The silence that followed the instructor's words wasn't ordinary; it was as if a vacuum had formed out of nowhere and sucked all the oxygen out of the arena. Neale felt his mother's torn overcoat tightening and weighing against his waist, the rough fabric reminding him that this world wasn't just unfair—it was cruel by nature, and it seemed to demand even crueler choices and actions, like an unbalanced scale always trying to even itself out. The Order didn't just want soldiers; they wanted survivors capable of tearing out their own allies' hearts, people who could abandon the old common sense of what it meant to be human—those willing to sacrifice something if it meant securing humanity's victory. Or maybe they just wanted entertainment for the noble backsides seated in those stands.
"Fifty seconds!" the instructor's voice echoed, cold as newly sharpened steel brushing across everyone's throats.
Neale looked at his teammates. Richard was pale, his hands trembling slightly. For the first time, Nuke seemed to have lost the explosive spark in her eyes; beneath the shadow of the stands, she looked small. Troll and Fitty, who had been cleaning weapons together just hours earlier, now avoided looking at each other for too long, sadness flickering across their faces. The group Neale had called a "team," the people he believed would move forward together, was being dismantled before thousands of eyes.
"What the hell is this…? This is sick. Why force us to fight each other?" Vitel hissed, her white hair swaying as she glared with hatred at the members of the Order across the arena.
"This is Kirden's reality," Kilay said. His tone—his strange calm—remained unchanged, as if he hadn't been shaken at all. He stepped forward, gray eyes fixed on the instructor, who watched the clock without the slightest distraction. Kilay murmured something else, but it was too quiet for anyone to hear. "We have to choose the first fight. If we're disqualified, everything we sacrificed to get here will be pointless. We'll be back at the beginning with nothing. We need to decide."
"He's right," Neale said, forcing himself out of the paralysis that made his chest burn. In his mind, he knew he had to act more like Kilay and face the situation head-on. "We trained together. We know each other's strengths and weaknesses. We know how much each of us has grown. And if we really have to eliminate each other, we'll do it on our own terms. We won't give them the pleasure of watching us hesitate."
No matter what I say right now, deep down I know… I know… I'm the one hesitating the most. I…
"Forty seconds!"
"I want to fight Fitty," Troll said, trying to keep his voice steady as he stepped forward. He wasn't joking or carefree like before; his voice was hoarse, almost like a whisper holding back a scream. "We've beaten each other up so much in training. If someone's going to eliminate me, I want it to be her. Because I think she's strong. Because she's the person I had the most fun with these past few days. So let it be the person who hates me the most."
Fitty tightened her grip on the handle of her bread knife, sharpened yesterday with Troll's help. "But… I don't… ha—" A sad smile touched her lips as she looked down. "Fine. I'll do you a favor and kick your butt out of Kirden, you idiot."
"Luan…" Luna began, but her brother only shook his head and pulled her into a hug. Tears streamed down the girl's face. They were twins—same height, nearly identical—but in that moment, Luan seemed taller than his older sister. Forcing siblings to fight each other for the right to stay somewhere that might be better—was that the Order?
"Thirty seconds."
As Fitty and Troll descended from the stands toward the gate leading into the arena, the group began to split in a macabre choreography of sacrifice and survival.
Richard looked at Neale. He knew Neale was strong—but he wanted, no, needed to prove to himself that everything he had endured had made him stronger, that he wasn't just someone to be seen as "support." Vitel turned to Nuke.
"Hey, Nuke. You like blowing things up, don't you?" Vitel asked with a faint grin. "Try to blow me up. I want to see how strong I've become fighting you."
Nuke sniffed, wiping her nose with her hoodie sleeve. "Nuke's gonna… Nuke's gonna punch until the whole arena down there explodes."
"That's the spirit, girl," Vitel replied.
It's impressive how talking about explosions cheers her up.
That left only Kilay and Lira.
"So it's just you and me in the end. Why didn't you choose anyone?" Lira asked.
"Because it doesn't matter to me who I fight," Kilay replied. "In the end, the weak either choose someone they see as strong to prove themselves… or they choose someone who seems weaker to gain an advantage by the end of the night. But what about you? Which one are you, Lira?"
"Maybe you're right. Maybe I am weak. I didn't want to choose. But I don't mind that it's us left. Since I'm weak, of course I want to test myself—fighting with everything against someone strong like you."
Kilay's expression didn't change.
"Then when it's our turn down there, don't hold back. Test all your strength."
"Ten seconds!" the instructor shouted, and the crowd joined in a deafening countdown.
When Troll and Fitty approached the gate to enter the arena, two soldiers of the Order stopped them. One wore black tactical gear with details in gold or fresh copper tones—he belonged to the House of Otelo. The other wore dark green tactical gear reminiscent of forest leaves at night, with soft dark-blue details—he belonged to the House of Cleopatra. They ordered Troll and Fitty to leave any weapons behind.
"Five! Four! Three!"
After dropping their weapons, they were allowed to proceed into the arena, where one of them would be left behind while the other advanced to the final stage. Deep down, they both seemed nervous—but determined.
"Two! One! Choices made!" the instructor roared.
"The first fighters—enter the arena."
The entire arena fell silent. The two members of Group Twelve stood face to face. From the stands, the other groups and members of the Order watched intently, while the remaining members of Group Twelve sat restless, sadness churning inside them.
"State your names loudly and clearly so everyone in the stands can hear—first and last name," the instructor commanded.
"Troll… I don't have a last name."
Whispers rippled through the arena, calling him a stray.
"And you, girl?" the instructor asked.
"Fitty Loundsen."
"First match: Troll versus Fitty!" the instructor announced. "Begin!"
The sound of the first impact—a sharp punch from Troll against Fitty's shoulder—marked the beginning of what would be the end of Group Twelve's innocence. He had moved the instant he heard "begin," so fast that even though she reacted, he still landed the hit.
From the stands, the members of Group Twelve didn't know whether to watch.
"Sorry for starting like that, Fitty. I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't hesitate," Troll said as he advanced, maintaining his fighting stance. "Let's show our full strength."
Fitty leaned forward and took her stance as well, both with clenched fists, exchanging a look that seemed to silently agree on when the fight would truly begin. It would be a farewell without words, without laughter—only punches, sweat, and blood.
A fight for survival among the "mediocre" had finally reached the point of no return. It was a one-way road now. Troll and Fitty were both ready to hurt their target—even if that target was someone they considered a friend in Kirden.
As they blinked at the same time, their fight truly began.
Troll versus Fitty.