The air on the platform was different now.
The leader had finally moved.
He was taller than the others, broad-shouldered, his bare torso crisscrossed with scars that told stories Arlo had no interest in hearing.
His skin was pale beneath the grime, but the cords of muscle beneath it were taut, alive with restrained power. Heavy shackles ringed his wrists and ankles, each carved with faintly glowing runes that pulsed like embers in the dim light.
The man flexed his wrist slowly, the movement deliberate, like a predator testing its claws before striking. His jaw tightened as he rolled his shoulders, eyes locked on Arlo. There was no trace of amusement in that gaze—only cold calculation.
"You've got guts, boy," the leader said at last, his tone low, carrying across the platform like a growl. "But guts alone won't keep you breathing down here."
The words were heavy, carrying not just threat but an odd sense of ritual, as though he had said them before to others who had been thrown into this pit.
Arlo's grin widened. "Good thing I've got more than guts, then."
The leader's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring slightly.
Around them, the other prisoners chuckled nervously or muttered curses, but no one dared interrupt. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
As the leader began pacing in a slow circle, Arlo took the chance to glance at the rest of the group.
They weren't pressing forward anymore.
Instead, they had formed a loose ring, creating space in the middle. A makeshift arena, he realized.
They weren't just waiting for a fight—they were expecting one.
Arlo's heart thudded harder, not from fear but from anticipation. 'So this is how it's going to be…'
He rolled his shoulders experimentally. Despite the bruises and cuts littering his skin from the earlier brawl, he didn't feel weak.
In fact, the longer he stood there, the lighter he felt. His breath came easier, steadier, and when he flexed his fingers, he could swear the soreness was already fading.
It wasn't just his imagination either.
He glanced briefly at some of the prisoners he had hit earlier—they were still hunched, groaning, slow to recover. But his own wounds? They were knitting together before his very eyes, tiny scratches vanishing, deeper aches softening into nothing.
'Regeneration,' he thought with a flash of satisfaction. 'So what else can this body do?'
The realization didn't shock him.
It felt natural, expected, as though this new flesh of his was simply reminding him of the rules it lived by.
Pain wasn't permanent anymore.
Damage wasn't fatal unless it was absolute.
Confidence bloomed inside him, swelling into something dangerously close to arrogance.
He turned his attention back to the leader, watching the way the man carried himself, the set of his shoulders, the calculated calm in his movements.
This wasn't some wild thug like the ones he had just floored. No, this one had discipline carved into him, the kind that only came from surviving countless battles.
'So he's the one they look up to,' Arlo thought, eyes narrowing with interest. 'That makes him a good stepping stone.'
The leader, meanwhile, studied Arlo with a different lens.
He saw the boy's casual stance, his smirk, the glint in his eyes that belonged not to a scared prisoner but to someone… untamed.
Dangerous.
Every dragon that had ever been dropped into this pit had started the same—cocky, rebellious, unbroken. And every one of them had been beaten down, stripped of illusions, made to understand the hierarchy that ruled this place.
That was his role. To remind the newcomers that no matter their bloodline, no matter their pride, the pit had its own law: the strong commanded, the weak obeyed.
The leader exhaled slowly, his lips pulling into a thin, humorless smile. 'This one will be no different. He'll learn, like the rest.'
Arlo cocked his head, watching that expression spread across the man's face.
It was self-assured, righteous even, the look of someone convinced he was doing the world a favor by enforcing its cruelty.
Arlo almost laughed.
He knew that look all too well.
Back on Earth, he had seen it on bullies, teachers, bosses—people who thought breaking others down was the natural order of things.
And he hated it.
Not because it scared him.
Not anymore.
But because now, staring at it from his new body, with his blood thrumming with power, he finally understood something—he didn't have to be the one on the receiving end anymore.
'Not this time.'
The silence on the platform stretched, heavy with anticipation.
The prisoners surrounding them leaned in, some grinning in excitement, others wary but unwilling to look away.
The pit itself seemed to hold its breath, the dim torchlight flickering against the jagged stone walls, shadows dancing like hungry specters waiting for blood.
Arlo took a step forward, closing the space between himself and the leader until only a few feet remained.
He tilted his chin slightly, his smirk sharpening.
"You've been staring at me for a while now," he said evenly. "Are we going to talk each other to death, or are you going to show me what makes you the big boss around here?"
A ripple of laughter broke out among the prisoners at his audacity, though it was edged with disbelief.
No one spoke to their boss like that, not unless they wanted to be broken in half.
The leader's eyes darkened, but he didn't rise to the bait immediately.
Instead, he flexed his wrist again, the sound of bones cracking sharp in the tense air. He rolled his neck slowly, vertebrae popping one by one, and then settled his stance—feet apart, shoulders squared, weight balanced like a coiled spring.
The atmosphere shifted at once.
The jeers died down, replaced by a hush as the crowd instinctively drew back.
They knew what was coming.
Arlo felt it too—the shift from posturing to inevitability. His blood thrummed faster, excitement clawing at his insides.
The leader lowered his chin, eyes locking onto Arlo's with the focus of a predator ready to strike.
And the prisoners around them leaned in, breathless, waiting for the first move.
The platform vibrated faintly under their feet as the tension coiled tighter and tighter, until even the flickering torchlight seemed to falter.
And below them the sound of restlessness had begun to grow.