Thud.
The metal door closed as Breaker left.
A heavy silence settled over us.
Half of the teens were still processing Breaker's words—especially the part about the living corpses.
They had survived the "Rounds of Hell," as they called them.
They thought they were chosen.
The lucky ones.
The ones who would survive.
But Breaker shattered that belief.
Only a quarter.
That's how many of us would survive, in his eyes.
The words brought despair to many of the teens.
Their heads hung low. No one dared to speak, too consumed by the thought of their own survival.
Yet at the same time, a silent hope began to spread.
No more Rounds of Hell.
Duels.
One against one.
It sounded far more promising than a chaotic battle royale where everything depended on luck.
But then there was the other half.
The teens who understood that the hope they felt was an illusion.
Duels.
It may sound easier, but it isn't.
They knew that most of us would die.
And they focused more on Breaker's lesson than on his speech.
To kill.
To not hesitate.
To entertain the crowd.
The instructions weren't complicated.
It was easy to understand.
But they carried a profound meaning.
It was about our mindset.
This wasn't a game.
This was our new reality.
We are not friends.
We are not trying to survive together and help each other.
We survive alone.
And that at the cost of another life.
And the moment we question our actions—
Is the moment we lose.
And I?
My thoughts were elsewhere.
On the teens who weren't here today.
Breaker said there were about two hundred of us left, and if we all had to go through one or more rounds of hell—
What did that mean for the others?
For every teen standing here today, there were at least fifteen buried somewhere. The number of the dead had to be at least in the thousands.
It felt surreal.
Even the thirty that died by my hands clung to me like shadows. And there were thousands more who had died by the hands of others.
I should have felt sad about it.
Their deaths should have weighed me down, pressing against my chest.
Remorse.
Guilt.
Anything.
But I felt—
Nothing.
It reminded me of Earth.
I was a unique person.
There were always catastrophes somewhere in the world.
Wars breaking out in distant countries.
Natural disasters claiming hundreds of lives.
Criminals terrorizing cities.
Terrorist attacks taking innocent lives.
The people around me would watch the news and look sad.
They felt empathy for the victims.
But I wasn't like that.
It may sound harsh.
But I felt nothing.
The only thing I ever said was:
"That's a shame."
And people looked at me as if I were a psychopath.
But to me—
Their sadness felt fake.
Their guilt and empathy felt like an act.
My reason was simple...
How could I feel such deep emotions for people who were hundreds or thousands of kilometers away?
I didn't know them.
I never spoke to them.
They were strangers.
Was it tragic?
Yes.
Innocent people had died.
Of course, it was tragic.
But could I change it?
No.
Could I help them?
No.
The only thing I could do was be thankful that I lived somewhere safe.
So to me, their empathy felt fake.
How could you grieve for people you've never known?
People you've never seen?
Whom you knew nothing about?
It felt like an act.
A show you displayed for others.
And now—
With death happening right beside me.
Thousands of lives extinguished in a matter of days.
I felt something for the first time upon hearing such news.
I felt cold.
The coldness spread.
From my heart, it wrapped itself around my body and in the end spread to my surroundings.
Their deaths.
They were young.
They had dreams.
Families.
Goals.
People who cared about them.
All taken away by our so-called masters.
I had grown used to the death around me.
I had justified it as necessary for my survival.
They had to die so I could live.
But that wasn't true.
I hadn't accepted it.
I had just ignored it.
I prioritized my survival above everything else.
Focusing only on my goal and ignoring everything around me.
But now, after seeing the scale of it—
I realized something.
These strangers were just like me.
Thousands who were thrown away and sold.
Who tried to survive.
Just like me.
But they died.
And I lived.
The world around me turned colder.
But the coldness didn't last, and something else replaced it.
Hate.
It slowly rose.
It was hot, burning away the coldness that seemed to devour me.
After Alissa, I thought that as long as I didn't grow close to anyone, I wouldn't feel anything.
That I wouldn't care.
But that was wrong.
Just because I didn't know their names—
Didn't mean their lives were meaningless.
