*THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD!
Thunderous war drums pounded in relentless unison, each beat crashing like a tidal wave against the trembling hearts of those gathered below.
The drums were not merely sounds—they were declarations, war cries from an empire that thrived on bloodshed.
*VWOOOOM!!!
They were followed by sharp, piercing blares from ceremonial horns, their shrill tones echoing through the air with violent urgency, as though the very sky above was being split open by the force of their call.
The arena trembled with energy—raw, brutal, and unyielding.
For the civilians, the atmosphere was electrifying.
The rhythmic percussion ignited their spirits, filled their lungs with excitement, and set their hearts racing with anticipation for the spectacle that was about to unfold.
But for the slaves below, the music held a different message.
It was not a song of glory or pride—it was the sound of impending doom, a cruel announcement of the suffering to come.
Fear seeped into their bones, coiling around their minds like a serpent, suffocating hope and strangling what little courage remained.
Some among the gathered children and adults collapsed where they stood, their legs giving out under the immense weight of terror.
They sobbed openly, shoulders trembling as the realization took hold that they were nothing more than fodder—expendable lives to be consumed for entertainment.
Others, paralyzed by despair, chose resignation over struggle.
To them, a swift death was preferable to the torment that awaited.
And yet… among the sea of trembling bodies, there were those who did not falter.
Those whose eyes gleamed with resistance, whose stance refused to bend beneath the pressure of expectation.
Among them stood Jinn.
Jinn's jaw was clenched, and his chest rose with deep, controlled breaths.
His eyes, once filled with the peaceful faced from the orphanage, now burned with a tempered flame—determination forged through loss and yearning for survival—of both him and his friends.
He didn't move.
He didn't flinch.
He stood tall on the stone platform, feeling the pulse of the drums beneath his feet like the beat of a rival heart challenging his own.
No longer would he be a mere passenger to fate.
He would fight—not only for his own survival but for those he cherished.
The crowd's roar began to wane for a brief moment as the voice of the announcer sliced through the noise like a sharpened blade.
"Let's not waste any more time, shall we?" the announcer declared, his voice smooth and theatrical, brimming with smug excitement.
His hand hovered above a console before pressing a large glowing button set into the control panel.
"Let us proceed as usual."
A metallic
*click!
resounded beneath his hand, followed by a deep, guttural rumble that vibrated through the entire arena like a beast waking from slumber.
*Grrrrrrrrrrrr....!!!
Gates built into the arena walls groaned as they were forced open by unseen mechanisms, revealing shadowed corridors that led into the unknown.
From these dark mouths, heavily armored soldiers poured out in organized waves.
Their boots struck the stone floor in perfect rhythm, creating an eerie cadence as they marched forward.
"Let the sorting begin!" shouted the announcer, grinning from ear to ear as if he had personally orchestrated every detail of this cruel ritual.
The soldiers wasted no time.
They began to separate the young from the old with mechanical efficiency, as though herding livestock.
"No—Mom, NO!"
"My Daughter!!!"
"HELP!!!"
Children screamed and reached out for their parents, their cries high-pitched and desperate.
One woman shrieked in anguish as her daughter was yanked from her arms, her nails raking the air in a hopeless attempt to hold on.
"No! That's my daughter! Please!" she cried, her voice cracking from raw pain.
The civilians in the audience laughed, their amusement ringing cruelly through the arena.
Their derision added insult to injury—mockery layered atop sorrow, painting the arena in emotional blood as much as physical.
Jinn, amid the chaos, narrowed his eyes.
Perfect.
In this confusion, I might be able to reach the others.
As fate would have it, Jinn was pulled alongside the other children.
He didn't resist.
If anything, he welcomed it.
"Show them what you're made of, boy!" roared Biyo from the adults' section, his voice a booming laugh that cut across the distance with pride and encouragement.
Jinn turned briefly, smirking at the old warrior's words, the corners of his lips tugging upward despite the weight in his chest.
Meanwhile, high above in the viewing balcony adorned with gold and etched runes, whispers and murmurs stirred among the elites.
Cloaked in robes and armor, nobles and high-ranking spectators observed the chaos below like gods watching mortals dance upon a chessboard.
"Look at that boy… he has crimson hair," someone muttered with a hint of curiosity.
"And he's a Rinari? That's odd. Very odd," another whispered, their tone dipped in intrigue and suspicion.
