The following days were marked by creeping tension. The Director had not yet officially announced this famous collective fight, but the rumor of the monster in the arena was spreading among the inmates. Every whisper, every whisper in the shadows added an extra layer of dull terror. Some imagined a hungry tiger, others a gigantic bear, or even a supernatural creature. Ignorance fed fear, and fear fed docility. The Director mastered this art perfectly.
Aranobu continued to play his part, working without flinching, sometimes nodding his head at the orders of the guards. When a weak prisoner stumbled, he offered discreet help, not striking enough to be perceived as ostentatious compassion, but enough to cast doubt on his supposed cruelty. When Fujita Naotora crossed his path, an exchange of glances was enough to maintain the idea of a possible future collaboration.
One afternoon, while he was shoveling dirt in the courtyard, a detail caught his attention: a small group of prisoners were gathered behind a wagon, watched over by an absent-minded guard. Among them, Kishibe Tsuneko, the woman at arms. She gesticulated, whispering agitatedly, while two other inmates listened to her. Aranobu pretended to direct his work in this direction, slipping a curious glance in the process.
« … no choice, if we find ourselves in the arena with this monster, we must at least try to ally," he heard Kishibe say in a hoarse voice. One of the men replied in a low voice, "Align with you? You're crazy? You will abandon us at the first sign of danger. Kishibe bared his teeth: "Not if we agree before, idiot." We help each other, we survive, we share the benefits, and then we do what we want. His tone betrayed impatience, but also a certain pragmatism.
Aranobu masked a discreet smile. Thus, some prisoners were already taking the initiative to consider temporary mutual aid. He mentally noted this fact. The planned chaos in the arena with a ferocious beast could be the perfect time to create a form of momentary solidarity. He had to act tactfully, however. If he were to partner too early with Kishibe, who is known for her unpredictable character, it could backfire. But keeping that information was helpful.
The next day, he was assigned another chore: sorting bags of spoiled rice. A less physical job but more degrading, because the smell of moldy rice was foul and insects swarmed. Aranobu endured, his nostrils pursed, choosing the roughly edible grains to distribute them later as mush to the prisoners. Two guards were dozing in a corner, just shouting a few insults to maintain order.
At one point, a thin, waxy-complexioned prisoner slipped as he passed by Aranobu: "Hey, Senzaki, is it true that you've already survived two fights in the arena?" His voice trembled, a mixture of admiration and fear. Aranobu nodded slowly, not responding verbally. The man continued, "What... Do you do it? Aren't you scared? »
Aranobu sensed an opportunity. He replied in a low voice, in a hoarse tone: "The fear is there, but I hide it. If you show your fear, you're dead. Vague advice, but likely to impress this frightened prisoner. The man swallowed, nodded, then walked away, confused. Little by little, Aranobu sowed in the minds of others the image of a calm survivor, who masters his terror without ignoring it. Neither a stupid brute, nor a benevolent hero. Just someone realistic.
In the evening, in the comparative silence of the cell, the neighbor became agitated. Aranobu heard movements, sighs. Without expecting any provocation, he whispered, "You look nervous. What's going on? The neighbor hesitated, then replied in a low voice, "Nothing, Senzaki. Just... memories. A longer sigh, a tremor in his voice. Aranobu didn't push any further. If he managed to establish some kind of bond, even a fragile one, with this unknown neighbor, it could be useful later. For the moment, respect for silence was wise.
The next day, in the refectory, a change of routine took place: the meal was served late, without explanation. The prisoners waited, worried, with empty stomachs. When at last the guards arrived, they were tense, weapons in hand, forming a double row. Then the Director appeared, a rare thing. He didn't often go down the corridors, preferring to stay overhead, but this time, he was standing on a wooden walkway, above the room, observable by all.
In a calm voice, he announced: "My dear prisoners, the hour is approaching for a new entertainment. You have proved, for some, an unexpected resistance. It's time to check what your cohesion is worth. Tomorrow, at dusk, we will have a fight in the arena. Several of you will be chosen to face an opponent... particular. A cruel smile curled her lips. The prisoners froze, fear in their stomachs.
