Ian's gaze snapped toward the voice, his body tensing instinctively.
A figure stood at the edge of the lantern light, half-swallowed by the darkness. As he stepped forward, the warm glow revealed sharp, angular features—deep brown skin, golden eyes gleaming with quiet menace, and dark dreadlocks adorned with golden rings.
The metal caught the light like a crown, but there was nothing regal about the way he watched Ian.
His presence was predatory.
His movements were deliberate, each step measured, his gaze unyielding. Though his arms were crossed over his chest in an easy stance, Ian recognized the controlled stillness of a fighter—one who had measured many men before him and found them lacking.
A black-and-gold-patterned robe draped over his frame, but Ian caught the glint of a sword resting against his back. Its placement was intentional.
A silent promise of violence.
The smirk tugging at his lips was faint, but the weight of his gaze was heavy.
"I expected more," the man mused, his voice carrying the lazy confidence of someone who had nothing to fear. His golden eyes flicked over Ian, assessing, unimpressed. "You're the one they think can survive?"
Ian didn't answer immediately.
He let the words settle, let the man watch him, waiting for a reaction. He'd seen men like this before—the kind who provoked, who tested, who thrived on reading weakness in others.
He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Instead, Ian studied him just as intently, noting the way his fingers twitched—itching for the hilt of his blade—the way his muscles coiled beneath his robe, taut with a murderer's patience.
"I survived the pits, this wont be any different," Ian said at last. His voice was steady.
The man chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "How foolish."
He stepped closer, his golden eyes gleaming with something between curiosity and disdain.
"I've seen dozens like you before," he said. "Desperate men, hungry for blood, eager to carve out a name for themselves." His lip curled. "Most don't last long."
Ian tilted his head slightly, unbothered. "Then they didn't want it enough."
The man smirked. "And you? Are you different?"
Ian's jaw tightened. "I am."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, the man let out a breath, shaking his head.
"Hmph." He turned away, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked leisurely through the courtyard. "I was tasked with forging lost men into warriors… but it seems all I've done is prepare them for an inevitable death."
Ian's eyes followed him, mind piecing together the implications. "Ah, I see" he said, realization settling in. "You're supposed to train me for the arena."
The man stopped mid-step. A low, humorless chuckle escaped him.
"No," he said, voice sharp. "I'm supposed to be in fucking Galanhar, ripping hearts out of demons. Or piss-drunk in some shady tavern while an Esgard whore whispers false promises for my coin."
He turned back to Ian, golden eyes burning with frustration. "But instead, that damn woman has me here, teaching corpses to dream of something more than a grave." His gaze darkened. "And we both know how futile that is."
Ian met his eyes, his expression calm, but his words were edged with iron.
"I am… not a corpse."
The man studied him, his smirk returning. "Not yet."
"Not anytime soon."
His smirk deepened, as if amused by Ian's defiance. "We'll see."
Silence hung between them again, carrying unspoken challenge.
Then the man exhaled, rolling his shoulders, as though this conversation had already begun to bore him. "What do you seek from the arena?" he asked, tone more indifferent now. "Wealth? Power? Glory? Your freedom?"
Ian didn't hesitate.
"Death."
Something flickered in the man's golden eyes—curiosity, perhaps. Or understanding.
Ian continued, his voice steady. "I want to kill. I want as many as possible to die by my hands. A fate every opponent before me will meet in this arena, whatever it is."
The man's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it grew wider.
"You're a strange one," he muttered. Then, to Ian's surprise, he laughed—a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the courtyard.
Still chuckling, he bent down, picking up a wooden training sword that had been lying at his side. He tested its weight in his hands, fingers running along its length as if recalling some distant memory.
"I heard you don't bleed," he said, almost absentmindedly.
Ian's eyes flicked to the weapon, his muscles coiling in preparation.
"I do," he said. "Just as any man."
The man's smirk widened, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Well, that's unfortunate… the princess hates blood on her grass. But what can we do?"