The very next day, Arthur departed for the fighting arena together with Alfred and Archie.
They got off the carriage at the molten district lot 3, and then the boy, Archie, led them further inside the weapon store, which was likely the gunsmith's workshop. As soon as they entered, Arthur's gaze fell upon a burly man with a trimmed beard and mustache.
The boy approached him and handed him a coin.
"We would like to borrow your workshop's basement. Is that alright?"
The man checked if the coin was real, and then after a brief moment, he said:
"Hmm... Sure, go ahead."
Archie led them through the basement behind the workshop, where the walls were pressed close on each side and a heavy silence followed.
"We'll reach the said place through this passage."
Arthur followed in silence, his fingertips brushing the cold stone of the passage. The air was foul, reminding Arthur of different smells, sweat, gunpowder, and something rotten, as if blood.
"So there's a path like this beneath the workshop, huh?"
"This passage leads straight to the betting booth. And obviously, it's all under wraps."
"And how did you come to know of it?"
After a brief pause, Archie spoke up.
"Ah, I used to work for a noble not long ago. And he visited establishments of this kind quite often, and well… I was good at keeping my ears open."
"I see."
The basement corridor stretched further until they reached another set of stairs. The boy pushed open a heavy wooden door, revealing the scene unfolding within the betting hall.
The air was thick with murmurs and the occasional burst of laughter. Arthur's gaze fell upon the man behind the counter, a man in a waistcoat, who rubbed his hands together as he grinned like a fox surveying a henhouse.
"Now, now, there's still time before the main event begins! For those of you who've arrived early, take a look at the fighters outside and place your bets!"
The gamblers were obviously eager to place their bets first.
"I'll bet on fighter number two!"
"Fighter number one for me!"
Arthur's gaze swept across the room.
'It seems things are still calm for now.'
Arthur turned to Alfred as he retrieved a small pouch of coins and an identification badge from his coat, the sigil of the Ashbourne household glinted under the dim light.
"Reserve a seat for me, Alfred. And if needed, use this."
"Yes, young master."
As Alfred moved to carry out his orders, Arthur ascended a narrow stairway leading toward the upper level. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and damp stone.
When he finally emerged onto the upper ledge, the dim, flickering glow of torchlight revealed the vast, cavernous expanse of the underground fighting pit below.
When Arthur looked at the large cage at the middle of the pit, he realized that it was the famous fighting arena mentioned in the novel.
The Arena of Death.
That's what it was called in the novel. This was no ordinary fighting arena. It was an underground den of blood and wagers, where lives are gambled away like pocket change, and the fighters are nothing more than disposable entertainment.
Even the Royal Family knows of its existence, yet they turn a blind eye. To them, it holds no significance. It's just another spectacle in a world where commoners are worth less than the coin bet on them.
The rules of the arena are brutally simple: every fighter enters the cage together, but only one emerges victorious.
The fighters must force their opponents to the ground through brute strength. There are no rules about whether they must be left dead or alive, so if someone holds a grudge, it's not uncommon for them to kill their rival.
Most participants don't survive. After all, a brutal victory is more likely to catch the eye of a noble looking for someone to sponsor.
For that chance alone, many are willing to kill.
Arthur looked at the fighters standing below. Their bodies glistened with sweat as they checked their footing.
Arthur noticed many types of fighters there, hulking brutes, wiry men, masked combatants. However, his gaze was drawn to a single figure.
A man dressed in simple training garb, his movements fluid, his stance exuding an effortless command.
It didn't take long for Arthur to realize who he was.
Ralph.
Though his true name was Ralphian Raglan.
The only other survivor besides his younger brother of the fallen noble house of Raglan. Stripped of his title, his lineage erased, he lived in the shadows, disguised as a commoner, waiting for his chance to strike.
His family had been slaughtered, their name trampled into obscurity, and as they were being chased to be killed, his only brother had been captured and sold off to some mercenary. No matter how desperately he searched, he remained beyond his reach.
For now, he was trapped in this pit, forced to fight for the entertainment of others. Forced to survive.