"The names will be announced tomorrow. Prepare. With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared, everyone's heart pounding. The guards finally distributed the soup, but none of the prisoners were really hungry. They swallowed the warm water mechanically, their throats tight. Aranobu, on the other hand, analyzed every word of the Director. No details about the beast, no details on the number of prisoners chosen. A tactic to fuel anxiety.
That night, Aranobu slept with one eye open. If I'm chosen, I'll have to take advantage of this situation. Maybe the Director will test my ability to cooperate or impose myself. If I can show other inmates that collective survival is possible, then I will become a pivot. But if I seem too altruistic, it arouses suspicion. A precarious balance.
In the morning, the announcement came in the form of a rumor transmitted by the guards. Three teams of prisoners would be formed, sent in turn into the arena against the creature, a wild animal captured far to the north, according to some rumors. The teams would be composed of five inmates each, armed in a rudimentary way. Only one team would survive, the one that managed to defeat the beast. The others? Destined to die or be removed from the arena if they failed.
Divide and rule, Ararobu thought. The Director created a deadly competition between the teams. He was going to choose who to go on which team, probably putting together incompatible prisoners. Aranobu doubted that he had the luxury of choosing his allies.
A guard stopped in front of him, a scroll in hand, and read aloud, "Senzaki, you are designated to the first team. With you: Kishibe Tsuneko, Ryō, Ishimura Daigo and Fujita Naotora. Prepare. The fight will take place tonight. The guard sneered. "A nice mix, huh? Good luck. »
Aranobu suppressed his astonishment. The Director puts me with these key people: Kishibe the renegade, Ryō the innocent, Daigo the colossus, Fujita the tea master. It's as if he were testing an explosive cocktail. It was also a suspicious coincidence, as if the Director wanted to see what their interaction would turn out like. No doubt he hoped for a failure. Or on the contrary, a fascinating spectacle.
Fujita Naotora... Aranobu remembered the poison's offer. Maybe he could use it against the beast. Kishibe Tsuneko was looking for temporary alliances, this moment was ideal. Ryō, the wounded idealist, a fragile young man, would need protection. Daigo, the colossus, represented brute force, but was he reliable? I must seize this opportunity, Ararobu thought. If we manage to defeat the beast, we will probably come out very weakened, but the union could forge a core of rebels.
Aranobu spent the day with a knot in his stomach. The guards forced them to work as if nothing had happened, unaware that in a few hours, some of these men would probably die in the arena. No one dared to protest. The prospective prisoners avoided looking at each other, behaving like strangers.
At last the hour approached. Torches were lit, casting flickering lights on the walls. The five prisoners of the first team were taken from their cells and taken to the underground room preparatory to the arena. Aranobu, handcuffed like the others, discovered his teammates with a quick glance.
Kishibe Tsuneko, tall, with short hair, a scar on his cheek, stared at the floor somberly. Ryō, the young idealist, was trembling, his ankle still sore, and cast a pleading glance at Aranobu, as if he saw an anchor. Daigo, massive, broad-shouldered, with a closed face, seemed resigned, his gaze lost in space. Fujita Naotora, slender and elegant, with a fleeting gaze, sniffed discreetly as if his nose was blocked, and gave Aranobu a fine, almost knowing smile.
The officer appeared, carrying a burlap sack: "Here are your weapons. Make good use of it. He threw the sack at their feet. Inside, five rudimentary weapons: an unequal spear, a blunt axe, two crooked knives, and a fork of reinforced wood. No shields, no armor. Just enough to tempt fate. Aranobu took the spear, familiar by its length, Kishibe took the axe, Daigo the larger knife, Fujita the second knife, and Ryō the pitchfork.
The officer sneered: "The animal... A mountain tiger, it seems. Fierce. He has already tasted human flesh, so don't count on his pity. His gaze fell on Aranobu. "Senzaki, the Director is watching you. Don't disappoint him. »
Aranobu held his gaze without saying a word. They were pushed towards the door of the arena. The distant rumble of a non-existent crowd echoed in everyone's imagination. The Director must have been there, in the shadows, ready to savor the carnage.
The door opened onto the sand, which was lit by torches around the edge. This time, guards with spears stood in the stands, ready to kill anyone who tried to flee. In the middle, a massive cage of wood and iron was waiting. Inside, we could see a dark shape that moved, growled, scraped the ground with its claws. The tiger. The tawny smell was already in the air.
