The night had thickened like black ink in the bowels of the prison. No visible moon, no birdsong, just the faint hiss of the wind filtering through a few gaps, and that bitter taste in the air. Aranobu was not sleeping. Leaning against the rough wall of his cell, his wrists still shackled, he stared at an invisible point in the half-light, brooding over the horrors of the day.
Tomorrow, the arena... he thought, his throat dry. These two words sounded like a knell. He still had no idea what form this confrontation would take. How many men would he face? Could it be a duel, a collective massacre? Does he have at least one weapon? The guard had left the mystery hanging, but the threat was clear: this arena was designed for show, for shedding blood and shattering bodies. It would not be a noble and fair fight, but a sadistic staging. He was already sentenced to death, so it was only entertainment before the final sentence.
I refuse to die like this. Resolution rumbled in his chest. He was not an exceptional warrior in his real body, but he had at least some mastery of the sword. Now, in this criminal body, everything seemed foreign to him, but he couldn't afford to give up. If he survived, even if only one more day, he could gather information, develop a plan. Survival was the first step towards escape.
A slight clearing of his throat in the next cell pulled him out of his thoughts. Was this neighbor, who had sneered the day before, going to speak again? Aranobu listened, without breathing. Nothing, not a word. Perhaps he was asleep, or he was feigning indifference. Behind him, the wall was oozing. A drop fell on the stone, making a steady sound, like the ticking of an invisible clock.
Time passed, slow and silent. Aranobu closed his eyes briefly, attempting to rest. In the morning, he would need all his strength. His muscles hurt, his tense body had not yet recovered from the chores of the day. He tried to relax, arms crossed in front of his chest, knees bent, looking for a less uncomfortable position. The ground was hard, cold, hostile. I can't even sleep properly in this jail...
He also had to think about how to behave in front of the other prisoners. Senzaki, the criminal whose body he had inherited, had a reputation. He didn't know which one, but judging by the guards' distrust and contempt, he wasn't an insignificant stranger. Perhaps Senzaki was feared, or hated, or admired for his recklessness? Aranobu could not afford to contradict too abruptly the image of him, at the risk of arousing suspicion. However, how do you imitate someone you don't know? He had to remain discreet, silent, react cautiously, act as if a head wound justified his confusion.
A distant metallic sound echoed in the corridors. Perhaps a guard changing posts, or a prisoner shaking his chains. Aranobu took a deep breath, sucking in the cold, foul air. Sleep eluded him. How could he sleep, when the prospect of the arena gnawed at him?
He tried to remember a sword technique, a kata he had learned in his youth, a movement that once flowed naturally through his body. Pivot on the back foot, slice vertically, then follow up with a circular motion... He visualized the gesture, but when he wanted to reproduce it mentally, he felt the heaviness of his present limbs, the stiffness of his joints which, in this envelope, did not have the same support. It was like wearing a kimono that was too big or unsuitable sandals, her whole balance was distorted.
He had to admit, however, that this body was not puny. The muscles were there, gnarled, hard. Maybe Senzaki was a fighter, too, but of a different, more brutal style. If Aranobu could coordinate this physical strength with his tactical intelligence, he would have a chance of survival. It was a new art: learning to move, to strike, to dodge in a body that was not one's own. An insane challenge, but he had no choice.
A shiver ran down his spine. The ambient humidity seeped under his shirt. Insects, probably cockroaches, ran along the walls. He imagined the prison corridors teeming with vermin, and felt a deep disgust. But the vermin were much more humane here, he thought. Were not the guards, the Director, those who made a spectacle of torture, worse than rats?
Time flew by. Finally, after hours of insomnia, Aranobu's exhausted body gave way to a restless drowsiness. There was no real rest, just a slip into a half-sleep punctuated by startles. He dreamed of faces without eyes, of stolen hands, of bodies exchanging limbs like puppets. Voices whispering in the dark: "Your body is no longer yours..." you are nothing more than a condemned man... »
In the morning, a sharp noise, the same as the day before, announced the general awakening. A guard banged on a metal plate, creating a distorted gong. Aranobu opened his eyes, his neck stiffened, his limbs tired. The aches and pains were worse than the day before. I have to cope. He sat up, despite the pain, and waited.
