The boy at Ravian's feet was motionless, crumpled like a discarded rag doll. His chest barely rose and fell, his breath ragged and uneven. Ravian stood over him, his own fists still clenched, his knuckles raw and swollen. His breath came in shallow bursts, his entire body trembling—not from exertion, but from the shock of what he had done.
The first blow had been hesitant. The second, instinctive. By the time his fists were flying, Ravian's mind had gone blank, lost in a whirlwind of fear and desperation. He had to survive. That was all he knew, all he could allow himself to know. The boy in front of him wasn't a person anymore—he was an obstacle. A threat.
But now, with the boy lying broken on the ground, the reality of it hit him like a cold gust of wind. He had done this. He had hurt this boy, just as he had been hurt. And for what? To live another day? To move on to the next fight?
His hands trembled as he tried to unclench them, the skin raw where his nails had dug into his palms. His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears. Around him, the arena was still a cacophony of violence—cries of pain, the dull thud of bodies colliding, the sickening crack of bones breaking. But Ravian felt distant from it all, as though he were watching from somewhere far away.
He took a step back, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. The men who stood at the edge of the arena hadn't even looked his way. They didn't care. He could have killed the boy, left him bleeding out in the dirt, and they would have done nothing. To them, this was nothing more than a game—a test of who would break first.
Ravian's chest tightened, a sickening wave of nausea rolling through him. He swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down. He didn't have time to think. There were more fights ahead. More bodies to break, more blood to spill.
A sharp voice cut through the air, breaking the chaotic rhythm of the arena. One of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped forward, his voice booming over the noise. "Move on to the next! You fight until you can't stand!"
Ravian's heart sank. There was no time for rest, no time to breathe. The world around him shifted, the children who had survived their first fight now being shoved toward new opponents. Some were still recovering, clutching their sides or limping away from their fallen foes, but the men didn't care. The next fight was always waiting.
Ravian's body screamed in protest as he was pushed forward again. His legs felt weak, his muscles burning with every step. He hadn't even fully recovered from the first fight, and now he was being forced into another. His stomach twisted with fear, but his mind was strangely calm.
Survive. Just survive.
The mantra echoed in his head, dull and unrelenting. It was the only thing keeping him moving, the only thing keeping him from collapsing in the dirt and letting the arena swallow him whole.
His next opponent was already waiting. A boy, perhaps a year older than Ravian, with wild, frantic eyes. His hair was matted with dirt, and blood stained the front of his tunic. He was trembling, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. But there was something different about him—something that set Ravian on edge.
The boy's eyes were filled with rage.
Before Ravian could react, the boy lunged at him, his hands outstretched, fingers bent into claws. Ravian barely had time to raise his arms in defense before the boy was on him, nails digging into his skin, tearing at his flesh. Pain exploded in Ravian's forearms as the boy's nails raked across them, drawing thin lines of blood.
Ravian cried out, stumbling backward as the boy slammed into him. They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, dirt and sweat mixing as they struggled. The boy's hands were everywhere—scratching at Ravian's face, pulling at his hair, trying to gouge out his eyes.
Panic flared in Ravian's chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The boy was on top of him, pinning him to the ground, his nails digging into Ravian's scalp. Pain shot through his head as the boy grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, hard. Ravian's vision blurred with tears, his mouth opening in a silent scream.
Instinct took over. Ravian lashed out with his fists, striking blindly at the boy's body. His knuckles connected with the boy's ribs, but it wasn't enough. The boy barely reacted, his grip on Ravian's hair tightening as he raised his other hand, nails gleaming in the harsh light.
Ravian twisted beneath him, his hands scrabbling at the dirt. His fingers closed around a small stone, sharp and jagged, half-buried in the earth. Without thinking, he brought it up, slamming it into the boy's side.
The boy howled in pain, his grip on Ravian loosening for just a moment—long enough for Ravian to push him off and scramble to his feet. His hands were shaking, the stone still clutched in his fist, blood dripping from where it had cut into his palm.
The boy was on his knees now, clutching his side, his face twisted in agony. But the fight wasn't over. Ravian knew it. The men were watching. They were always watching.
The boy looked up at Ravian, his eyes wide with fear and fury. His lips curled back in a snarl, and he lunged again, his arms outstretched, fingers reaching for Ravian's throat.
Ravian swung the stone.
It connected with the boy's jaw, the impact sending a jolt of pain up Ravian's arm. The boy crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his mouth, his body twitching.
Ravian stood over him, his chest heaving, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His hands were shaking, the stone slick with blood. The boy lay at his feet, unmoving.
Ravian blinked, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. He had won. Again.
But this time, it didn't feel like a victory.
Around him, the arena was still alive with the sounds of battle—cries of pain, the sickening thud of flesh against flesh, the dull roar of the men as they watched. But Ravian couldn't hear any of it. His mind was numb, his body trembling with exhaustion.
He dropped the stone, the weight of it suddenly too much to bear. It hit the ground with a soft thud, the blood staining the dirt beneath his feet.
He had survived. But there was no joy.
The boy at his feet wasn't moving. His chest was still, his eyes half-open, staring blankly at the sky.
Ravian's stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat. He turned away, his hands shaking as he wiped the blood from his palms onto his tunic. His legs felt weak, his knees threatening to give out beneath him. He couldn't look at the boy. He couldn't look at what he had done.
The men's voices rose above the din of the arena, cold and detached. They were already moving on, already calling for the next fight. Ravian barely heard them. His mind was still lost in the haze of violence, in the sickening realization of what he had become.
This is what it takes.
The thought was bitter, sharp as the stone he had used to kill. This is what it took to survive in this place. To live, he had to become a monster. To live, he had to be willing to spill blood, to break bones, to kill.
He had won. But there was no glory in it. No triumph.
Only the cold, unrelenting truth.