The five prisoners advanced, forming an awkward semicircle. Kishibe swore in a low voice, "We're in shit." Fujita whispered, "Calm, dear friend. Maybe there's a way... Daigo clutched the knife, his muscles bandaged, Ryō, pale as a sheet, swallowed. Aranobu took a step forward, raising the spear slightly, Demonstrate your leadership without overdoing it, he thought.
He spoke in a low, hoarse voice, so that only his teammates could hear him: "If we disperse, the tiger will kill us one by one. We have to stay together, attack him from the flank, tire him out. Kishibe looked at him contemptuously, "Are you giving me orders, Senzaki?" Aranobu calmly retorted, "Do you want to die here, chopped to pieces?" Your choice. I propose a strategy. »
Fujita chimed in, "Let's calm down. Senzaki is right. The tiger is stronger than a single man. A united front is needed. Ryō nodded feverishly, Daigo let out an approving growl. Kishibe gritted his teeth, then shrugged, "Very well. For this time. But no treachery, understood? »
Aranobu nodded. The understanding was fragile, but it existed. The Director, no doubt, was watching them, amused by this scene. A rattling sound was heard. We were going up the cage gate. The tiger, furious at being locked up, jumped out as soon as the opening was sufficient. A hoarse rumble, eyes shining in the torchlight. It was a magnificent and terrifying animal, with a dark coat streaked with stripes, a muscular colossus, its mouth bristling with yellowed fangs.
The tiger sniffed the air, spotted the five human silhouettes. A predatory gleam lit up in his eyes. He moved forward slowly, his felted paws not lifting a grain of sand. The prisoners formed a bow, spears and blades pointed at the beast. There was no escape, they were surrounded by the stands and the guards, condemned to fight.
Kishibe, impatient, made the first assault. She screamed, brandishing her blunt axe. The tiger took a step back, startled by so much noise, then feigned to the right, dodging the blade, and bounded towards Kishibe. The woman-at-arms cursed, tried to turn. Aranobu reacted immediately. He sprang to the side, sticking the spear at an angle to divert the wild beast's attention. The spike grazed the tiger's shoulder, and he roared. This allowed Kishibe to avoid a fatal claw.
Ryō, the trembling pitchfork, approached timidly, trying to prick the wild beast's flank. The tiger, irritated, turned and snapped his jaws in the air, very close to his face. The young man screamed, stepped back hastily, almost stumbling.
Fujita Naotora, agile, tried a more subtle approach. He walked around the tiger, looking for a blind spot. Daigo, on the other hand, moved slowly, knife raised, ready to strike if an opening presented itself. Aranobu understood that they had to act in concert. He whispered, "Kishibe, make some noise to the left. Ryō, stay behind me. Fujita, look for the tiger's kidney. Daigo, ready to hit hard as soon as the beast is distracted! He did not give orders, but directives, such as urgent advice.
Kishibe, annoyed, nevertheless obeyed, hitting the sand with her axe, shouting insults to get the tiger's attention. The wild animal, annoyed, turned his head towards her. Fujita took the opportunity to approach from the side. Aranobu, spear outstretched, prompting Ryō to stand ready behind him. Daigo bends his knees, muscles tense like a bow.
The tiger attacked Kishibe, sweeping the air with its massive paws. She parried with the handle of the axe, which shattered under the shock. A splinter of wood cut her cheek, but she held on, throwing herself flat on her stomach to avoid a bite. At that moment, Fujita pounced on the beast, trying to stick his knife in the side. The tiger sensed the threat, spun with frightening speed, and sent Fujita rolling into the sand with a paw. The tea-master screamed, the knife slipping out of his hand.
Daigo is taking a chance. While the tiger was busy pushing Fujita away, he sprang forward, raising his knife. In a superhuman gesture, he slapped the tiger on the neck, looking for an artery. The blunt steel barely penetrated, but a thin stream of blood gushed out. The tiger roared, mad with pain, and counterattacked furiously, scratching Daigo's chest. The colossus screamed, staggered back, his torso lacerated.