The same one-eyed guard appeared at the end of the corridor. He carried a torch, for the sun had not yet illuminated the interior corridors. With a hard face, he quickened his pace when he saw Aranobu already awake.
"Well, Senzaki, didn't you sleep? So much the better, you'll already be warmed up for the arena," he sneered.
Aranobu didn't answer, just frowning. Don't talk too much. To pretend to be the taciturn criminal. The guard unlocked the cell door, escorted by two other fellows, all armed with short spears and clubs. The caution they displayed around him indicated that Senzaki was considered dangerous or unpredictable.
"Follow us, no nonsense, or you'll end up disemboweled before your time," one of the guards growled.
Aranobu stood up slowly. His wrists remained in place, but those that connected him to the wall were undone so that he could walk. They pushed him down the hallway, then escorted him through a maze of damp corridors. The prison was a labyrinth. Corridors crisscrossed each other, going up or down slightly, some lit by torches, others almost plunged into darkness. Distant screams, moans, and the jingling of chains formed the permanent soundtrack.
They passed several massive gates, marked with symbols that the protagonist did not understand, and passed intersections guarded by other guards. Some prisoners, chained in a file, went to the morning chores. Aranobu met the eyes of a few unknown faces, as weary as his own. No one spoke. The silence was broken only by the heavy footsteps of men and the clatter of irons.
After several minutes, they arrived in a larger area, a sort of vast central corridor, from which various entrances branched. There, a crowd of guards and a few prisoners were waiting. A senior officer—Aranobu guessed that he was a non-commissioned officer or a right-hand man of the Director—stood in the middle, arms crossed.
"So, this is our arena champion, Senzaki," he said wryly. The man was tall, dry, with an angular face, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes. His voice carried an indisputable authority. "The Director told us to prepare you. You're going to put on a great show, aren't you? »
Aranobu stared at him without batting an eyelid. What can I say? Nothing came to him. He simply nodded, a minimal, ambiguous gesture. The officer smiled badly.
"Not talkative this morning. Well, follow me," he ordered the guards. He turned around, leather robe slamming against his thighs, and entered a vaulted passageway.
They emerged into a sort of large underground hall, with a floor covered with compacted sand. Several torches dispensed an orange light, creating trembling shadows on the walls. There were instruments, racks of weapons, benches, buckets of water, and the smell of sweat and iron. It looked like the waiting room before the fight. Figures were busy, guards greasing leather armor, two chained prisoners cleaning blades under the close supervision of a jailer.
At the end of this room, a large studded wooden door, closed, probably the entrance to the arena itself. Aranobu's heart sank. He heard a vague hubbub beyond. As if, behind this door, an empty or inhabited space was waiting. The crowd? Is there an audience?
The officer waved to an underling, who brought a pair of weapons. He handed Aranobu a kind of long, thick knife, more like a machete, and a short stick with metal-reinforced ends. No noble sword, no katana, just crude weapons, intended to cripple more than to cut with finesse.
"Here, you have enough to defend yourself. No need to be picky. If you survive the first round, you may be able to deserve better. The officer laughed.
Aranobu took up arms in silence. The metal was cold, the handle rudimentary, but better than nothing. He tried to feel their weight, their balance. The knife was heavy, unbalanced, the stick a little too light for his taste, but he would deal with it.
"We've left the fetters on your wrists for the moment," said a guard, approaching to undo the chains that connected the wrists together. Aranobu felt a brief sense of relief when his hands were finally free of their bonds, even though the metal bracelets remained in place. A slight improvement, he thought. He could move his arms, grasp his weapons properly.
"So, Senzaki, in a hurry to go?" another guard taunted.
Aranobu responded with a calculated silence. He had to play the dangerous guy, perhaps mute, so that they wouldn't suspect anything. Or at least, that they think he was stressed, or focused. Talking would only draw attention to his difference in behavior. From time to time, he would cast a gloomy look, as if he were angry or defensive. He hoped that it corresponded to the idea they had of the character.
The officer approached the door, pressed his ear to the wood, then waved to someone. A rattle was heard behind, a latch activated, a sort of chain that was wound up. The arena is about to open, Aranobu thought, and her stomach knotted up.
