The duo stared each other down, tension thickening the air. The bald man grinned, his smile twisted with malice. "Damn kid, you sure know how to glare. What, is what I did really getting to you that bad?" His taunt was met with silence, Ezra's expression unchanging. The match official gave a nod, signaling the start, and the crowd erupted with anticipation.
The bald man took a step forward, his grip tightening on the hammer's handle. "What's the matter? Lost your nerve already?" He sneered, goading Ezra with every step. But Ezra moved deliberately, his gaze focused and unflinching, as he closed the distance one slow, measured step at a time.
The bald man chuckled, his confidence mounting as Ezra drew closer. "Look at you, all calm and collected," he taunted, raising his hammer high. "Guess it's time to put you in your place—"
Before he could finish, a flash of silver cut through the air. Ezra's sword moved with a speed so swift the crowd barely registered it. In one clean motion, he severed the man's head, his blade carving through with effortless precision. The hammer fell from the man's hands, clattering uselessly on the ground as his body slumped forward.
Ezra stood over the body, his breathing steady as the weight of the scene dawned on the spectators. The Colosseum grew eerily silent, the crowd momentarily stunned. Then, cheers erupted, mixed with whispers of disbelief. This was no ordinary slave; he fought with a speed and precision that left the audience both awed and unnerved.
Ezra took a step back, flicking his blade to clear it of blood. His expression remained cold, detached, as he turned to leave the arena. In his mind, he hadn't done anything special—only what was needed to survive.
This wasn't the first time Ezra had killed a man. He looked down at the corpse, barely aware of the crowd's shocked silence. His mind drifted back to that night, years ago, when he'd stayed out too late searching for work. He remembered the cold dread that seized him when three gangsters cornered him behind a deserted building.
He was prepared to hand over his meager belongings without a fight, but one of them sneered and said his "glare" was enough reason to teach him a lesson. When they attacked, Ezra reacted on instinct. He took down two of them quickly, his fists flying with a precision that surprised even himself. But the third pulled a knife, lunging at him with wild intent. Ezra didn't think—he grabbed the man's wrist, twisted, and, before he even realized it, plunged the blade deep into his throat.
The man had staggered back, clutching at the wound, while Ezra stood there, his heart pounding as the life drained from his attacker's eyes. The gang had never reported him, and he'd never spoken a word about it. But that night haunted him for weeks. He'd lost a lot of sleep back then, grappling with the uneasy feeling that he'd crossed a line he couldn't return from.
Now, standing in the blood-soaked sand of the arena, Ezra felt none of that hesitation. This time, it was just survival.
Ezra finally shook off his daze, noticing that the once-roaring crowd had fallen into an eerie silence, with only a few shocked murmurs breaking through. He looked at the match official, his expression puzzled. "Is that... not what I was supposed to do?"
The official, momentarily taken aback, composed himself before replying. "It's not against the rules, no, but fights don't usually end that fast. Typically, the match lasts longer, and the crowd gets to decide the loser's fate. They probably didn't expect it to end so abruptly." Clearing his throat, the official continued, eyeing Ezra with newfound suspicion. "Fighter Ezra, are you… perhaps an Aether Manipulator? It would explain the speed and skill with which you defeated your opponent."
Ezra frowned, still processing. "Aether? No, I don't think so. I've never even seen one in person," he replied, his tone flat but honest. "So I doubt it."
The official nodded, visibly relieved yet still cautious, before gesturing for him to leave the arena. As Ezra exited, he caught the murmurs from the audience and officials alike, all wondering who this young, strange fighter was—and where he'd learned to kill with such brutal efficiency.
Ezra returned to the gladiator holding room, noticing how the other fighters looked at him—some with fear, others with newfound respect. Ignoring their stares, he headed to an empty seat, but before he could sit, Dammon rushed up and pulled him into a rough embrace.
"Ezra, you brutal beast!" Dammon exclaimed, practically beaming. "I knew you'd be worth every coin! People were already offering to buy you on my way down here."
Ezra gently freed himself from the hug, sighing. "I'll take that as a compliment, I guess. Now, when do I get paid?"
Dammon let go and grimaced, brushing away the fresh blood on his clothes. "Well, I can't collect the winnings until all the fights are officially over. Give it a few hours."
Ezra nodded, leaning back in his seat, while Dammon chuckled to himself, clearly savoring the wealth Ezra would bring him.
Ezra sat back and observed the remaining fights, noting how each played out in a slow, drawn-out dance compared to his own swift execution. The crowd was animated with every blow and, true to the official's words, relished in voting on the fates of the losing fighters, often drawing out their judgment with boos and cheers. Hours later, the event finally concluded, and the cheers began to fade as the spectators dispersed.
After the arena emptied, Dammon swaggered over to Ezra with a satisfied grin and dropped five small silver coins into his hand. "There you go," he said. "The portion I promised. Rest up, because I'll be signing you up for as many matches as I can manage. Your next opponent is already lined up, and you have a week to prepare."
Ezra glanced down at the coins, a modest reward given his performance. He pocketed them without comment, his mind already focused on what the next week might bring.
Dammon continued, "Word is spreading about you, kid. The nobles love a ruthless fighter, and if you keep this up, you'll be headlining these events in no time. But don't get too comfortable; I expect you to put on a show, not just finish things in seconds every time."
Ezra smirked. "I'll see what I can do. Guess I'll need to pick up a few new tricks."