Aranobu understood that he had to intervene. He jumped up in turn, spear aimed at the animal's belly, but the tiger heard him. He turned around, fangs bare, ready to tear it to pieces. Just before impact, Ryō, behind Aranobu, found the courage to move his pitchfork forward, pricking the tiger's hind leg. Surprised, the beast tilted its body slightly, giving Aranobu a striking angle. The hero took advantage of the second of distraction to plant his spear in the side of the wild beast, as deep as possible.
A deafening howl rang out, the tiger reared up, swinging a desperate claw. Aranobu dropped the spear to avoid losing an arm. The tiger, wounded, was now shaking its head, looking for whom to kill first. Blood flowed from his side, from his neck, soiling the sand. But he remained formidable.
Kishibe, unarmed, looked for a stone, something to throw. Fujita, stunned, crawled to retrieve his knife. Daigo, wounded, was panting, but was ready for a last effort. Ryō, trembling, intervened next to Aranobu, pitchfork forward, despite his fear. Aranobu had respect for this young idealist who found the courage to stand his ground.
The tiger, enraged, chooses a target at random. His eyes fell on the more vulnerable, Ryō. He jumps up, mouth open. Aranobu reacted instinctively: he pushed Ryō aside, taking his place, and pulled his arm back, ready to clap with his bare hand if necessary, but it would be useless. However, this diversion gave Kishibe time to appear, a stone in his hand, which she crushed on the tiger's head, and Fujita to stick his knife in the animal's back thigh.
The tiger, already weakened, staggered, its legs bending. Daigo, despite his wounds, approached growling, raised his knife, and struck a second time, this time directly in the throat. The beast, exhausted, spat blood, collapsed on the sand. One last animal rattle, and the arena fell back into an icy silence.
The five prisoners, panting, looked at each other. The beast had been defeated. Together. Everyone was wounded, more or less, but alive. Aranobu had shown an ounce of selfless courage in saving Ryō, Fujita had acted in concert, Kishibe had cooperated, Daigo had struck at the right time. The impossible was accomplished.
A low murmur crossed the stands. Maybe a few guards surprised, or the Director himself intrigued. Aranobu raised his head, looking for the Director's silhouette. He did not see it clearly, but he felt his attention, like a cold look weighing on him.
The Director snapped his fingers, and guards entered the arena, pointing their spears at the prisoners. "Take back your weapons, return them to the cell," the officer barked. "No tricks. You survived this ordeal, very well. The Director is entertained. His tone was frustrated, as if he had hoped for more deaths.
Aranobu and his companions obeyed, throwing their weapons to the ground. The guards tied their hands behind their backs, pushing them towards the exit. Before leaving, Kishibe glanced at Aranobu, a less hostile, almost respectful look. Ryō, pale, still trembling, whispered "Thank you," his voice breaking. Daigo, stoic, nodded gratefully. Fujita smiled hard to interpret, but he seemed satisfied.
Back in the corridor, they were separated, leading them to different cells. Aranobu was taken back to his usual jail. The one-eyed guard came to taunt him, but Aranobu wouldn't listen to him. His head was full of thoughts. They had survived. They had seen that it was possible, despite fear, to cooperate.
As night fell, Aranobu lay awake for a long time, thinking about the implications of this victory. The Director had tried to break them, to put them in competition, but this evening, solidarity had triumphed. Of course, it was only a small step, and they all remained prisoners, exhausted, wounded. But it was a precedent. A feat that prison would not erase anytime soon.
A murmur from the neighbor snapped him out of his thoughts. "Senzaki... You're alive. You killed the beast, really? Aranobu replied soberly, "Yes." The neighbor laughed incredulously, "Well... This is new. Not bad. Then silence fell. The neighbor may have heard the rumors, the noise of the fight, the screams. This success would begin to circulate, to change the perception that other inmates had of Senzaki.
In the morning, the routine resumed. But something had changed. When Aranobu went out for chores, some prisoners looked at him differently. Not as a lone killer, but as a survivor capable of working with others. His image was evolving. Kishibe nodded to him, which was a tacit acknowledgement. Ryō didn't thank him openly, for fear of the guards, but his grateful look spoke volumes. Fujita Naotora was hanging around, a small smile on his face, as if he was already preparing the next move. Daigo, on the other hand, remained taciturn, but his aura of strength seemed to match Aranobu's determination.
