"I am a living witness… that we do not have to remain what they made us.
Look around you. Iron walls and a floor drenched in the blood of brothers. We are caged animals paraded for sport, butchered for the laughter of cowards who sit in glass towers and call it tradition.
But I ask you—is this truly life?
Is it freedom to wake each day with a blade to your throat, only to fight for scraps thrown from the tables of men who could not last a breath in this ring?
They call us warriors—but we are no more than currency. They trade our pain, sell our agony, gamble on our deaths. And yet, we cheer. We celebrate survival. We honour cages.
But I tell you now… no more.
We were not born to be tools. We were not raised to be beasts. There is more to us than what they've allowed us to see.
Let today be the day you stop licking the boots of tyrants. Let this be the moment when we rise—not for applause, not for gold—but for freedom. For dignity. For ourselves.
I am not a god. I am not a saviour. I am just a man who bled, lost, and stood again.
So if you're tired—truly tired—of watching your friends die for nothing… if your soul is done being a toy for emperors…
Then follow me.
Not as soldiers. Not as pawns. But as free men."
From the stands above, the scarred man leaned forward, frowning deeply. His eyes narrowed. Things were no longer under control—and he knew it.
After the last word of his speech faded into silence, Zeck stood still whhile the baby floated beside him. The air was heavy—uncertain. He waited a few steady breaths, his gaze sweeping the crowd without moving his head.
Then, from the stands, a figure rose.
A very bulky warrior—his muscles rippling under the weight of the massive axe slung casually over his shoulder—stood to his full height. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes met Zeck's. Silent understanding passed between them.
From the far end of the arena, another warrior stood. Not as large, but his armor was battle-worn, and his posture was proud.
A few gasps echoed through the arena. Then came the sound of shifting feet, metal clinking, and hushed murmurs breaking into a low roar.
Before anyone could react, before the announcers could speak or the guards could descend, nearly half the crowd had risen to their feet—fighters, workers, even spectators from the lower tiers. No words were spoken. They simply stood.
Zeck didn't look back.
Without a word, he turned and walked steadily toward the exit tunnel.
At the gate, the keeper stepped forward—one hand on the lever that controlled the barred gate, the other slowly reaching toward his belt. He looked torn between duty and fear.
Before he could speak or raise a hand, the scarred man raised his fingers and gave a single, sharp gesture.
Let him go.
The gatekeeper froze, then reluctantly stepped back. The lever creaked. The gate slowly lifted.
After Zeck walked out of the gate, the group of followers trailing behind him in silence, the arena remained unusually still. All eyes turned to the scarred man seated in the high booth.
He slowly rose to his feet, his expression unreadable.
"All matches are cancelled until I say otherwise," he said flatly, his voice calm and direct.
Without waiting for questions or responses, he turned and left. His boots echoed softly against the stone floor as he made his way toward his office.
Melissa, her face tight with concern, followed closely behind, her steps quicker than his but careful not to overtake him.
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Hale looked at them and smiled faintly, then stepped deeper into the circle of graves and sat down, his back resting lightly against a leaning headstone. The surrounding silence felt heavier now, as if even the wind dared not breathe too loud. He watched the figures at the tree line, like shadows stitched into the darkness.
He remembered something he had once read in an old, weathered book: vampires cannot cross a threshold unless invited in. At the time, it had sounded like myth, like a rule meant more for superstition than survival. But now, the pieces were starting to fit.
He turned his eyes to the gravestones around him, scanning them with urgency. His gaze stopped abruptly when he saw it—etched into the surface of one ancient, cracked headstone was the triskelion: a symbol often tied to old protective rites. The realization settled into his chest like a weight.
They hadn't come for him during the day. They hadn't chased him into the circle. They hadn't even taken a step closer.
His lips parted in silent thought, then the conclusion clicked: They're vampires.
It explained everything that he had noticed since. The hesitation and the timing. Whatever protection the graveyard offered, it was real… and it was working. Hale's heart beat a little faster because this had gotten more complex.