Venedix sat still, arms resting calmly, yet her fingers began to tap slowly against the hilt of her sword—an unconscious habit betraying her thoughts.
Her eyes were trained on Jinn with a narrowed gaze that shimmered with something more than just recognition.
"Crimson red hair…" someone murmured, more to themselves than anyone else,
"From afar, you'd almost mistake him for one of Sorellia's own."
A crimson haired man equipped with a humongous sword stepped forward beside her, his armor polished to a dull shine, his posture relaxed and almost arrogant.
His voice carried the weight of command.
"How odd indeed," he remarked, his gaze flicking from Jinn to Venedix with calculated interest.
Venedix, unbothered, crossed her legs and kept her eyes focused below.
"Your massive sword is blocking my view," she said coolly, her voice devoid of warmth, yet firm with subtle disdain.
The man gave a short scoff, and without another word, shifted to the side.
Back on the ground, the final group of slaves had been sorted.
A silence briefly took over—but it was not calm.
It was the silence before a storm, thick with unspoken tension.
Suddenly, a faint clicking noise echoed from beneath the platform.
*click... *clack...! *clunk...!
Mechanical, repetitive… growing louder.
Kain's head jerked to the side.
"W-What's that sound!?" he said, panic rising in his voice.
His eyes darted around in search of its source, his nerves prickling with unease.
Jinn too noticed it—a rhythmic tremor humming beneath his boots, and then, flashes of light caught in his peripheral vision.
He turned, his eyes locking onto a row of metallic vents emerging from the arena floor, spaced evenly across the boundary that separated the children and the adults.
Then came the hiss.
*HISSSSSSSS!!!
Sharp, synchronized bursts of steam erupted from the vents, and in the blink of an eye, tongues of fire burst into the air.
An inferno now separated the two groups, a circle of searing flame crackling and roaring like a caged beast.
The heat was immediate and unforgiving, casting wild shadows on terrified faces.
Jinn flinched instinctively, his eyes wide.
The flames licked the air like serpents, a deadly reminder: escape was not just unlikely—it was suicide.
And as if the nightmare needed further escalation, a series of massive, blackened containers rose from the floor within the enclosed arena space, their edges groaning with strain as they locked into place.
One by one, they hissed open, revealing racks of weapons.
Melee weapons of all shapes and sizes—blunt, bladed, serrated—and energy-based guns sat gleaming in rows.
Their deadly promise shimmered beneath the overhead lights.
From across the fire barrier, Biyo let out a low, knowing chuckle.
His eyes narrowed, a storm of memories and survival instincts stirring within.
"They want us to cull ourselves," he muttered bitterly.
And then, the announcer returned—grinning like a lunatic.
"Each side will fight! Children against children! Adults against adults!" he shouted, holding up both hands.
"Ten minutes of carnage until only the strong are left to stand!"
Gasps filled the slave ranks.
Fear, horror, and disbelief gripped their throats.
Parents screamed, children cried, and the arena above howled with amusement.
"Kill yourselves, you fucking slaves! Hahaha!"
"Look at their faces—this is gold!"
The jeers from the civilians poured down like acid rain, eating into already fragile minds.
Despair was thick in the air, but no one had time to weep for long.
"Five minutes from now, the carnage begins!" the announcer declared as a massive holographic timer flickered to life above the arena.
It began to tick down, slowly at first—ominous and final.
Without hesitation, Jinn turned to Kain.
"You stay here. I'll grab a weapon for you," he said, voice calm but firm.
He stepped forward toward the containers, his footsteps steady despite the chaos.
As he walked, he passed several children—his peers—who were collapsed in place, their faces drenched with tears, their small frames trembling.
Jinn felt his chest had slightly tighten at the sight.
These weren't warriors.
They were victims of cruelty disguised as tradition.
His fists clenched, his pace steadying.
He had no choice but to walk this road.
Not for glory.
For survival.
He must kill.
For himself and for his friends.
The memory of Nevi—her lifeless eyes—and the brutal massacre of the Rinari flashed in his mind.
It was not just survival now.
It was purpose.
He reached the weapons cache, grabbing a curved sword first.
The weight was decent—not too heavy, not too light.
A good balance.
He then secured a compact energy pistol for Kain to use.
After a quick test swing of the blade, he nodded and turned back to find Kain.
But he stopped abruptly.
As he saw something.
There they were—
his friends.
Hector, Ophelia, Vox, Verhedyn, and Orin, standing just a few meters away.
