The elevator rattled, its rusted chains grinding against ancient pulleys as it crept upward. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and iron, the faint echoes of distant cheers filtering down through the cavernous shaft. The city above was waking for the spectacle, hungry for blood, and Benjamin was rising to meet it.
He stood in the center of the platform, shackled at the wrists with iron cuffs that chafed against raw skin. A dozen other thralls stood with him, their eyes hollow, bodies swaying with the motion of the rising lift. Some trembled. Others muttered, whispering prayers to false gods that had never answered.
Benjamin remained silent.
His muscles ached from years of labor, his body weakened by hunger and neglect, but his mind was stirring. For the first time in years, he felt it—the slow-burning anger, the crawling itch of resistance. Not much. But enough.
Across from him, one of the men broke down, shaking so violently that his chains clinked against the metal bars of the elevator. A boy—no older than sixteen, bones jutting out from malnourishment, eyes darting around the others as if seeking some reassurance. None came.
"What… what are we fighting?" he croaked.
No one answered.
The truth was, it didn't matter.
In this place, no one was meant to survive.
---
When the elevator finally breached the surface, the world exploded into sound.
A coliseum, vast and ancient, carved into the bowl of the canyon, filled with thousands of jeering spectators—mercenaries, criminals, nobles in gold-trimmed masks, all gathered to watch men and beasts die for their amusement. The smell of blood and rot was thick in the air, mixing with the pungent aroma of burning incense from the shaded balconies where the wealthiest of the crowd sat in luxury.
Benjamin barely had time to adjust before a voice thundered over the chaos.
"Welcome, filth of the pit!"
Boyan.
Standing high on a raised platform, his one good arm lifted high, Boyan surveyed the crowd with a showman's ease, his lips curling into a smirk. He had traded his tattered military garb for something more theatrical—a black leather coat trimmed in red, a half-cloak draped over the side where his missing arm had once been.
"The Stone Crown sends its finest to amuse you this night!" he bellowed, voice carrying effortlessly. "Fresh from the mines! Fresh from the dirt! May they die well, or at least, die entertaining!"
A roar of approval swept through the crowd.
The gate behind Benjamin slammed open.
And then, the beasts came.
---
A wave of hissing, slithering, snarling monstrosities burst into the pit—familiar creatures twisted by malnourishment and rage.
The first to lunge were Dawads, massive centipede-like creatures native to the desert, their twin-pronged mandibles snapping hungrily. They moved in quick, erratic bursts, their segmented bodies coiling and striking like whips, their tough chitinous shells gleaming under the setting sun.
Benjamin dove left, rolling across the sand as one of them lashed out, its serrated forelegs carving a deep furrow into the ground where he had stood. Another reared up, its mouth unfolding into a grotesque spiral of teeth, spraying a mist of corrosive venom in all directions.
Screams erupted around him.
One of the other slaves wasn't fast enough—the venom struck his shoulder, and he collapsed shrieked as his flesh sizzled, the acid eating through muscle and bone like parchment in flame.
Benjamin's mind sharpened.
The Dawads relied on their whisker-like sensory feelers to detect movement. They weren't fast in a chase, but they struck with blinding speed when provoked. He had studied their kind before—in the Sage's academy, years ago, when he still had books to learn from.
His sword and shield clinked as he moved, shifting his footwork to stay unpredictable. The thralls around him were panicked, flailing, trying to outrun creatures that could sense their every vibration in the sand.
A fool's game.
Benjamin did not run.
Instead, he went still.
As the nearest Dawad whipped toward him, expecting a reactive movement, he did the opposite—lunging forward, slipping under its mandibles, and slamming his shield against the softer underside of its head.
The impact staggered it.
Not a kill, but enough to make it recoil.
It was a pattern he could exploit.
He pivoted, grabbing the loose chain between his cuffs, wrapping it around his fist for better control. He could see the others falling—the boy from the elevator pinned beneath a thrashing Dawad, another thrall screaming as a Tinnin burst into the arena, its luminescent tendrils trailing along the sand, its reptilian eyes locking onto its next prey. They were only numbers.
The crowd cheered wildly, already sensing that the fight was reaching its perverse climax.
But the fight was only just beginning.
---
The Tinnin was massive.
A reptilian horror, nearly five meters tall, its scaled body rippling with unnatural muscle that were twitching, bioluminescent filaments flickering along its spine like trailing embers. It moved like a predator that knew it was the apex in any battle—slow, deliberate, savoring the scent of fear in the air.
When it moved, it did not chase.
It herded.
Sweeping in wide arcs, cutting off escape routes, forcing the remaining thralls into a tighter formation.
Benjamin recognized the pattern immediately.
The Tinnin was playing with them.
One of the thralls snapped under the pressure, bolting toward the gate—a mistake.
The Tinnin struck with inhuman speed, its tail whipping out like a war hammer, catching the runner mid-stride.
The body folded in half.
The corpse hit the ground in a heap, its bones shattered beyond recognition.
The crowd roared with delight.
Boyan chuckled from his vantage point.
Benjamin steadied his sword and shield assuming a defensive stance with the latter covering his upper body and the former sticking out like a needle ready to sting. He exhaled slowly feeling his body responding in ways he hadn't felt in years, fighting techniques trickling in his conscious awarenss gradually. His time in the mines had made him weak, sluggish—but the battle was forcing him to wake up again. He rushed.
His footwork grew sharper. His attacks became deliberate.
And as the Tinnin finally turned its gaze toward him, he welcomed it.
For the first time in years, Benjamin was fighting to live.