Over fifty feet tall and of a wideness that I couldn't even define—since I am notoriously bad at math—we were standing in front of the most marvelous structure I had ever seen in my life.
Kit's eyes couldn't stop staring at the building. It was made from trans-obsidian, a special kind of material whose primary feature was to replicate the properties of an opaque substance, solid black mineral, while from the inside, everything was completely visible.
The only issue I had was the shape. They could have chosen so many unique architectures, but they had to pick a square. Like, seriously—a square? Talk about architectural laziness.
"What could possibly happen inside this structure for it to have such a grand stadium?" Kit asked.
He knew by then that I had read countless historical books and held the knowledge of many ancient relics.
"Battles, I guess! What else could there be? People love war more than their own families; that's why they leave them behind for the battlefield."
"You shouldn't say things like that, Erebus! Soldiers do it for their country."
"Yeah, you can say that. They do it for the country, but they do it even more for glory and heroism. And glory only comes when you win—if you lose, there won't even be a country left to remember you."
We went inside the stadium a short while later. The sun shone brightly down into the black obsidian arena. Were there around a thousand seats? Maybe even more. Our entrance was through the gates meant for commoners, featuring a vast block of leathered seats reserved for the high lords.
For us common folk, there were rocky, elevated tiers—I wouldn't even call them seats, as they felt more like jagged parts of the raw construction rather than actual furniture.
For the first time, I felt genuinely jealous of my friend. Kit had come with his own built-in seat.
I naturally stared in his direction.
"What are you looking at?"
He was an unlucky-yet-lucky bastard.
"Hey Erebus, did you cry when you got lost on the way back to the orphanage?"
I immediately bristled, turning totally defensive. "I did not!"
"I know you did!"
"I said I did not! I didn't even get scared today, so why would you think I'd cry just because I was lost?"
His gaze remained fixed on the stadium floor. "Nah, I was just wondering—if you cried that day, how did you suddenly become so brave today?"
I honestly didn't know the answer. When I thought about it, I had cried a little bit when I was lost in the crowd, and the most recent was when I had been right in front of Miss Mary.
I suppose it's not really about the situation itself, but about the people you're with. When I was with Miss Mary, I felt safe enough to let my guard down, which resulted in me expressing my vulnerability through tears.
As for today, I was with my brother, so I must have felt safe enough to endure far more than I usually could.
The lowest floor, as expected, was built for fighting. The ground was covered in thick mud, optimal for combat.
The crowd was already rowdy and ecstatic. Off to the side, I watched as one spectator casually grabbed a female slave by her hair, grinding her face straight down against the stony edge of a seat.
Kit's face turned bright red with anger.
"He's just a weak coward who wants to display his power by beating up slaves! Real men drive their swords through themselves to protect their loved ones!"
It was all just talk, though. We couldn't do a single thing even if we wanted to. We were in a state where we couldn't even physically touch a normal human; we would just phase right through them.
We were in an even more pathetic condition than the man harming the slave girl. At least he might have deluded himself into thinking he was doing something right. But when you understand the concept of morality and yet possess zero power to act upon it, you're nothing more than an ant cursed with a god's brain.
Up in the nobles' section, every seat was arranged strictly in order of power. You could spot the hierarchy easily by the sheer amount of gold each person wore.
The lowest-ranking nobles were weighed down with gold necklaces and flashy jewelry. But the difference between a high-class noble and a high Lord was subtle: it wasn't about how much gold one wore, but how they wore it.
Gold is cheap; diamonds are cheap; craftsmanship is what makes things expensive. Human labor is cheap, but the labor of a great human is more precious than any diamond.
In the highest section reserved for the Lords, they wore gold-embroidered cloaks dusted with fragmented rubies—a balanced, understated wear that projected immense, prestigious presence. Intentional is always better than excessive.
The advisor—or minister—of the highest Lord stepped forward to deliver a proclamation.
"Greetings to the loyal subjects of Ozymandia!"
"The sun of the kingdom, the mighty Lord Vols, has a special message today regarding the holy trial of purification!"
"Today, there shall be three matches for our beloved slave, Araegon. We know you all love him dearly, so the sun of the kingdom has graciously granted him this opportunity to purify his slave soul. If he succeeds in this trial, he shall be granted the right to become a citizen of Ozymandia!"
This was absolute, grade-A bullshit. How could anyone possibly win against three opponents in a single day? This was far from a fair fight—it was a blatantly planned execution disguised as a trial for a slave who had somehow gained the support of the people.
"He can't win! This is just cold-blooded murder!"
Kit placed one hand thoughtfully on his chin. "He might win. His name was Araegon, right?"
"Yes!"
"I think I might have read about him. If I recall correctly, he was the first slave to ever be promoted to a noble high Lord. I might be wrong, but... I think he actually pulls this off."
If history had already been written that way, then maybe—just maybe—he had a fighting chance.