The gods didn't give him armor.
Just a shirt too thin for heat, a pair of cracked boots, and a leather strap to hold the Knife against his thigh. As if that would matter. As if anything did down here.
Kael followed the faceless warden down a long corridor of scorched black stone. The walls sweated heat. The floor thudded in time with the crowd above—a thousand gods and champions stomping and chanting in rhythm, eager for carnage.
Each step forward smelled more like ash and metal.
The Knife whispered from its sheath. "Sound's echoing. Short tunnel. Arena's volcanic. That heat's not ambient—it's flowing."
"Lava?" Kael murmured.
"Channels. Probably segmented terrain. Force movement. Good visibility. High exposure. No cover."
Kael smirked. "They want us to burn fast."
"They want you to panic."
The corridor opened into a small hexagonal chamber. No windows. One glowing door ahead, runes flickering across its surface like molten veins. The walls held racks of discarded gear—nothing valuable. Things looted off dead hopefuls.
Kael walked to the nearest weapon rack. Touched a scorched helmet.
"Burned alive. Screamed for seven minutes. Didn't beg."
He set it down. Picked up a curved, dull-edged blade with dried blood in the grooves.
"Tried to surrender. The gods didn't hear. Or didn't care."
Kael exhaled. Steady. Calm.
He reached down and adjusted the strap on his thigh. The Knife twitched once, eager.
"We move first. Control the heat channels. Stay high."
"I was going to," Kael said. Then paused. "You really think I'm ready for this?"
The Knife's voice was flat. "You're not. But you're willing. That's worse."
A loud metallic clang rang from the glowing door. The runes stilled.
Kael stepped forward, rolling his shoulders.
The gods above roared his name—not in praise, but in hunger.
And when the doors opened, heat poured in like a wave of breath from a dragon's mouth.