they were magic, forged in the fires of the Core Kingdom and steeped in the blood of fallen warriors, though he hadn't seen evidence of that. Only pain and restriction, as relentless as the Colosseum itself.

His cellmate, a gaunt man with hollow eyes who'd been through one too many fights, leaned against the stone wall and spat. "Tomorrow's the day, Soren. They're putting you in the Pit."

Soren's jaw tightened. The Pit was the Colosseum's deepest, most feared arena. Few who entered it came out with breath in their lungs.

"I've heard," he replied evenly, meeting the man's gaze. He didn't care for the fear in the man's eyes; he'd long since grown used to it. Fear had little place in his world now.

"You're just going to walk in there?" The cellmate shook his head. "I've seen men with ten times your strength come out broken, if they come out at all."

"I don't plan to stay," Soren muttered, his voice hardening. "The Colosseum, these chains… they'll break before I do."

The cellmate laughed, a bitter, harsh sound. "You're either mad or stupid. Nobody breaks the chains."

Soren's hands flexed within the iron. He could feel it there—the potential for something different, a sliver of strength he couldn't quite explain, hidden in the weight of metal that bound him. He'd sensed it in small moments, just a whisper of warmth in the cold. He didn't understand it yet, but he knew one thing: the chains were not as invincible as they seemed.

As if sensing his thoughts, the iron cuffs seemed to tighten, digging into his skin. He winced, but he kept his face steady. Pain had always been part of his life, a reminder that he was still alive.

The next morning, Soren was dragged from his cell and marched through the winding corridors of the Colosseum. The smell of damp stone and blood filled the air. He could hear the roars of the crowd above him, hungry for violence, eager to see flesh and bone reduced to little more than entertainment.

The guards shoved him forward, and he stumbled into the blinding sunlight. The Pit stretched out before him, a vast, circular arena carved into the earth, its walls high and unforgiving. Chains hung down from posts around the edges, glinting ominously.

He was not alone. Across from him stood a creature—a beast with a hulking frame and claws sharp as daggers, bound in similar chains. The Colosseum's latest invention, a monster crafted in the dark recesses of some forbidden alchemy. The crowd erupted into cheers as it snarled, pulling against its restraints, its bloodshot eyes locked onto Soren.

The guards tossed him a worn blade. Rusted. Blunt. It might as well have been a toy against the creature.

But Soren felt a jolt run through him as he gripped the weapon. It was the chains. His chains. They seemed to hum in response, a faint vibration that coursed through the iron and into his veins. He stared down at them, feeling something stir—a connection. He could almost hear faint voices, like whispers from another time, another life.

A horn blared. The beast lunged.

Soren threw himself to the side, rolling as the creature's claws tore through the air just inches from his face. He felt the ground shake as it landed, the power of its limbs rippling through the earth beneath his feet. He stumbled, struggling to regain his balance, but he held onto the hilt of his blade.

The beast snarled, advancing on him, its chains clinking with every step. In that moment, something clicked in his mind, a memory of the cellmate's mocking laughter, the endless years of being treated as less than human.

Break them.

The thought was not his own. It echoed through him, low and fierce, almost a command. His hands tightened around the chains. He felt the warmth intensify, flowing from the metal into his bones, filling him with a strange, electric power.

The beast lunged again, but this time, Soren didn't dodge. He raised his shackled arms, crossing them in front of his chest, and met the creature's charge head-on. The impact shook him, sent him skidding back, but he stayed upright. The chains, impossibly, held.

And not just that. He could feel them pushing back, resisting the monster's claws, radiating with some unseen energy. The beast snarled in frustration, clawing at the chains that seemed to repel it.

Soren's heart raced. This wasn't just metal; this was something else, something alive, something ancient and powerful. He could feel the spirits of those who had worn these chains before him—their suffering, their rage, their unbroken resolve. They were with him, bound to him, and in that moment, they were lending him their strength.

The beast roared, thrashing wildly. But Soren's movements grew surer, his strikes sharper. He no longer fought alone; the chains themselves seemed to move with him, responding to his will, binding the beast's limbs and slowing its attacks.

The crowd grew quiet, watching in awe. A fighter with no name, facing down a monster. And winning.

With a final, guttural cry, Soren drove his blade into the creature's heart. It collapsed with a shudder, its life bleeding into the sands of the arena. He staggered back, breathing heavily, still feeling the faint hum of the chains around his wrists.

The crowd roared, but he barely heard them. All he knew was the heat in the metal, the strength that surged through him. The iron felt lighter, somehow more familiar, as if he'd forged a connection with it beyond simple imprisonment.

And for the first time, he believed that maybe, just maybe, he could break these chains after all.

As he was led back to his cell, he didn't look at the guards or the crowd. His focus was inward, on the power he had felt. He didn't understand it yet, but he knew it was his only way out.

Soren clenched his fists, the chains cold and unyielding. But he was beginning to understand that they were not his captors; they were his weapons.

And he would use them to ascend.