The Crimson Crucible stood as a monolithic arena carved from dark stone, its towering walls weathered from years of bloodshed and thunderous applause.
Crimson banners hung from its outer walls, their tattered edges swaying in the breeze, each one bearing the sigil of the coliseum—a broken sword encircled by chains, a symbol of both entertainment and imprisonment.
At night, magical lanterns bathed the entire structure in a sinister red glow, making the whole coliseum seem like a bleeding wound at the heart of Darwin.
Its massive entrance gates were reinforced with black iron, etched with the names of past champions—a graveyard in its own right, for most of them were long dead.
The roar of the crowd, even when matches weren't happening, seemed to linger in the air like a permanent echo.
Beneath the arena, a sprawling network of cells and holding areas stretched like veins, where prisoners awaited their turn on the sands.
The smell of sweat, blood, and hopelessness filled the dimly lit halls, and the flickering torches barely pushed back the darkness.
Inside one of these cramped cells, a man sat on the edge of a narrow cot, his muscular frame taking up most of the space.
His skin was dark, his body scarred from countless battles, each mark telling a story no one cared to hear.
His hands were calloused, fingers thick and worn, though they were surprisingly gentle as they held a small, weathered picture.
The picture depicted a woman with soft eyes and a tender smile, and beside her stood a young girl, her face the perfect reflection of her mother's.
The edges of the picture were smudged, a clear sign it had been held too often, by hands too rough.
The man's expression was a mix of sorrow and resolve—the face of someone clinging to memories because they were the only thing left keeping him human.
As he stared at the picture, a voice called out from outside the bars, cutting through his thoughts like a blade.
"Damien, you've got mail."
He stood, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the top of the cell door, and approached the bars.
His heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor. With a silent nod, he took the envelope from the messenger's outstretched hand.
The paper was unnaturally smooth, bearing no seal, but Damian knew exactly who it was from.
The messenger vanished down the corridor, leaving him alone once more. Without hesitation, Damian tore open the envelope and scanned its contents.
His brow furrowed slightly, the only visible sign of emotion. When he finished, the letter disintegrated into faint wisps of silver smoke, vanishing as though it had never existed.
He returned to his cot, his large hands once again reaching for the picture, resting it beside him.
Damien wasn't just another prisoner in the Crucible. He was the captain of the Blackthorn Vultures, the undefeated team whose ruthlessness and tactical brilliance had made them legends.
Every victory they had claimed, every rival they had crushed, was because of him.
The crowd didn't chant his full name—they screamed just one title whenever he stepped into the arena.
"Damian the Crusher."
A man both feared and admired—the unbreakable monster who carried the weight of a past only he still remembered.
****
The registration office for the Crimson Crucible was located inside a smaller building adjacent to the coliseum itself—a far cry from the grandeur of the arena.
The office was dimly lit, the faint glow of enchanted lanterns barely illuminating the cracked stone walls.
The air smelled faintly of old parchment, sweat, and stale ink, like a place that had long given up on welcoming anyone with hope.
Behind a heavy wooden desk sat an old man—though not so old that age had dulled his senses.
His thinning hair was a patchwork of gray and black, and his weathered face bore the marks of someone who had seen too many fools come and go through these doors.
His sharp eyes immediately flicked up when Oliver stepped inside, sizing him up with the casual indifference of a man who had already written him off.
When Oliver explained that he wanted to register as a participant for the Crucible, the old man's expression froze for a moment before his brows furrowed in disbelief.
His chair creaked as he leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk.
"Lad… you sure about this?" His voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping over wood. "The Crucible ain't for folks with options. Whatever life's got you running from, I can guarantee there are better ways out than this."
Oliver stood there, arms relaxed at his sides, his face blank and unreadable. He wondered where this old man got the idea that he was some desperate soul looking for a quick end.
The old man sighed, rubbing his temples, but after a few more half-hearted attempts to discourage him—all of which Oliver answered with silence—the man finally gave in. "Alright, fine. Your life, your grave."
With a worn quill, he scratched Oliver's name into a massive ledger, its pages frayed from constant use.
