Thud.
The gate opened wide, and a teen stepped out of the arena.
His clothes were torn and disheveled.
A deep cut ran across his arm, shredding the sleeve apart. Blood poured from the wound and dropped to the floor.
Drip.
He staggered as he walked past me, closely followed by a guard.
Thud.
The gate closed again.
I waited.
Minutes passed in silence before footsteps echoed from the corridor.
My head turned toward the noise.
And soon—
A teen appeared.
I glanced at him briefly.
My eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on the number stitched on his shirt before I looked forward again.
[50]
He stopped a few paces away from me.
We waited for the gate to open again.
Thud.
The gate opened wide, bright light spilled in.
Step.
I walked into the arena with slow steps.
The crowd welcomed us with a thunderous roar as we entered.
My feet carried me toward the weapon rack.
I grabbed a short sword, pulled it free, and headed to the center of the arena.
Sand shifted beneath my bare feet.
At the center, I lifted my head toward the podium.
John stood there, hands clasped together.
For a moment—just a moment—I felt his gaze linger on me longer than usual before he began.
"Dear guests! Today, we once again witness one of our rising stars! Number 29! The one who struck down this season's favorite! His opponent today—number 50!"
The crowd roared.
"29!"
"Bring me another fortune!"
"Come on, boy, you have this!"
"I always said you were my favorite!"
Then it began.
"SON OF MERCY!"
"SON OF MERCY!"
The chant grew louder and louder.
And—
For a split second, I could swear John's eyes twitched.
He cut them off at once.
"Let's not talk any longer and begin! Blood!"
My grip tightened around the hilt as I raised it into position.
"NO MERCY!"
The duel began.
Number 50 held a short sword as well. But his stance couldn't be called one.
He stood stiff, sword raised too high, hands trembling.
My mana lines held steady.
I pushed more mana through them—
Step.
—and moved forward.
A single step was enough to close the distance.
I raised my sword and delivered a diagonal slash toward his exposed left side.
Shing.
My sword cut through the air.
50 was too surprised by my speed to react on time, and my blade tore through cloth and flesh alike.
Slrrsh.
His eyes widened in shock as my sword carved a deep line across his left arm and chest.
"Aghh!"
He let out a cry of pain and stumbled backward.
But I pressed forward again.
Step.
I planted my foot firmly into the sand, twisting my ankle before raising my other leg to deliver a kick at his chest.
Bam.
He had no chance to react.
The impact sent him flying backward.
Thud.
His sword slipped from his hand as he crashed down to the ground.
It was over.
Step.
I walked toward him, slowly, as he winced in pain.
Step.
I halted before him and pointed the tip of my sword at his throat.
Ending the fight.
The crowd exploded.
"That's it!"
"I knew he was special!"
"Too fast! Show us more!"
"End it!"
Their voices blurred, smashing together until I heard nothing.
I lifted my head toward the podium.
John stood there, unimpressed, his mask turned toward me.
"There is only one word to describe what we just witnessed—overwhelming! Number 29 had defeated his opponent with just two strikes! What a talent!"
He paused, letting the crowd cheer for a moment before continuing.
"The winner is decided, so now let me ask you, my dear guests, what do you want to do with the loser? Is it blood that you want—or mercy?"
Silence settled over the arena.
No one stood.
No one raised his hand.
They just shouted.
"Blood!"
"He's useless!"
"Kill him!"
John didn't even wait.
His red eyes shifted toward me, voice cold.
"It is blood. Kill him."
There was something in his tone.
A challenge.
As if he dared me to refuse again.
I lowered my gaze.
Number 50 lay on the ground, eyes wide at the decision of the crowd.
His chest heaved rapidly, and his body trembled uncontrollably.
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and ran down his cheek.
The scene I had witnessed before resurfaced as I watched him.
Number 8.
His mutilated body.
Fingers missing.
Arm torn off.
Toenails ripped away.
They must have tortured him for hours.
Maybe even since our fight had ended.
I didn't even want to imagine how much pain he went through.
Then—
As if he stood right next to me.
"..please…"
I heard his voice again.
The word echoed in my head.
He was in so much pain that he himself begged for death.
Because what they were doing to him was worse than dying.
The state a human must reach to beg for death.
I didn't even dare to think about it.
But—
There was one thing I understood.
Sometimes—
Death is mercy.
Number 50's lips trembled.
I didn't hesitate and drove the sword straight into his throat.
Shuk.
The blade pierced cleanly through flesh.
Blood gushed out of the wound, coloring his clothes crimson.
His eyes shot wide open, locking onto mine, and his lips parted, a whisper escaping him.
"..why.."
He was already dying.
It wouldn't matter.
But I answered anyway.
I looked him straight in the eyes.
"This is my mercy."
Then I pulled the blade out.
Splsh.
Blood erupted from the wound, soaking the sand beneath him.
His body convulsed once—then stilled.
The light faded from his eyes.
Dead.
But—
My eyes stayed locked on his corpse, watching the blood pour out of him.
Puddles of blood appeared around his body.
They spread across the sand in strange patterns.
For a moment—
It looked like wings.
Two crimson shapes stretched out from his body.
Like a fallen angel.
I thought I was turning crazy and closed my eyes for a moment.
When I opened them again—
It was just a circular puddle of blood.
My heart skipped.
Had I imagined it?
Was I turning crazy?
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
Step.
I turned away, not daring to look any longer.
My feet carried me toward the gate.
The crowd shouted something.
But—
I ignored them.
I returned the sword to the rack and left the arena.
A guard waited in the hall and led me back to the cell.
Back inside, I considered eating.
But the image of number 8 resurfaced.
My stomach twisted at the memory.
I passed the table and climbed the bed.
Haah.
I let out a breath as I turned toward the wall.
I wasn't injured and had to bite my finger instead.
My teeth dug through skin, and blood flowed out of the wound.
Then I wrote.
[50]
And beneath it—
[8]
Two numbers were added.
I stared at the wall of numbers in thought.
How many more numbers will be written on that wall at the end?
A hundred?
Or even more?
I always felt helpless when I looked at the wall.
If I die, would someone else write my number on it?
The thought pressed against my chest.
It felt heavy.