The messenger turned toward Araegon and unrolled the scroll.
"Slave Araegon, you may now kneel before the highest Lord. Only after receiving his blessings may you begin your ritual of purification."
Araegon had one of those rare faces you instantly remember. There was something about his eyes—full of a fierce determination and a strange, lingering innocence—that made it impossible to fathom how he had emerged from the pitch-black dungeons beneath.
He stepped forward into the noble sector and knelt before the old geezer and his messenger.
One knee touching the ground, the other leg braced, one hand fisted into the soil while the other hung loose at his side, the slave Araegon knelt.
Somehow, the kneeling slave looked far more gracious and dignified than the snoring, drunk highest Lord ever could.
The crowd erupted into chaos, cheering wildly for their favorite gladiator—someone who had earned their favor by slaughtering his fellow slaves.
Humans claim to hate killing, but they love watching others die, conveniently protecting their own morality by reducing the victims to something less than human.
"They really do love this bloodsport, I suppose," Kit muttered, turning his head to observe the roaring crowd.
"What do you think? Do they want him to win, or do they want him to die?"I asked Kit
"Well, one thing's for sure: they just want someone to die. If not the slaves, then the common people; and if not the common people, then the lords or even the highest lord himself. Someone has to bleed for their entertainment."
He is such a depressing kid. Who even talks like that? Couldn't he ever just give a straight answer?
"My Lord!"
The entire stadium fell utterly silent at those two words. Slave Araegon had actually spoken.
"More than your blessings... I need something else from you."
The messenger looked completely stunned, shock written across every line of his face. I knew exactly what he was thinking: How dare a mere slave speak directly to me, let alone the highest Lord?
"Slave Araegon, how dare you! You are not permitted to speak!"
Araegon's eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting its prey, entirely devoid of fear, fully aware that this arena was his stage now.
"I am not talking to you, Sir Messenger. I am talking to the highest Lord."
Furious, the messenger stepped forward. "You insolent bastard! I speak on behalf of the highest—"
"..." A hand rose from behind. The shadow of a towering figure eclipsed the messenger entirely.
"Gregor. Your Lord can speak for himself for now. You may sit."
Sensing the oppressive shadow—or perhaps just hearing his master's voice—the messenger turned pale, took a few hasty steps backward, and slumped back into his seat.
"What do you want from me, Araegon? If it is within my reach and reasonably within my sight, I will grant it."
The Highest Lord's voice was surprisingly gentle and soothing, the exact opposite of what I expected. If you only heard his voice, you would take him for a wise and benevolent ruler—though anyone could see with their own eyes that he was far from healthy.
His teeth were badly rotted, likely from excessive drinking or a complete lack of basic hygiene. I had noticed it the moment he first spoke.
"Would I be able to get a piece of buttered bread?"
Araegon's demand echoed sharp and clear across the silent arena.
Laughter instantly erupted around the stadium as the crowd realized what he had asked for.
"What a moron! He should have asked for a legendary weapon."
"Should I throw him some corn? Does he even know what corn is? What a total savage."
"Such a brute! What would happen if this slave actually came out as a normal citizen? Does he even know what love and empathy mean? He only knows how to kill!"
Kit and I exchanged deeply puzzled expressions.
"What is so wrong about asking for food? Are these people out of their minds?"
Kit, naturally, couldn't control his emotions when it came to his love for food.
The highest Lord, however, didn't laugh at Araegon's request. Instead, he signaled one of his guards to fetch a piece of buttered bread.
A moment later, the loaf was handed up to the Lord.
"You may have it, Araegon."
With a casual flick of his wrist, the Lord threw the bread high into the air, watching it arc down to land directly in the dirt and sand of the combat arena.
That little stunt pissed me off. Couldn't he have just instructed a guard to hand it to Araegon properly?
Araegon walked over to the bread resting in the middle of the dusty arena floor. The Lord's eyes must not have been working properly—or perhaps he was just malicious enough to toss it into the filth.
Araegon picked up the bread with infinite care, gently brushing the clinging sand off its surface with light, tender pats.
From my angle, my view was partially blocked as Araegon shifted positions. I motioned to Kit that I was moving up and sprinted toward the front-row barrier.
The view was wide open from here—probably the only seat close enough to catch the quietest whispers of the fighters.
Araegon carefully lifted the bread to his face, smelling it as if checking for poison, before his expression softened entirely.
"Agaro. Come here." Araegon's voice boomed through the quiet expanse of the stadium.
From the dark mouth of the dungeon where Araegon had first appeared, a young boy—even younger than me—came running out into the light.
He had the same jet-black hair and the same blazing eyes. The only difference was that this child's body was completely free of scars.
The boy threw his arms around Araegon in a tight embrace, and for the very first time, I saw an expression resembling a genuine smile touch Araegon's face.
Araegon gently ruffled the boy's hair, scanning him quickly from top to bottom.
With his other hand, he revealed what he had been hiding behind his back, desperate to keep it out of sight.
"You wanted to have this, right?"
Araegon finally presented the piece of bread to his son.
The boy's face lit up with absolute awe—the kind of look every son gives his father when he pulls off something extraordinary.
"How did you get it?"
"Don't worry about how I got it. Just dont mutter your words,that your old man doesn't bring you anything. If I make it out of today alive, I'll get you as many loaves of bread as you want!"
The boy's face glowed with pure, unadulterated happiness, I guess he has a habit of seeing his dad win.
"Now, go back down to the dungeon. This is the last time you'll ever have to stay there!"