Each name listed there was a story already told, a life already lost or hanging by a thread.
When he was done, the old man set the quill down and leaned back, launching into a monotonous explanation of the rules.
"The Crucible works on a tournament system, always with four teams of five."
He gestured vaguely toward a faded chart nailed to the wall behind him, showing a simple bracket system..
"The first round's one-on-one. Each fighter from each team takes a turn. Win your fight, your team gets a point. Lose—you're dead. Simple."
His eyes narrowed as he emphasized the next part.
"The final round, if your team makes it there, is a damn free-for-all. No rules, no order, just every team trying to slaughter the others until only one team's left standing."
He let the silence hang in the air, hoping the weight of those words might stir some fear in Oliver. But Oliver's expression didn't even twitch.
With a resigned grunt, the old man pushed back his chair and stood up, his knees cracking audibly. "You've either got nerves of steel or rocks for brains. Either way, I'm done trying to save you."
He gestured for Oliver to follow. "Come on. Might as well meet the poor bastards who'll be standing beside you."
As they left the office, the old man's mind wandered—what kind of fool willingly walked into the Crucible? After all, the Crucible wasn't for the strong.
Strong warriors fought in wars, in skirmishes, on battlefields where glory could be won.
The Crimson Crucible was where they threw criminals, outcasts, and the lowest dregs of society—beasts in human skin.
To him, Oliver didn't belong in a place like this. But if the kid wanted to die, who was he to stop him?
The manager led Oliver down a dimly lit hallway, the muffled roars of the coliseum crowd vibrating through the stone walls.
They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, the metal handle worn from years of use. With a grunt, the manager pushed the door open, revealing a plain room with a single table in the center and a few chairs scattered around it.
Four people were already inside, each carrying a different kind of tension in their posture—some leaning casually against the wall, others sitting with arms crossed, each carrying the weight of being thrown into this deadly tournament.
The manager stepped aside and gestured toward Oliver. "Now your team's complete," he said with a tired sigh. "You've got about an hour before your first match. Get to know each other. Trust me, knowing who's got your back in that arena could mean the difference between walking out and being carried out."
Without waiting for a response, the manager turned on his heel and left, the door creaking shut behind him.
As Oliver stood awkwardly near the entrance to the room, a faint chime echoed in his mind, followed by a translucent blue screen appearing before his eyes.
[System Notification]
Level 2 Earthlings detected in the vicinity. Would you like to initiate team formation?
[Yes] [No]
Oliver blinked in surprise. Level 2 Earthlings? That meant they'd completed at least the first trial, just like him.
And they had achieved the required meta essence.
He had no idea how Earthlings were scattered across the Main World, but to have a full team of them in one place — and all in this death trap of a coliseum — felt like an impossible coincidence.
His finger hovered for a moment before he tapped [Yes], curious to see what would happen.
The system message faded, replaced with a brief confirmation:
[Team Formation Complete — Team Status Linked]
Before Oliver could fully process what that meant, the broad-shouldered man with dark skin and a confident grin stood up. "Guess I'll start," he said, his voice deep but friendly.
"Name's Tariq Mensah, Earth-born like the rest of you, though I used to be a boxer before… all this." He spread his arms wide, indicating the twisted world they were now trapped in. "Figure my fists will do the talking when the time comes."
The others introduced themselves in turn. A petite woman with sharp eyes and a long black braid adjusted the gloves on her hands before speaking.
"Aiko Tanaka. Defense magic's my specialty. Don't expect me to charge in, but I'll keep you alive if you're smart enough to stay behind my barriers."
Then came the tall, lean man with the cocky smirk lounging in the corner. "Dante Greaves," he said lazily, tipping an imaginary hat.
"Back home, I was a sharpshooter — still am, except the guns here are a bit... different. But it doesn't matter. If it moves, I can hit it."
The last to speak was a young woman with short brown hair and a warm but slightly guarded smile.
"I'm Lina Reyes," she said softly. There was something in her voice, a mixture of steel and softness that made Oliver's heart skip. "It's been a long time since the orphanage, hasn't it?"
Oliver froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Rin...?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.