Blinding sunlight slammed into Cyril's face the moment the gates opened. It wasn't warmth—it was exposure. Spotlight casted over fresh meat. He squinted against it, stunned for a moment, until the roar of the crowd hit him like a second wave.
A thousand voices. Maybe more.
Cheers. Jeers. Howls of excitement from people who had nothing else to celebrate but death.
The arena was circular, carved from rough-hewn stone and layered with dust and blood. Rust-stained gates lined the perimeter like jaws waiting to open. High above, behind metal grates and shaded balconies, sat the privileged—overseers, handlers, nobility slumming it for entertainment. And around the low tiers: slaves, chained together in lines, forced to watch.
Cyril was shoved forward into the sand.
His wrists unshackled, but still raw. His legs steady, but aching. Pain lingered, but beneath it thrummed something else. Not just The Flow. Rage.
It pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. Dormant. Waiting.
"Face east, prisoner!" one of the guards barked behind him.
"You die standing!"
Cyril didn't move. His gaze swept the stands. No sign of Miren. No sign of escape. Just the pit, and the moment.
The gate across from him groaned.
It opened slowly—iron shrieking on old hinges—revealing his opponent.
'That's one big, ugly motherfucker'
A man, if you could still call him that. Seven feet tall, broad as a boulder, with arms like battering rams and tattoos carved into his flesh. His eyes glowed faintly red. A shock collar buzzed around his neck. Whatever drugs or Flow treatments they'd pumped into him had turned him into something less than human and more than monster.
The crowd erupted.
"Breaker! Breaker! Breaker!"
The man—Breaker, apparently—strode forward barefoot, dragging a spiked chain behind him. His muscles twitching with every step, leaving deep prints in the sand.
Cyril swallowed hard.
The Flow stirred.
He could feel it more clearly now—present in the air, the ground, in Breaker himself. Like threads woven through the world, invisible yet tangible, vibrating in rhythm with his breath.
Miren's voice echoed in his head.
"Pain makes the strong. Power keeps them alive."
He slid into a low stance, untrained but instinctual. Every fiber in his body screamed to run—but another voice, lower and more ancient, whispered:
Fight, What Sovereign Has Ever Ran?
Breaker roared and charged.
Cyril dodged just in time. The spiked chain whipped past, slamming into the ground with enough force to shatter stone. Shards exploded around him. He rolled, scrambled upright, and darted backward.
He had no weapon. No armor. No training.
Just the Flow.
As Breaker charged again, Cyril reached. Not outward—but inward.
That hum beneath his skin—it wasn't faint anymore. It surged. Hot, electric, alive. He didn't understand it, didn't know how to control it, but in that moment, instinct took over.
He thrust his hand toward the sand.
The earth rippled.
Not like an earthquake—more like a breath. The sand shifted beneath Breaker's charging feet, just enough to make him stumble. His foot sank. His charge faltered.
Cyril moved.
He ducked inside Breaker's reach, ignoring the screams of his muscles, and slammed his fist into the man's ribs. It was like punching a brick wall—but there was a sound. A ripple.
Breaker faltered.
The Flow had answered.
Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But it was there.
Breaker recovered fast, swinging the chain in a wide arc. Cyril tried to leap back, but the metal links caught his arm mid-spin. Pain exploded across his bicep as spikes tore skin. He hit the sand, hard.
Blood streamed down his arm.
The crowd roared.
"Bleed for us!"
"Kill the freak!"
Cyril coughed, rolled, and barely avoided the follow-up strike. The ground trembled where the chain landed. He scrambled to his feet, breathing ragged, vision blurred.
Think, damn it. Think.
He couldn't overpower this man. Not with strength.
But maybe…
He dropped into a low stance again and extended his hand. This time, he didn't try to force the Flow. He felt it. Listened.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't energy.
It was motion. Direction. A current.
And in that moment, he caught it.
Breaker charged again, raising the chain overhead.
Cyril took a breath and moved.
The Flow surged through his limbs. His feet found impossible balance. His body turned—not dodging, but riding the motion—and Breaker's chain swept past harmlessly.
Cyril twisted with the momentum, placed his palm against the side of Breaker's exposed chest—and pushed.
The pulse that erupted from his hand wasn't fire or lightning.
It was force. A concussive blast, like a shockwave trapped beneath his skin, now released all at once.
Breaker flew.
The giant's feet left the ground. He soared backward like a ragdoll, crashing into the arena wall with a thunderous crack. Stone shattered. Dust rose. Silence fell.
Then the crowd exploded.
Cyril staggered back, panting, disbelieving.
What the hell did he just do?
His arms trembled. Blood still flowed from his wound, but adrenaline drowned the pain. His whole body felt light and heavy all at the same time. He fell to his knees, breathing hard.
From the high balcony above, Master Dren watched with narrowed eyes. No clapping. No reaction.
Only calculation.
The gates behind Cyril creaked open.
Two guards rushed forward—not to kill him, but to pull him back. One of them paused to look at the crater where Breaker lay unconscious, then at Cyril.
"…"
Silence, the guard was shocked
As the guards dragged him back Cyril stared at the twin stars in the sky, the Flow still humming inside him, stronger now.
As the gates closed behind him and the roar of the crowd faded, Cyril didn't feel victory.
He felt hunger.
Because whatever he just awakened in the pit—it wasn't done yet.