Kael felt the vibrations of the iron gates before they even opened. His heartbeat thudded in sync with the heavy clanging of chains being pulled, each metallic echo reverberating in his chest. He clenched his fists, the faint bruises on his knuckles protesting, but his expression remained calm—cold, even. He had been here too many times to show fear, though the knot in his stomach never truly loosened.
The guards gripped him roughly by the arms and dragged him from the dim corridor into the blinding light of the arena.
The crowd roared, the bloodthirsty cheers pounding in his ears like war drums.
Kael kept his head down as he stepped into the sandy pit. The arena floor was littered with discarded weapons, their blades dulled by use and stained with rust and blood. This wasn't a match of honor or skill. It was carnage, a game designed to entertain the masses at the expense of the expendable.
He exhaled sharply, steadying his nerves. His thoughts drifted back to the cell, to the faint flickers of mana he had been trying to cultivate. He had felt something during his meditations—a pulse, a rhythm—but it was still too fleeting, too faint to grasp fully.
Not yet, he thought.
The announcer's voice boomed overhead, a theatrical bellow that sent ripples through the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Witness the return of the silver-haired survivor!"
Kael tuned it out, his eyes scanning the far end of the arena. Opposite him, the second gate began to creak open. The roar of the crowd crescendoed as a figure stepped into the light, their silhouette sharp against the shadows.
His opponent.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and cloaked in a tattered black coat that billowed slightly in the wind. His hair was a shock of crimson, tied back in a messy ponytail, and his pale, angular face was partially obscured by a mask—a jagged piece of steel that covered his mouth and nose.
But it wasn't his appearance that struck Kael. It was the way he moved.
The man strode forward with an unsettling calm, his boots crunching against the sand. In his right hand, he carried a long, curved blade that gleamed wickedly in the sunlight. His left hand remained loose at his side, fingers twitching slightly as if ready to seize a second weapon at a moment's notice.
The crowd called him Scarlet Wrath, chanting the name like a hymn to violence.
Kael's grip tightened around the hilt of the short sword he had picked up earlier—a weapon he had selected for its balance rather than its condition. His eyes never left the red-haired man, studying every detail, every movement.
He's no brute, Kael thought, his mind clicking into a familiar rhythm.
The announcer's voice faded into the background as the gates slammed shut. The match had begun.
....
The red-haired man moved first, closing the distance with frightening speed. Kael barely had time to raise his sword before the curved blade came down in a vicious arc. He sidestepped, the tip of the blade slicing through the air inches from his chest.
Kael countered with a quick thrust, aiming for the man's exposed side, but the red-haired fighter twisted away effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise.
The exchange continued, a flurry of strikes and parries that sent sparks flying as their blades clashed. Kael's muscles burned with the effort, but his mind was sharper than ever, analyzing every opening, every faint twitch of his opponent's body.
For a moment, Kael's focus wavered. He felt it—a faint pulse in his chest, a flicker of the mana he had been struggling to connect with.
Now?
The distraction cost him. The red-haired man's blade swept upward, catching the edge of Kael's sword and sending it spinning from his grasp.
Kael cursed under his breath, diving to the side as the curved blade came down again, narrowly missing his shoulder.
Unarmed but undeterred, Kael scrambled across the sand, his eyes scanning for another weapon. His hand closed around the hilt of a rusted axe, its blade chipped but sturdy.
The weight felt natural in his grip.
Of course it does, he thought. I'm sure, I've used soemthing like this before.
The memories were faint but undeniable. He didn't know how or why, but every weapon he picked up seemed to fit him perfectly, as if his body remembered techniques his mind couldn't fully grasp.
The red-haired man came at him again, his curved blade slashing in a series of brutal, calculated strikes. Kael met each attack with the axe, using the heavier weapon to deflect the blows with brute force rather than finesse.
The crowd roared as the fight grew more intense, their bloodlust feeding the energy in the arena.
Kael gritted his teeth, his muscles screaming with every swing. His opponent was faster, stronger, more experienced. But Kael had something else: adaptability.
He let the red-haired man press him back, feigning desperation. Then, in a sudden burst of movement, he stepped into the man's guard, using the blunt end of the axe's handle to strike the side of his opponent's knee.
The red-haired man staggered, his balance faltering for the first time.
Kael didn't hesitate. He spun the axe in his hands, bringing the flat side of the blade down toward the man's head.
The red-haired man dodged at the last second, the blade glancing off his shoulder instead. He hissed in pain but didn't slow, retaliating with a wide, sweeping strike that forced Kael to leap back.
The fight continued, a brutal dance of steel and instinct.
Kael's body moved on autopilot, every swing of the axe, every dodge, every counterattack guided by a rhythm he didn't fully understand but trusted implicitly.
He didn't notice the faint warmth spreading through his limbs, the ember of mana flickering brighter with every calculated move, every deliberate breath.
Not yet!, he told himself.
The end came swiftly.
Kael feinted with the axe, drawing the red-haired man's blade to the side. In the same motion, he dropped the axe and grabbed a dagger from the sand, driving it upward in a precise strike.
The blade stopped inches from the red-haired man's throat.
The arena fell silent.
The red-haired man froze, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. For a moment, Kael thought he saw something there—not fear, but recognition.
The announcer's voice boomed overhead, declaring Kael the victor.
But Kael barely heard it. He kept his eyes on the red-haired man, who slowly stepped back, lowering his weapon.
As the guards dragged Kael toward the exit, he glanced over his shoulder. The red-haired man was still standing in the center of the arena, his gaze fixed on Kael.
Who are you? Kael thought.
But the answer would have to wait. For now, he had survived. And that was enough.