I remained standing on the podium.
Another battle had already begun below. Another warrior. Another performance.
I knew the routine well enough that my body kept up appearances without effort. A measured posture. A calm presence. The image they expected.
The fights passed in a blur.
Stell clashed.
Blood spilled.
A beast roared.
I nodded at the right moments. Spoke when needed. Entertained.
The crowd cheered, clapped, and shouted.
But all I could hear—
Was the laughter from before.
Long gone, yet still ringing in my ears.
I looked down at the arena.
Two warriors were locked in a duel below, steel clashing.
I called it a divine match.
The crowd loved it.
The warriors felt honored.
But I didn't see them.
My eyes slid over their movements like they weren't even there.
The boy was already gone.
And yet—
I kept seeing him.
Standing in the arena.
Tattered clothes clinging to his body, stiff with dried blood. A sword hanging limply from his hand, its edge dulled by too many battles. His posture unsteady, exhausted and tired, yet his head remained raised.
And...
Those blue eyes.
I had been looking down at him from the podium, yet it had felt as though I were the one being looked down upon.
As if I were beneath him.
My fingers tightened around the podium without me knowing.
I was grateful for the mask in moments like this.
Grateful that no one could see my expression.
Did I still smile?
Or had my expression already cracked?
I didn't know.
But there was no need to.
The mask hid everything.
Whatever changed beneath it, I looked the same to the world.
That was what this place demanded.
This arena did not run on pride or a wounded ego. It ran on control. On image. On my ability to turn anything into a spectacle.
So I kept my head up, chin raised, so that all could see the crimson smile.
Time passed, and before long, the last fight ended.
The crowd thinned. Nobles rose from their seats, conversations already shifting toward something else. Coins changed hands. Interest drifted away. But I remained standing, hands clasping the podium as I watched them leave one after the other.
Eventually, I was alone.
Slaves hurried into the arena. They scrubbed the stone steps clean, dragged carcasses aside, raked fresh sand over blood-soaked ground, cleaning every patch of the arena. Guards stood watch in silence.
I stood still on the podium while all this happened. My gaze followed the slaves in the arena, watching as they moved around and cleaned, yet at the same time, I didn't see them. That same boy still filled my vision, his image not wanting to fade.
At last—
Haah.
I exhaled slowly and turned away.
The walk back to my office was fast but measured. By the time the metal doors closed behind me, my pace had slowed.
Until I stopped.
For a moment, I simply stood there, staring blankly at the crimson walls before me.
It took a few moments before I moved again, walking toward my chair and sitting down, leaning back as I closed my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Once.
Twice.
I let the tension drain from my shoulders and forced my breathing into a steady rhythm. My way to clear my mind.
Emotion was poison for people like me.
When I opened my eyes again, my mood had settled.
I was calm.
But the bitterness remained.
It clung to the back of my throat like something spoiled.
I swallowed it down and started working.
My hand reached for the drawer, opening it, and I retrieved the letter waiting inside.
I had delayed opening it on purpose. Not because I didn't know its contents—but because I had hoped to postpone the irritation a little longer.
Something that proved pointless.
I unfolded the parchment and read.
Skipping the dry greeting, the content was exactly what I had expected.
Thinly veiled displeasure.
Reminders of lineage.
Demands wrapped in courtesy.
My gaze lowered toward the end of the letter.
Stamped in gold and crimson—
The Vakaris family sigil.
It wasn't the first letter.
They had sent several letters already, each more insistent than the last. Each asking for the same thing.
The boy.
I had ignored them.
Disposing of the boy would happen under my authority, and nobody else's. The Colosseum did not bend to noble pressure.
But this letter made one thing clear.
Their patience was gone.
This was no longer a request.
It was a final warning.
Soon—
They would move.
Rustle.
I placed the letter down carefully, fingers lingering on the parchment.
Then—
Knock.
"Enter."
A guard stepped inside, holding another letter.
The seal was unmistakable even at a glance.
Red and black—the Imperial seal.
I lifted my hand before the guard could straighten himself, reaching for it.
He reacted at once, stepping closer and carefully placing the letter in my outstretched hand.
Without glancing at him, I spoke.
"Leave."
The guard exited at once.
My eyes stayed on the letter in my hand. I rotated it between my fingers, the seal glinting under the light.
Curiosity replaced irritation, and I broke the seal.
The contents were simple.
The Imperial Army required slaves for an upcoming operation. Warriors. Those capable of standing their ground in combat and aiding the imperial army.
The sums they offered for a slave were generous, scaling higher with the slave's skill level.
As I read, a face surfaced in my mind.
That very same boy.
My grip tightened, crumpling the parchment slightly before I forced myself to relax.
I smoothed it out and placed it beside the other letter.
My gaze shifted between them.
One demanded the boy for free.
The other offered money for slaves like him.
I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming across the desk in thought.
A decision.
The crimson smile across the mask seemed to grow a little wider.
Now was the time for me to decide—
Not the slave.