His heart surged.
They're alive.
He turned and dashed toward Kain.
"Come on! I found the others!"
"R-Really!?" Kain gasped, awe in his voice.
Jinn grabbed him by the arm.
"Yeah! Follow me!"
Together, the two sprinted through the crowd, weaving past scattered children, until they reached the familiar faces they thought they'd lost.
Hector, alert and ready, was the first to turn.
He caught the sound of Jinn's voice even before he fully recognized it.
"Jinn…?" he muttered, blinking hard as if to make sure it wasn't a trick of the light.
"JINN!" Orin's voice cracked, her breath hitching with sudden emotion as she shoved past Verhedyn and Hector to get a clearer look.
Then came Vox's surprised exclamation—high-pitched and full of disbelief.
"H-Hey guys, it's Jinn! And Kain! They're alive!"
A moment of silence passed as everyone turned toward them, and then a flood of relief and disbelief washed over the group like a tidal wave breaking through a dam.
Verhedyn let out a small chuckle, shaking his head with a crooked smile.
"Now that's a damn sight for sore eyes."
"Jinn! Great timing," Hector said as he glanced up at the timer now displaying just under a minute.
"The event's just about to start."
Ophelia, gripping the shaft of the large mace she'd chosen, nodded grimly.
Her eyes met Jinn's, calm yet intense.
"Let's stick together—for real this time. We survive as one."
Jinn nodded back, the weight of her words settling on his shoulders like a cloak he was prepared to wear.
"Ophelia's right," he said firmly.
Meanwhile, Verhedyn, ever the tease even in moments of madness, nudged Orin lightly with his elbow.
"Well? You gonna do it now or what?"
Orin's cheeks flushed instantly, color rushing to her face as she awkwardly scratched the back of her head.
She took a slow step toward Jinn, suddenly bashful.
Jinn noticed her movement and turned toward her.
"Orin...?"
"U-Uh... J-Jinn… back on the ship, when everything went to hell…" she fumbled, her words clumsy and unsure.
"I'm sorry… for slapping you. For yelling. I was just…"
Jinn didn't let her finish.
He stepped forward and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't worry about it," he said calmly, meeting her eyes. "Besides… I think I already found your necklace."
Orin gasped, her eyes going wide.
"Y-You did!?"
He nodded.
"But it's not with me. Someone else has it. I'll need to get it back."
Her jaw tightened, but after a moment, she nodded. "I trust you, Jinn."
"Good," Jinn said, his tone shifting again to something sharper, more resolute.
"But first… let's survive this shithole."
The others around him nodded one by one, their eyes burning with renewed purpose.
Their grips tightened on their weapons—swords, daggers, maces, or makeshift armaments scavenged from the crates.
"Alrighty!" the announcer's voice echoed again, booming and excited.
"Thirty seconds until the bloodbath begins!"
The crowd above responded with an even louder roar, stomping and shouting, hungry for blood.
The heat from the flame vents intensified as if matching the fervor in the air.
Escape now wasn't just impossible—it was insanity.
"I'll cover our flanks!" Hector shouted, already moving into position at the edge of the group, his longsword angled toward the ground.
Jinn nodded firmly. "Good."
Vox stepped up beside him, eyes wide, voice tense. "What's the plan, Jinn?!"
Jinn looked over the group quickly, reading their faces—friends that had survived the impossible.
"Stick together. Defend only. Fight only if they come at us first. That's the plan."
Verhedyn stood next to him now, spinning the daggers loosely in his hands, sweat glistening down his fingers.
"Heh… the suspense is killing me. Just get it on already."
The group instinctively drew into a defensive circle, backs to each other, weapons raised in every direction.
No blind spots.
No easy targets.
Just seven frightened, determined souls standing against chaos.
*VWOOOOOOOOOOM!!!
Above them, the horns howled again—sharp, monstrous sounds that seemed to shake the very foundations of the arena.
They signaled one thing:
War.
"FIVE SECONDS!!!" the announcer bellowed, his voice cutting through the madness.
Jinn stood at the center of his friends.
He shut his eyes for a moment, breathed in slowly, deeply, and then exhaled with force. T
he air filled his lungs and steadied his racing heart.
He focused.
His grip tightened.
And when he opened his eyes, all traces of doubt had vanished.
His mind was clear.
His body, ready.
And with one final shout, the announcer delivered the words that would ignite the storm:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—THE CULLING BEGINS!"