They had meaning.
And the ones responsible for their deaths weren't just the slavers or our masters.
It was the world itself.
The races that allowed their people to be taken.
People who saw each other's despair as entertainment.
The empires and kingdoms that watched as people were sold like goods.
This world was wrong.
As long as someone had wealth or power—
They could do whatever they wanted?
Was strength the only thing that mattered?
Do right and wrong even exist to them?
I hated it.
But I could do nothing about it.
The hate I felt rose higher and higher.
And—
I had no way to release it.
Then—
Step.
Footsteps echoed.
All heads turned toward the approaching guard.
He stopped a few steps away from us.
The horns marked him as a dragonkin.
His red eyes gazed down at us, canines were seen as he spoke.
"Slaves. As you heard, from today on, you will fight duels. To ensure you entertain us before you die, you will be allowed to train in the arena when no matches are held."
Screech.
The metal door behind us opened.
Several guards entered carrying long wooden racks filled with weapons.
They placed them on both sides of the entrance.
Our eyes returned to the dragonkin as he spoke again.
"We will provide weapons for training. You are allowed to leave your cells to wash or train during those times."
His voice sharpened.
"But remember. You are slaves. You are observed at all times. Any attempt to steal a weapon or escape will be punished severely."
He raised one hand.
"As for the rules...Training duels are allowed, but keep injuries minimal and do not kill each other."
He smiled mockingly.
"Save that for the crowd."
He lowered his hand as he finished his speech and walked toward us.
The teens stepped aside, parting like the sea for him as he walked past us.
The surrounding guards took it as their cue and moved toward the exit as well.
After a short discussion near the gate, most of them left.
Only two guards remained near the weapon stands.
One of them stepped forward.
"Slaves. As stated, you may roam the area of your cells while no battles are held. Those who wish to return may leave. The rest may stay and train. The whole area is being watched, so don't try anything dumb."
There was a moment of hesitation.
Then—
Step.
The first teen stepped forward and walked out of the arena.
The others followed soon after.
Most returned to their cells. Only a dozen or so stayed behind and slowly headed for the weapon rack.
About twenty of us remained.
I stood there for a moment longer before I walked to the nearest rack.
Weapons of all kinds were displayed.
Spears.
Axes.
Swords.
Daggers.
There was at least one of every kind.
My eyes shifted from weapon to weapon.
The choice was easy.
I gripped the hilt of a sword.
The leather was worn and rough.
Shing.
I pulled it out of the rack—
And nearly stumbled from its weight.
Step.
I regained my balance and held the sword up high.
Most teens chose shorter blades.
For adults, they were short swords, but for our still-growing bodies, they were full-length weapons.
But I chose a one-handed sword.
It could even be called a longsword when I held it.
A short sword would have suited me better.
I had trained with one before, back at the estate.
But I had a different plan in mind.
I planted the tip into the sand and adjusted the leather wrap, tightening it around the hilt.
It was an old sword, but still sharp.
I gripped it firmly and pulled it out of the sand.
Shish.
It was difficult to hold with only one hand and no enhancement.
But—
That was exactly what I needed.
The hate still burned hot inside me.
I couldn't extinguish it.
So I decided to release it through training.
On Earth, I trained to relieve stress.
Now—
Training would serve a different purpose.
The hate wouldn't vanish in a few hours.
So I made a new goal.
Or, better, I changed it.
I promised Lisa I would survive until tomorrow.
And I will keep that promise.
But from now on—
I won't just survive.
I will grow stronger.
Strong enough to break these shackles that bound me.
Strong enough to never bow to the strength of others.
Strong enough to carve my own path in this world.
If strength is the only language they understand—
Then I will become strong.
Not to make them listen.
But to crush anything and anybody that stands in my way.
A wrong world?
The death of the innocent?
Unfairness?
Injustice?
Right and wrong?
I am not god.
I can't change the world.
And I don't have to.
Because my world isn't here.
She is somewhere far away.
Waiting.
For the day I find her.