The cloudy afternoon sky hung low over the northern district, a dull gray veil over the noise below. In the heart of a bustling field, the sound of fists cracking against flesh echoed like drumbeats. A street gladiator match was underway—a monthly spectacle that had become a cultural phenomenon in the north.
Crowds packed the makeshift arena, perched on wooden balconies and stacked crates, roaring as fighters brawled in the dirt ring. The match was chaos, pure and unfiltered, a brutal dance of punches and kicks where contestants dropped one by one like fallen dominoes.
"Yo! Sorry we're late!"
A cluster of scruffy boys, no older than nine, hurried up the balcony stairs.
"You guys? Why so late?!" Jack snapped, turning toward them. His pompadour hair bobbed as he glared. "The match is almost over!"
