I didn't remember much after the arena's chaos, just flashes — the OGRE collapsing after a lucky strike, the surge of adrenaline that kept me alive, and the cold, unrelenting weight of exhaustion that eventually dragged me under. When I finally opened my eyes, the world was different. It wasn't the bright, cheering chaos of the arena. It was dim, muted, and claustrophobic. My side, my back, even my arms and legs stung like every nerve had been set on fire. I groaned, trying to push myself up, and the world tilted with me, threatening to pitch me sideways onto the floor.
"Where…where is this place?" I muttered, my voice hoarse and cracked. I forced myself to sit up, wincing as my muscles reminded me they weren't exactly thrilled about surviving a day that could easily have been my last. Every breath was shallow and labored; my chest felt tight as if the air itself was reluctant to enter my lungs.
The first thing I noticed was the softness beneath me — a mattress. A real mattress. My eyes widened, and my jaw dropped slightly. "What the hell…?" I muttered under my breath, disbelief flooding me. I had expected some grim, metallic cot, maybe a slab with some foul-smelling bedding. But no — this was…soft, surprisingly clean, almost luxurious. It made no sense. I was a battle slave, five years old, just survived a free-for-all and defeated the OGRE, the most feared combatant in the arena, and here I was, lying on a mattress like I was in a hotel room.
I laughed, low and bitter, more to myself than anything. "How…how did I even survive that?" I said, shaking my head. The thought nearly broke me in half with disbelief. I wasn't even a main character in some story with plot armor or special buffs. I was a battle slave, a kid in a world where blood was currency and survival was a daily lottery. And yet here I was — alive. Barely, but alive. "Dammit…who am I even talking to?" I muttered, rolling my eyes at myself.
I was still sprawled there, the dull ache radiating from every part of my body, when the door opened. A sharp click echoed in the corridor outside, followed by a firm, but not unfriendly, voice.
"Oh! You're awake! That's great." The man stepped in, moving with a practiced confidence that instantly set off every survival instinct in me. His gait wasn't threatening, but it was controlled, efficient — someone used to command without needing to raise a hand. "Here, your things. You passed out…seriously injured. Fortunately, you were bandaged by a skilled medic."
I blinked, scanning my body. Sure enough, white bandages wrapped around my torso, arms, and legs, thick enough to provide some protection but flexible enough to move. I flexed my fingers cautiously, wincing at the tenderness of my knuckles. My chest rose and fell with each careful breath, still tinged with the metallic tang of blood.
I couldn't help but notice something else — this kid's body I had been reincarnated into. It was toned. Not jacked, not impossible, but lean, wiry, and hardened by survival and training. I rolled my shoulders experimentally, feeling the tension along the muscles, every fiber tight yet responsive. "Not bad," I muttered, smirking faintly despite the soreness. "Guess I won't complain…yet."
The man's voice cut through my thoughts. "Get up, kid. We're going somewhere." His tone was neither friendly nor cold — just matter-of-fact. Survival in this place had clearly hardened him. I rose to my feet slowly, feeling every ache, every stitch of pain flare up as I shifted weight from one foot to the other. My weapons — the axe, the sword, and Blood Drinker — were laid out neatly against the wall. My Spartan helmet and shoulder pad rested beside them, battered, scratched, and dulled from the arena chaos but still functional.
I retrieved them, flexing my fingers around the handles. The steel was cold, familiar, comforting in a way that reminded me: I was still alive, and I still had tools to survive. I strapped on the armor pieces, adjusted the shoulder pad for leverage, and slipped the helmet onto my head. Even with bandages cutting into my skin from tightness, I felt…ready. Not invincible, but prepared.
The man led the way through a corridor dimly lit with flickering torches and recessed lighting, casting long, uneasy shadows across the stone walls. I kept my head on a swivel, my instincts screaming at me to watch every flicker of motion, every creak beneath our feet. Even though the immediate danger of the arena was gone, the world hadn't softened — my body still tensed at every faint sound.
Minutes of walking passed in silence, broken only by the soft shuffle of our boots. My legs ached with every step; the bandages dug into bruises, and my lungs burned with exertion, still taxed from hours of full-force combat. My hands twitched near the handles of my weapons, a nervous habit I couldn't shake. Despite the exhaustion, I felt a spark of anticipation. This wasn't just about survival — it was about growth, training, and preparation for whatever hell awaited beyond the next fight.
The man approached a sturdy door at the corridor's end and knocked sharply. A muffled response came, and the door swung open with a burst of bright, almost blinding light. I squinted instinctively, shielding my eyes with one hand.
"Welcome," the man said, gesturing expansively. "From this day forward, this will be your training quarters, and that door over there," he nodded toward a smaller, neatly kept room, "will be your resting quarters."
I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the light. The training room was a stark contrast to the corridors — open, spacious, with wooden floors scuffed from countless hours of practice. Dummies, weapons racks, and various training implements lined the walls. There were marks from repeated strikes — dents in the wooden posts, scratches in the floor — a testament to the brutality of training that had occurred here long before me.
I ran a hand along one of the weapons racks, feeling the grooves and worn surfaces, imagining the countless fights it had seen. Every strike, every parry, every slice of steel left a history embedded into this room. My fingers tingled at the thought — this was where skills were honed to perfection, where the weak became lethal, and where the blood of failure soaked into the wood.
"This is where you'll sharpen yourself," the man continued, his voice echoing slightly. "You survived the arena's free-for-all. Not by luck alone, but because you have instincts, awareness, and the skill to wield your weapons." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Now it's time to push that further."
I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from my shoulders slightly. I didn't fully trust him yet, but the honesty in his tone resonated. The room smelled faintly of oil, sweat, and old wood — a scent that made my chest tighten in a mixture of anticipation and nerves.
I glanced at my resting quarters, the small room just enough for a bed and minimal storage. It felt safe, almost comforting, but I knew better than to let my guard down. Even here, even after everything, I had to survive, first and foremost.
As I surveyed the room, a surge of conflicting emotions hit me. Relief that I was alive. Disbelief that I had bested the OGRE. Fear for what was coming next. Excitement at the possibility of improving myself, of learning, of growing stronger. And somewhere in the back of my mind, the nagging question: How the hell did I survive that day?
I exhaled again, the sound shaky but deliberate. The bandages dug into my torso, the armor cut into my arms, my legs still ached from the fights, but I felt a spark of determination. This body was small, fragile, and human — but my mind, my instincts, my skill — that was mine. And in this training room, I would make them even sharper.
The man turned to leave, giving me a final look over his shoulder. "Rest when you can, train when you must. The arena isn't finished with you yet, and neither is the world."
I nodded silently, gripping my weapons a little tighter. The exhaustion threatened to pull me under again, but this time, I welcomed it. Sleep could wait. Training would wait. For now, I just let the weight of survival, of victory, and of what was to come settle on me. I was alive. And I had every intention of staying that way, no matter what came next.