But this was not where his story ended.
One day, he would meet Theodore Granville, the man who would change his fate. Theodore would offer him something more than survival, revenge.
A purpose. A way to reclaim what was taken. And in turn, Ralph would become his most loyal man, bound not by duty, but by a shared cause.
That, however, was a story for another time.
As Arthur watched the fighters below, a memory surfaced in his mind.
"Arthur, look at the fighters and tell me... which one will survive?"
Frederick's voice cut through the heavy air, carrying the weight of expectation.
Arthur's small hands tightened around the wooden railing, the grain rough against his palms as he peered down into the pit.
From where he stood, the world seemed vast and grim, the acrid stench of blood and sweat hanging thick in the stagnant air, seeping into his very nose.
Below, children stood in a ragged circle, thin bodies trembling against the packed dirt. Their faces blurred together, grime, blood, bruises, all marred by the same desperate, hunted look.
Some clutched rusted weapons in trembling fists, splintered staves, dulled knives, lengths of broken chain. Others stood empty-handed, their fingers twitching, their breathing shallow as they awaited the inevitable command.
To his young eyes, they seemed no more than prey, abandoned in a lion's den. Some were older, others scarcely bigger than himself.
But none were spared the pit's cruelty.
The air around them crackled with raw, unbearable tension, the fragile stillness before the slaughter.
Arthur swallowed thickly, the pressure of his father's gaze pressing into his back, a silent, unrelenting demand.
"The biggest one?"
Arthur turned around, only to see his father exhale sharply. Not quite disappointment, but far from approval.
"Haa...! Size is a factor, but it is far from everything, Arthur."
His voice lowered, threading itself into the marrow of Arthur's bones.
"Look beyond that. Watch their movements. The way they breathe. The way they hold their ground. A boy that trembles too much before the fight is already dead. One who clutches his weapon too tightly will tire before he strikes."
Frederick's fingers deliberately tapped once against the railing.
"The best ones... are those that seem almost detached, their fear buried so deep it no longer shows. The ones who move as if this is nothing new to them."
Arthur furrowed his brow as he forced his gaze to sharpen, to pierce the wall of noise and chaos before him.
At first, it was impossible. They all looked the same, shaking, wide-eyed, and desperate. But then, amid the sea of shifting bodies, he found him.
A boy standing unnaturally still, his bruised arms hanging loose at his sides, his battered face void of expression.
His eyes did not flit about nervously nor did he twitch or shuffle like the others. He simply waited, like a wolf crouching unseen in the tall grass, conserving his strength until the right moment.
Arthur pointed at the boy hesitantly as he said:
"Like that one?"
Frederick's gaze followed his outstretched finger. A quite chuckle broke from the man's lips, edged with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"Haha. Yes, just like that one."
The tapping resumed, slow and deliberate.
"But remember this... no matter how perfect the fighter, survival depends on more than mere strength."
He leaned closer, and Arthur could feel the weight of his presence, the gravity of the lesson he was carving into him.
"A fool with skill will die. While a strategist with nothing can still turn the tides of battle. The truly dangerous ones are those who know how to use chaos."
A horn sounded, sharp and jarring.
The first scream followed, raw and ragged.
The pit exploded into violence.
His father's words hung in the air, heavier than the coppery scent of blood already pooling into the dirt.
Frederick's voice threaded through the chaos with a chilling calm as he continued:
"Never rely on a single variable, Arthur. Observe everything."
Back then, the boy who survived the carnage had been chosen by Frederick, plucked from the mire and forged into something far sharper.
Now, that boy had grown into the man standing before me.
"I've reserved your seat, young master."
Alfred's voice slipped through the stillness.
He stood a short distance away, posture rigid with a stoic expression. The torchlight danced across his features, casting flickers of gold and shadow that failed to warm the chill in his gaze.
"I see. Good work, Alfred."
Arthur stepped away from the railing.
Alfred lingered for a beat, then asked:
"Young master… where are you going?"
Arthur paused, glancing over his shoulder. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"To place my wager, of course."