During the meal, Aranobu noticed Akemi, the healer, leaning over an injured prisoner. He approached her cautiously, showing her superficial wounds. She examined him, silently, and whispered very low: "I see that you find your way in the midst of blood. Be careful to keep your humanity. She applied some herbs to her scrapes. Aranobu felt a subtle compassion in his gestures. He replied just as quietly, with a whisper, "I will do my best."
Akemi nodded, and let him go without more words. This brief exchange was a fragile bridge to understanding. She had seen him kill, survive, but also save Ryō. Maybe she was beginning to guess that Senzaki was no longer the man he used to be, that Aranobu inhabited this body and was fighting for his lost identity. Or maybe not yet, but she perceived a change, a different flame.
The day passed. Aranobu, despite his fatigue, continued to observe, to note the number of guards, the layout of the corridors, the relief schedules. At night, he tried to sleep, troubled by a thousand thoughts. He had formed a temporary coalition in the arena, and it had worked. What would happen if one day he proposed a more global alliance, an escape plan? He should be prudent, ensure the loyalty of some, take into account possible traitors.
The next day, a minor incident occurred. A prisoner tried to hit a guard with his back with a piece of wood. He failed, was beaten, and then dragged out of sight. But this act of rebellion, even if it failed, showed that the spirit of resistance was not entirely extinguished. Aranobu saw this as an encouraging sign, even if he did not approve of the poor devil's thoughtless method.
In the days that followed, the prison returned to its dreary routine, but with an underlying tension. The Director had not reacted publicly to the victory over the tiger, as if he was still digesting this unexpected result. The prisoners whispered in the shadows, evoking the performance of the first team. Some saw it as a hope, others as a simple stroke of luck.
Aranobu took advantage of this to solidify his relationship. He discreetly helped Ryō, still limping, by carrying his load. He exchanged a quick word with Fujita, who half-heartedly suggested that he could get some substance to help the guards fall asleep. Kishibe, true to his reputation, was not warm, but at least no longer insulted him. Daigo remained silent, but did not refuse a reciprocal nod, a form of mutual respect between warriors.
Meanwhile, Akemi, the healer, continued her work, dressing the wounds, offering a small moral comfort. Aranobu guessed that she was an emotional pivot in the prison, a discreet but essential figure. If one day they wanted to organize an escape, having his support could be vital. She knew the wounded, the secluded corners, perhaps even the weaker or corruptible guards. But it was too early to discuss a concrete plan. He first had to consolidate his achievements, build a more stable reputation.
The nights went by, each time Aranobu tried to mentally rewind the configuration of the places, the weapons, the exit points. He imagined an escape scenario, mixing diversion, poisoning, and coordinated rebellion. Too many risks, too many unknowns, but one day, perhaps, the conditions would be right.
One morning the neighbor spoke again. This time, without mockery: "Senzaki, you've changed. Before, you would have killed this kid without hesitation, or let him die. Now you have protected him. What for? Aranobu gritted his teeth. What should I answer? He chooses the partial truth: "Interest. If it survives, it can be useful to me later. A cynical lie, but one that corresponded better to the old Senzaki than to Aranobu. The neighbor laughs softly: "At least you're frank." Then he was silent. Aranobu smiled inwardly. This explanation satisfied the neighbor, preventing him from suspecting a change of identity.
Thus, as the days went by, Aranobu advanced his pawns, slowly, without rushing. Chapter 2 had begun in fear, darkness, and duress. It was now continuing in an atmosphere charged with tenuous hope, new bonds woven in blood and suffering. The Arena of Shattered Shadows had forged something different in him. He was no longer just a lone survivor. He was beginning to influence his environment, to inspire, perhaps, a glimmer of resistance.
But the Director remained a subtle and ruthless adversary. The silence of the latter since the victory against the tiger worried Aranobu. What was he preparing? A new test? A trap? The hero had to stay on his guard, play a complex role, navigate between the image of Senzaki, the convicted criminal, and his inner being, Aranobu, a dispossessed nobleman, ready to do anything to regain his body and his freedom.
The shadow of death still hovered over them. But now there was a crack, a hope, a fragile idea: together, they could triumph, at least temporarily. And in a prison where no one had ever escaped, the very idea was a priceless treasure.