The door creaked as it slowly pivoted, letting in a breath of cooler air. The arena was visible now: a semi-circular space, surrounded by stone bleachers, veiled by darkness. In the centre, a ground of fine sand, stained with dark traces, probably dried blood. Above, a pale sky, almost invisible because of the depth of the stone well in which the arena was dug. A strange silence reigned, as if the audience was absent or holding its breath.
Aranobu stepped forward, pushing a little on his still stiff legs. The guards remained behind him, ready to close the door. He entered the sand, knife in his right hand, stick in his left. His bare feet felt the deceptive softness of the sand, in contrast to the hardness of the stone in the corridors. Calm down, observe the terrain.
The officer spoke in a loud voice, echoing through the cavity: "This is Senzaki, the condemned man who must prove his worth this morning!"
No immediate response. Then a slight murmur, whispers. Aranobu narrowed his eyes. He could make out a few silhouettes in the upper stands. Few in number, not a crowd, but a small group of individuals. Some wore metal masks, others dark capes. The Director was probably among them.
A clear, calm voice resounds: "Let's begin." It belonged to a man, probably the famous Director, Sakuraba Tenzō. Aranobu wanted to see it clearly, but the backlight plunged him into darkness. He saw only a slender form, perhaps a rather tall man, draped in something. This voice was cold, authoritative, devoid of emotion.
At a sign from the Director, another door opened, opposite the one where Aranobu had entered. A figure stepped out on the sand: another prisoner. Tall, stocky, scars on his arms, face marked by disturbing tattoos. The man was holding a rudimentary axe and a wooden shield. He sneered at the sight of Aranobu, like a hungry wolf.
Aranobu felt his heart race. A duel, then. One-on-one, for starters. At least it wasn't a mass slaughter. But this opponent seemed experienced, confident. The protagonist gritted his teeth, took a step back, and tried to adjust his posture. The knife in the right hand, as a low guard, the stick in the left to parry or deflect.
Silence fell. Aranobu heard his own breathing, the very slight creaking of the sand beneath his feet, and the scraping of the axe on the shield of the enemy, who was playing with his weapons, impatiently. Then the Director pronounced a single word, a brief order: "Fight."
The opponent rushed forward, axe raised. Aranobu, surprised by the speed of the attack, rolled to the side, feeling the blade pass a few inches from his head. The sand cushioned his fall, and he got up in haste, just in time to see the shield melt down on him. He brandished the stick, blocking the impact, but the enemy's strength was considerable. He took two steps back, his arm sore.
He hits hard, too hard. The opposing prisoner must have been used to this kind of duel. Aranobu took a breath, tried to keep his distance. With his knife, he didn't have much range. Maybe he had to aim for the legs, turn around, wear it out. He feigned a blow to the face with his stick, hoping to raise the shield, then tried to strike the side with the knife. But the enemy anticipated, pivoted on his left foot, and threw his axe at Aranobu's thigh.
The latter jumped back, just barely, feeling a tingle in the air. The impact of the steel on the sand was dry. He's fast for a colossus. Aranobu knew that in his old body, he would have tried another, more graceful style of dodging, but now he had to deal with these unfamiliar muscles. He nearly stumbled, nearly losing his balance.
The enemy charged again, axe in the air, shield in front. Aranobu, this time, tried a bolder parry: he took a step forward, struck the shield with the staff to deflect it, then took a step to the side, trying to stick his knife into the axe's armed arm. His timing was almost good, but not perfect: the knife slipped over the dirty leather, only slightly cutting into the skin. The opponent grunted in pain, but responded with an elbow to Aranobu's ribs.
The pain was sharp. Aranobu stepped back, coughed, his vision blurred for a moment. Concentrate! He had to find a loophole. The shield covered the front, the axe dealt powerful blows. Maybe aim for the legs, attack from the bottom up. He feigned a retreat, moving sideways, forcing the opponent to turn to follow him. The sand crunched. The enemy seemed annoyed by this game of dodging. He wanted to end it: raising his axe high, he charged head-on, no doubt hoping to crush Aranobu with a mortal blow.
This is the time, Ararobu thought. He stooped at the last moment, the axe sliced through the air above him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shield move to the left, but too late. Aranobu, crouching down, first hit the opponent's leg with the stick, a sharp blow to the knee. A dull crack, a scream. The man staggered. Aranobu, without waiting, plunged the knife into the thigh, pulling outwards. Blood gushed, sticky, and the opponent screamed, falling heavily on the sand.
