Click.
I woke up as usual to the sound of the door opening.
A guard entered, brought fresh food, and refilled our water.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
Going to sleep that late hadn't been a good idea.
Nightmares haunted me every night already, not letting me rest. With even less time to sleep, I felt more exhausted than usual.
Trying to shake off the sleepiness, I immediately jumped down from the bed and walked toward the table.
I drank my fill before grabbing some bread and meat, as I was about to head to the arena—
I felt it.
A gaze.
My head turned at once.
Number 31.
He sat on the upper bed and stared at me.
Our eyes locked for a breath before he lay down again.
My eyes lingered on the back of his head for a moment before I walked out of the cell.
As I moved through the corridor, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something in his gaze had changed.
But it was likely nothing serious.
I had already expected him to approach me sooner or later because of what he had seen.
The only thing I could do was wait for him to approach me.
What I would do when that moment came was still unclear.
I could lie about the broken metal piece—it had been dark—he might not have clearly seen what it was.
But if he had seen it—
Then I would either have to silence him or bring him on board.
Silencing would be the better option.
If he keeps his mouth shut, good.
If not—
I would have to kill him.
It would have been the perfect opportunity yesterday. But I doubted they would pair us again.
So if it became necessary…
It would have to happen during training.
No.
There were too many guards.
He would also be on guard against me, which made approaching him difficult.
Inside the cell was the better option.
But how?
The guards would punish us if we killed each other outside the arena...
The best option would be while he was sleeping.
A quick snap of the neck would do it.
Or—
Using some cloth to strangle him, it would keep him silent as well.
The guards shouldn't be able to distinguish who had killed him.
I don't even think they would investigate it that much.
We were just slaves.
Just when I had set the plan—
A tremor spread through my body.
No, not my body.
It felt like something inside me shook.
That's when a thought came—
'Did I really just decide that killing him would be easier?'
A cold sensation wrapped around my heart.
It felt like fear.
Fear of how much I had changed.
To kill another human being.
I had killed a lot.
And I knew that I had changed somehow.
In the arena, killing was survival.
I had no choice but to obey.
But this—
This would be my own decision.
Not forced.
Not commanded.
I chose it.
When had it become so easy to think that way?
When had another human life stopped being precious?
Slowly, reality settled in.
All the killing had begun to numb me.
Death had become an inconvenience rather than a tragedy.
It was familiar.
A daily occurrence.
And once again, I understood—
That when I leave this place one day, I won't be the same.
Reaching the arena entrance, I forced the thoughts away.
I would decide later what to do.
Step.
I entered the arena.
It was empty again.
Only guards were there, playing cards instead of watching me.
I walked toward the weapon racks and found the longsword. Pulling it out, I moved toward a far corner near the wall.
Halting near the wall, I began my training.
My mana lines were already active since I woke up.
All I had to do was push mana through them when I swung.
My arm had grown stronger as well.
I could now hold the heavy sword without mana as support.
An achievement created through hours of training.
Shing.
I swung my sword, delivering precise and fast slashes, training both form and enhancement at the same time.
***
Hours of training had made my clothes cling to my skin, drenched in sweat.
All my muscles were sore and burned.
Mana could have reduced the strain, but I deliberately used less of it.
I wanted my body to grow stronger, too.
With only a slight enhancement, the strain on my muscles had lessened, but the accumulated strain exhausted me nevertheless.
I decided to end the training at this point.
It would be good not to overtrain and to sleep a bit more before the fights begin.
I placed the longsword over my shoulder and headed toward the gate.
As I walked, my eyes drifted across the other teens.
Each day, there would be fewer and fewer teens coming to the arena.
Not because they were lazy.
But because they had died.
Most were focused on their training.
Some practiced alone.
Others sparred in pairs.
I had noticed something else as well.
They had formed groups.
Not exactly friendships—but close to it.
Something akin to study groups or cliques.
They trained together. Talked. Gave each other tips.
To me, it felt useless.
How much time was wasted on forming bonds when that time could be used to train?
There was no certainty here.
The person you trained with today could fight you tomorrow.
Or never return from their own fight.
But I guess that's also human.
We are social creatures.
We crave connection.
We don't want to be alone.
But in this place—
In this arena.
There was no "we."
There was only you.
And eventually, they would understand that the time they spent on building bonds would not save them.
Reaching the weapon racks, I returned my sword and left the arena.
I halted at the bath entrance and checked if there were any teens.
It was empty.
'Perfect.'
I walked toward the far right corner where the trapdoor was hidden.
It had been days since I last tried to open it. I wasn't sure whether the broken tip would even fit into the gap.
Today, I needed to confirm it.
I crouched down and examined it again.
A thick metal square was embedded in the floor.
No visible handles.
No locks.
But the hinges made it clear—it could be opened.
Its size was slightly smaller than me. But I could squeeze myself through.
I ran my fingers along the edges.
The gap between the door and frame was narrow. My finger barely fit.
The broken piece wouldn't fit in its current state.
I needed to adjust it accordingly.
I straightened slowly, staring down at it.
But where would it lead me?
A drainage system?
An underground tunnel?
It was a wild guess.
And likely wrong.
The colosseum was built into a mountain.
Then it could also be a connection to some kind of lower level.
If I were right now on the ground floor...
The crowd would be on the first floor.
It could be something like an underground floor.
A storage, maybe?
All these thoughts were useless.
No matter how close I came to the truth.
I didn't know the answer.
The only way to find out was to open it.
I had looked enough and turned away before other teens arrived.
My feet carried me to the faucets, and I undressed myself.
I took off the piece of cloth that was my shirt, pulled my pants down, and poured water over me.
With soap, I began to wash my body clean.
As my hand brushed against the cold metal of the shackles around my wrist, a memory surfaced.
The one where I had blocked 31's strike with the shackle.
It hadn't been planned.
I had just reached out on instinct, ready to sacrifice my arm.
But it worked.
If these shackles were so sturdy that skilled smiths couldn't remove them—
Why shouldn't I use them as a weapon?
They were strong enough to block a sword strike.
The collar around my neck had once saved my life from a stab.
It would be foolish not to use them.
They may have put them on me to restrain me, but now they would become one of my weapons.
I could already imagine a few moves.
A kick reinforced by the shackles.
The wrist shackles could act as small shields.
It would be dangerous.
A mistake could cost me an arm.
But with enough training—
They could become an advantage.
Something that keeps me alive rather than binding me.
If I was a slave—
Then I should fight like one.
I would use everything I could.
After washing, I stepped into the pool, letting the warmth loosen my muscles.
Soon, other teens entered, and my moment of peace vanished.
I left the pool and dressed myself before leaving.
Back in the cell, I grabbed some bread and meat and climbed onto the bed.
After eating, I began to train my mana control again.
Then—
Footsteps echoed, making me halt my training.
A guard approached the cell.
He wasn't alone.
Close behind him—
Was another teen.