First Blood (3k)

Blood.

She could smell it, so clearly, so distinctly, it was almost unsettling. But the woman only let out a low murmur from her throat and said nothing.

She had grown accustomed to the smell, just like the other seven people around her. However, they actually understood something else much better than that.

They knew this as clearly as they could see the paint and blood smeared on each other's skin and smell the stench in the air.

The facts cannot be changed, especially when you can see them with your own eyes. One cannot deny one's own beliefs.

"When?" a man asked in a low voice, having once leaned silently against the blood-stained rock wall.

He wore a leather armor and carried two short swords. A burning torch crackled above his head, and the smell of animal fat was pungent. He leaned against it as if he were leaning against his own coffin.

"Half an hour," the other man replied. "We'll fight until the undefeated."

"And what?"

"A beast," the woman said—or, Krest said, "One of the many monsters created by slave owners, and this one must be a big one."

"Every battle before the undefeated one enters the arena must be bloody," the first man to speak said. "It's the rule, the law, so you can remove the 'should' part; it's just a big guy."

He remained silent for a moment.

"But I always felt we were sacrifices," he said softly. "We—and that beast—were sacrifices used to summon him."

His words silenced the crowd, who began to recall the giant in unison. Then, one of them spoke up. He held a spear with a sharp tip; it was a new weapon, indicating that he had not been in this bloody arena for long.

Have you seen him?

"Once," the man said, "I saw him kill a Rylanor with my own eyes."

A gasp of surprise rippled through the room.

Even Krest was no exception. She gripped her spear tightly, unwilling to speak.

"Really? You're not lying?" the person who asked the question said skeptically.

"What's the point? You'll believe it once you see it with your own eyes."

The person leaning against the rock wall laughed. His face was covered by black grease, obscuring most of his features, and his eyes were dull and lifeless, making him look less like a human and more like something else entirely.

Then he fell silent, as did Krest. The silence began to spread from them and continued until the bells rang.

The rock walls trembled, and the heavy iron gate was pulled open, letting in a sudden burst of light, followed by a wave of heat and a huge cheer.

Krest knew where the sounds were coming from; they came from above and all around. The dignitaries who had come to watch the undefeated warriors roared with excitement. Krest stepped forward, ready to await the next chime.

It arrived three minutes later.

So Krest emerged from the darkness and joined the other seven.

She walked barefoot on the scorching hot sand, carefully avoiding the places where bones were buried.

One of her companions crouched down, grabbed a handful of sand, sniffed it a few times, and then concluded with certainty. "Many died before us."

"Do you even need to tell me?" someone kicked him, a harmless joke. "The dark red of the sand has changed again; we can see it."

"Don't speak," a man said softly. "It's coming."

He is right.

The ground trembled, and opposite them, a black iron gate was slowly pulled up. With a sickening clatter of metal hinges, a huge beast charged out.

Its teeth gleamed in the sunlight, Krest's eyes stung slightly, not from the sweat that got into them, but from the head that had been attached to the spikes on the creature's back.

Gladiators—the heads of their companions, their eyes vacant and open, swaying gently on the spikes.

"I'm going to kill this beast," someone muttered to themselves beside her.

Krest didn't know if he was referring to it or to the people who had done it. She had little time to think, as the beast charged towards them.

It was obviously starving; a beast wouldn't approach a human so closely unless driven by hunger. Its reddish skin bore the marks of whipping, its flesh torn and blood dripping with its movements, leaving even more bloodstains in the sand pit.

The first person to confront it was a woman wielding a short sword and shield. She roared as she charged at it, trying to block its attacks with her shield and stabbing its eyes with her short sword.

Her tactics were obvious; Krest could see them, and she had even figured out how to cooperate with her. But she hadn't expected that the beast could see them too.

It turned to the side, its strong tail sweeping across with a fierce swift motion. A scream rang out, the shield shattered, and the woman fell to the ground, her right hand holding the shield broken.

What happened next needs no further explanation.

"The first one, "Krest thought amidst the screams. "Will I be the second?"

She had no answer; she simply gripped her spear tighter and charged forward with another man wielding a spear.

The beast, lost in its bloodlust, paid no heed to their attack, tearing at flesh and blood with relish. Its entrails, flesh, and bones crumbled together with each chew, until two spears pierced its left forelimb.

The thing roared and turned around at a speed that Krest couldn't react to at all, followed by a violent slam.

She was thrown backward, her senses sharper than ever before. Her abdomen ached, and she could clearly feel it, but that wasn't the point, because she was about to land.

The air brushed against her hair and dry skin, the heat was intense, the roars from the stands were still loud, and someone was laughing hysterically. A fraction of a second, or ten thousand years later—she collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony.

"Get to the back!" someone roared as they passed her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a completely black face, and after that, her memories were fragmented.

Blood, screams, roars, and curses. Someone threw cold water at her from the stands, but instead of feeling ashamed, she craved more.

The coldness eased her pain somewhat, but she couldn't speak.

She intended to plead—she would cry out, "Sir! Sir! Please have mercy! Give me some water!"

She learned this shout from a dead gladiator, a very lively man who refused to tell them his name. Until his death, they didn't know what to call him.

Now— Krest lay on her side in the scorching sand, the rough texture scratching her skin, accompanied by waves of heat.

She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Instinctively, she uttered a faint sound between her lips, using the words the man had taught her. But it wasn't a plea for water; it was a plea for death.

"Sir, sir, please have mercy, give me some water!" she cried weakly.

The first time, the second time, the third time. Her memory turned into fragmented abstract paintings, but the smell of death remained so real. She could smell the increasingly pungent stench of blood, as well as the screams and frenzied shouts of her brothers and sisters.

The last one was the most intense, even overwhelming all others after a brief pause.

In a daze, she seemed to hear the sound of metal hinges moving again. The delirious woman raised her head, trying to climb back into their cell, but she didn't see the cell; she saw a giant.

He is breathing.

This was Krest's first thought.

He's breathing—yes, he's breathing.

She giggled foolishly.

The giant lowered his head and glanced at her. His face twitched nervously, his expression twisted into a terrifying echo. But he didn't kill her, at least not now. He simply bit his lip, letting the blood drip.

"Climb to the back. You want to die? They won't let you," he said in a low voice, his tone like two sharp blades rubbing against each other. His face continued to twitch between words, as if he were being tortured.

Krest regained her senses in that instant, letting out a painful groan as she felt dizzy. "Who are you?"

The giant did not answer.

He stepped over her, then over corpse, corpse, corpse, and more corpse—he stepped into the very center of the sandpit, between bones and dried blood, and then raised his weapon.

Then he roared.

"Come over!"

A thunderous roar erupted in the arena, drowning out the voices of all the dignitaries who had cheered for his appearance. Their gathering seemed insignificant and feeble in comparison.

From Krest's perspective, she could only see his back, but that didn't stop her from observing him.

Was he human? Krest wondered. She had no answer, but she wanted to know, so she began to crawl laboriously, not to get to safety, but to get closer to the battlefield.

The beast ignored the giant who called to it; it was busy eating—it was starving, otherwise, there was no explanation for why it dared to do this. A roar like a mountain collapsing and a tsunami erupted from the stands, initially chaotic, but after a few seconds, it was reduced to a single, unified syllable.

"Angronius! Angronius! Angronius! Angronius!"

They roared in unison, a sound that puzzled Krest. Her thoughts paused again, but not for long.

Because the giant began to roar again, this time without words, only pure resentment.

Then Thunder returned, and storms followed.

"The Undefeated," Krest whispered.

She knew who he was.

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