Aranobu staggered to his feet, his heart pounding. He had just seriously injured a man. However, no mercy is to be expected here. The enemy, pinned to the ground, tried to get back to his feet, trying to raise his axe, his face contorted in pain. Aranobu, his eyes clouded, hesitated for a fraction of a second. Should I finish it? This man, after all, wanted to kill him. And refusing to do so would probably mark its own end.
He had never killed before. His stomach tightened. But survival took precedence. Under the cold eyes of the unseen audience, Aranobu raised the knife and slammed it down the prisoner's throat. A groan, a flood of blood, and the body collapsed, inert.
Silence fell. No applause, no shouts of enthusiasm. Just the murmur of the spectators, the cold satisfaction of the Director. Aranobu felt a gagging, his hands trembling. My God, I just killed... But he could not let himself be overwhelmed. Not here, not now.
The Director's voice was heard again: "Interesting. Senzaki, you seem to have regained some of your ferocity. Very well. You'll survive one more day. A distant, almost indifferent tone, as if one were commenting on the result of a small horse race. No congratulations, just an observation.
Aranobu stared at the corpse at his feet. There was no glory, no noble battle, just forced murder to survive. He stepped back, his face closed, trying to hide the turmoil that was bubbling up inside him. The blood on his blade, on his hands, on the sand, a metallic smell rose to his nostrils. I have to hold on, show that I'm not weakening.
The door by which he had entered opened again, and two guards beckoned him to return. He obeyed, without a word, still clutching his weapons, like a wounded animal. I can't let go of my weapons, that's all I have left. But a guard approached, cautiously, and snatched the knife from him, while another dismissed the stick. Aranobu did not resist, knowing that it would be in vain.
The officer was there, a smile on his face. "Not bad, Senzaki. I thought you were going to go through it. It looks like you haven't lost your touch. Aranobu held his gaze, silent. Behind them, chained prisoners were busy dragging the corpse out of the arena, without a word, as if it were a mundane chore.
"Take him back to his cell. The Director will decide what happens next," the officer ordered the guards. The latter grabbed Aranobu by the arms and led him back, the knife and staff now in the hands of the jailers. He was forced to go back through the corridors, the damp rooms, to the section of the cells. The return was a tunnel of silence, where Aranobu digested the act he had just committed. He had blood on his shirt, blood not his own, living proof of his new hell.
In the corridor of the prison, he was put back in his cell, that tomb of stone and mold. Before closing the door, the one-eyed guard leaned over and whispered, "You're shady. Yesterday, you were clever, today you are strangely calm, but efficient. Keep it up, Senzaki, and maybe you'll have a slightly less humiliating death. He sneered, then left.
Aranobu found himself alone, his heart heavy, his body aching. He no longer knew whether to rejoice that he had survived, or to cry for having killed a man. I had no choice, he repeated to himself, like a mantra. Here, there is no morality, no just law, just the law of the strongest and survival.
He slid himself against the wall, sitting on the floor, his hands trembling. Breathe... Breathe. By now, he had proven that he could survive the arena. This left him with a reprieve. Perhaps the Director was going to make him face other opponents. Maybe one day he could use this situation to his advantage, gain a little better status and find a way to escape. The road was long, and the pain was sharp.
After a while, a faint voice rose from the next cell: "Huh, Senzaki, you managed..." I thought you were going to stay there. A sinister whisper. The neighbor was back.
Aranobu hesitated. Was it necessary to answer? If he remained silent, it might seem suspicious. He let out a grunt, vaguely affirmative. The neighbor chuckled, "Well, enjoy, you know that the Director likes to play with his food before devouring it."
These words sounded strangely. Aranobu wondered who this neighbor really was, what past he had, and why he was talking in riddles. For now, he had to focus on the essentials: regaining his strength, licking his mental wounds, and continuing to observe this closed world. Make allies, perhaps, learn from the prison's weaknesses, and find Shinoda Akemi or another reliable inmate.
The day was not over, and Aranobu could already feel fatigue eating away at him, a moral fatigue more than a physical one. I'm going to hold on, for my body, for my identity. He refused to give in to despair. He was alive, that was the only thing that mattered at that moment, in the infernal spiral of fate.