The metal doors opened wide, and the light of the arena spilled through the gap.
Step.
I stepped forward.
My feet slowly sank into the sand as I entered. I headed directly toward the weapon rack and searched for my sword. Wrapping my fingers around the grip of the longsword, I pulled it from the rack and lifted it onto my shoulder before walking toward the center of the arena.
The other teens were still choosing their weapons when I reached the center.
Step.
Stopping there, I turned my head toward the empty podium.
John wasn't there yet.
My gaze drifted across the arena.
Thousands of eyes were fixed on us as the crowd filled the benches, dressed in bright and colorful garments.
Yet despite the arena being filled—
There was almost no sound.
No chants.
No cheers.
Only a ripple of murmurs drifted through the air.
As if even they weren't sure what would happen today.
Step.
I heard the shifting of sand behind me and glanced over my shoulder.
The rest of the teens were arriving.
There were seven.
Turning fully around, I observed them more closely.
The teens spread out naturally, forming a loose arc in the center of the arena.
One of them stood out immediately.
Brown skin and a buzz cut.
Number 125.
The teen who seemed like he wanted to befriend me.
I wasn't surprised as I saw him standing among the others.
If I could see my own expression, it would probably resemble a faint smile.
Only a few hours ago, I had been thinking about how pointless friendships were here.
Because eventually—
You would stand in this arena facing each other.
And now we were here.
I shifted my gaze away from 125 and studied the others.
Number 74.
A girl with black hair and brown eyes. She gripped the shaft of her spear tightly while her nervous gaze darted across the arena.
Number 92 and 86.
Two tall boys who looked almost identical, though one seemed slightly older. Both had short brown hair and blue eyes. They held their swords firmly and scanned the arena with confident expressions.
Number 158.
A small blond boy with brown eyes. His trembling hands gripped two battle axes that didn't really fit him. While the others had spread out, he had walked directly to the center of the arena.
Lastly, number 214 and 105.
Two teens of average height and build. Both had black hair. 214 had blue eyes while 105 had green eyes. They stood the farthest away from everyone else, their swords shaking in their hands.
Thud.
The sound of a door opening echoed through the arena, making my head turn toward it.
It was the metal door behind the podium.
A streak of crimson appeared at the doorway, and before the figure even stepped out, erupted a thunderous chant from the crowd.
"JOHN! JOHN! JOHN!"
John stepped onto the platform and walked toward the podium with slow, measured steps.
He wore the same crimson suit as always. But today, something about his mask felt different.
It was still white, a stark contrast to his red attire.
Yet the painted smile on it—
Seemed wider.
Only slightly, but it was enough for me to notice
John stood still for a moment after reaching the podium, basking in the cheers of the crowd.
Then he moved.
Slowly.
He raised one hand.
The movement was small.
Yet the arena obeyed.
The chanting gradually faded before dying down.
Silence returned.
John lowered his hand and performed his signature bow toward us before straightening again.
"Welcome. Young lambs."
"And my dear guests."
His voice wasn't loud, yet in the silence it echoed through the arena.
He gestured toward us.
"For days—no, months—you have watched our young lambs duel one another. Predictable, is it not? A duel can only thrill so many times."
A ripple of approving murmurs spread through the crowd.
John waited for them to settle before continuing.
"It seemed there was a need for change. And so I did."
He paused.
"My dear guests…Today, there will be no ordinary spectacle."
Another wave of murmurs rose among the audience, filled with anticipation.
John spread his arms wide, silencing them at once.
"In ancient times—long before our own, before even the empire we now live in existed—there was a tradition."
He paused, letting the words linger and the tension rise.
"A tradition now forgotten. Buried. Abolished. Swept away by weaker generations who feared the strength it created."
Whispers and guesses rippled through the crowd.
John leaned forward over the stone podium, lowering his voice.
"But we…"
"We are not weak."
"And I am certain we do not fear the strong."
His voice grew louder with each sentence, and the crowd answered with roaring approval.
He paused again, waiting until the noise faded.
"This forgotten tradition was known as… the Adolescence of Blood."
He let the name linger.
"A trial where children—yes, children—were trained from youth. From the moment they took their first steps, they were put through relentless hardship. And when the time came to leave weakness behind…"
Snap.
He snapped his fingers.
"…they were thrown into the pit."
The crowd didn't react and just listened in silence, as if every word he spoke told the story of the young children anew.
"Alone. No clothes. No food or water. In their hands—only a weapon. And before them..."
"A beast."
He gestured toward the metal gates surrounding the arena, voice low.
"No rules."
"No retreat."
"No mercy."
Each word echoed through the arena like a drumbeat.
John raised his voice again.
"And only when they crawled from that pit—bloodied and broken, yet alive—only then did the tribe call that child…"
"An adult."
The silence held.
John raised one hand and gestured toward us.
"Today—here and now—we will resurrect that forgotten tradition."
Boom.
Boom.
Drums thundered through the arena.
"Today... The pits return."
Boom.
The final drum shattered the crowd's silence, and they exploded into roaring cheers.
John continued through the chaos.
"No longer will you bet on individuals."
His hand still pointed at us.
"From this moment onward, you will wager on groups. On young lambs that will either survive... or die together."
He turned his hand and gestured toward the gates.
"You will cheer not for a single victor—but for a group bound together by a single goal..."
"Survival."
Spreading his arms wide, he shouted.
"So I ask you—"
"Who will triumph?"
The crowd roared.
John continued, pointing at the gate with one hand while gesturing toward us with the other.
"Will it be the ferocious beasts?"
"Or our young lambs... clawing and bleeding their way toward survival?"
Another wave of screams erupted.
John turned his head fully toward us.
My grip tightened ever so slightly around the sword.
His voice became almost gentle.
"And which group, my dear guests…will remain standing at the very end?"
He raised a single hand.
"Let us find out."
And dropped it.
THUD.
The metal gates to our right and left screeched as they opened.
I turned my gaze away from John and toward them. My feet were firmly planted in the sand, and my sword was raised into stance, grip tighter than usual.
Slowly—
The gates parted.
The darkness from the corridor beyond spilled into the arena as if to devour any light that came too close.
ROAR!
The roar of beasts burst from the darkness.
Thuuuud.
The ground trembled as something massive approached.
A drop of sweat slid down my forehead as I stared into the darkness beyond the gate.
I had seen the beasts they kept. And some of them could barely be called beasts anymore.
Monsters.
That was the only word that fit them.
That was how they looked to me.
My hand trembled for a moment at the memory before I forced it still.
Now there was only one question left.
Which of them would come rushing through those gates?
In the background, the crowd's chant continued.
"BLOOD!"
"BLOOD!"
"BLOOD!"