The atmosphere inside the massive dome was full of dust, blood, and the high tension of anticipation. Light crashed against the shard-crusted walls, scattering rainbows across the arena's bloodied sand. Thousands of spectators filled the stands of the Grand Colosseum, their voices rising into a deafening roar -- a mix of cheers, cries, and the occasional shriek of horror. Some had come to gamble, some for politics, and others simply for the raw thrill of watching flesh clash with claw.
Below, in the heart of the arena, a man faced off against one of the monsters that plagued this post-apocalyptic world -- creatures the peoples called Profanes. Its hulking frame towered like a nightmarish bear over the human combatant, muscles beneath matted fur streaked with shards of crystalline growth, claws like sharp blades digging deep into the sand. Its amber eyes glowed with feral intelligence, teeth snapping in anticipation of tearing flesh. Every movement radiated lethal intent.
The human before it was no ordinary fighter. Broad shouldered, scarred, and honed from countless battles, he moved with the fluid precision of someone who had stared death in the face and learned its rhythm. His sword, shard-etched and glowing faintly with energy, danced through the air, each strike measured, each pivot deliberate. Sweat dripped his dirt-smudged face, but his gaze remained locked on the Profane.
The spectators' cries filled the dome, echoing against stone and shards alike. Each yell, stomp, and gasp amplified into a living, breathing entity of bloodlust. Fear, exhilaration, greed, and anticipation fused into a violent symphony.
In one of the lower chamber, far beneath the stands, a dark-haired boy observed with unblinking eyes. Mars. His hands rested lightly on the railing, but his face betrayed none of the frenzy above. He had spent his entire life in this dome, moving in the shadows of bloodshed, tending to warriors, weapons, and the ever-shifting demands of the Colosseum. The chaos of the arena was nothing new to him -- it was life itself.
He watched every swing of the man's blade, every lunge and snap of the Profane's massive claws, every minute shift in stance and balance. He could feel the flow of danger, the subtle hum of shard energy lingering in the air, the pulse of life clinging to both combatants. Every detail mattered; every movement part of a pattern he had studied all his life.
The Profane lunged, jaws snapping inches from the man's face. The crowd screamed in at once, a tidal wave of sound. Mars pressed his lips into a thin line:
"Ten seconds…"
The man sidestepped, pivoted, and in a fluid, deadly arc, drove his blade into the Profane's flank. The monstrous bear-like creature let out a deafening roar and stumbled, faltering under the precision of human skill honed to perfection. In less than what felt like ten seconds, the man delivered the final blow -- the Profane collapsed onto the bloodied sand with a loud thud.
The Colosseum erupted. Cries, cheers, and stamping feet shattered the air, louder than any roar the creature could make. The crowd's bloodlust had been satisfied -- for now.
Mars' gaze didn't leave the fallen Profane. He whispered under his breath:
"Hmm... two seconds too early."
With that, he turned away from the railing. The boy slipped from the shadows of the lower chamber, making his way through a servant's passage before stepping onto the arena floor. The thunder of the crowd still roared above, their eyes locked on the victor, who basked in their adoration with raised arms and bloodied steel. He did not notice the boy.
They never did.
Mars didn't approach the man. His feet carried him to the true prize -- the corpse of the Profane. Near its ruined flank lay two dull-gray shards, faintly glowing with residual energy. Without hesitation, Mars crouched, scooped them into his hand, and slid them into the small leather pouch at his belt. His work was wordless, practiced, and invisible. By the time the champion turned for another bow, the boy was already retreating into the shadows from whence he came.
***
Crystallis. Born from death itself -- shards of condensed essence, though nowhere were they more potent than in the corpses of the Profane. When one of the creatures fell, the corruption that sustained it hardened into shards of crystallized essence, varying in color and intensity. These stones were harvested, traded, and hoarded -- fuel for weapons, conduits for shardcraft, and tokens of power for those who could afford them. The stronger the Profane, the rarer the color it left behind.
Mars had only ever salvaged dull-gray shards from Wretches, sometimes the faint amber or pale green from Spawns. The rarest he had ever laid hands on was violet -- a Feral's core, still faintly glowing as if alive. There was also the time, when he was still young, too young for his own good even, that his curiosity had gotten the better of him; he had tried to absorb a shard, to draw its essence into himself as he had once seen warriors do.
It hadn't worked. Not for him.
And when the Overseer noticed his intent, the punishment had been swift and merciless. Mars still remembered the crack of the whip, the copper taste of blood in his mouth, and the warning carved into his bones: servants did not touch power. Not unless they wanted to be broken.
But it wasn't until years later that he understood why.
Why the Crystallis had refused him.
He was still... dormant.
He had learned this truth bits by bits, pieced together from the whispers of mercenaries, overheard lectures of scholars, and the drunken boasts of gladiators who had survived more battles than they should have. Every human, they said, carried within them an Innate Spark -- a seed of power, a fragment of something greater. Some called it the Divine Gift, others the Warbrand, but the name mattered little. What mattered was the awakening.
And that… was the part no one seemed to understand clearly yet. The process was a mystery, different for everyone. Some claimed it came in the moment of near-death. Others said it was born of bloodlines, fate, or the will of the gods themselves.
Mars, for all his quiet observations and stolen knowledge, had no idea which -- if any -- was true. At times, he even wondered if he had these so called Spark at all. Maybe he was the exception, the one hollow soul in a world where every human was said to carry one.
He turned the Crystallis over in his palm, its dull gray facets catching what little light seeped through the cracks above.
"...Or maybe I was never meant to have one? Yeah, right..."
But what could he, a servant bound to the Colosseum, ever do to prove or disprove it? Test his theory? Unlock some hidden spark of power? Such thoughts were as pointless as they were dangerous.
With a quiet exhale, Mars put the shard into the iron crate beside him, where dozens of other lifeless Crystallis clinked together like the bones of fallen beasts.
A few seconds passed by until a noise cut through the silence -- a loud echoing toll of the Colosseum war-gong. Its iron voice vibrated through stone and sand alike, announcing the next bout.
The boy straightened himself. Another fight was coming. And with it, his duty.
***
Mars sat in his usual spot -- a shadowed alcove just beneath the towering statues of long-forgotten emperors. From here, he could watch without being watched, the vantage point that had long become his post.
Down in the arena ground, the man from before stood again. The same victor who had drawn blood and glory beneath the gaze of thousands. He must've claimed his right to enter the Endless Gauntlet system -- a brutal trial where a fighter would continue to battle new challengers until one of three outcomes brought him to an end: rendered finished, surrendering his will, or the final curtain of death itself. Mars himself had seen each fate play out countless times, and none of them pleasant.
The man, scarred and smiling with the confidence of the damned, reached to his side and whipped out something unexpected from his belt-
A gun.
The polished metal glinted under the torchlight. He raised it toward the heavens, his grin wide enough to be madness itself, and pulled the trigger.
A thunderous crack tore through the Colosseum. A red flare shot skyward, blazing against the darkness like a wound torn open in the sky. Then came the sound. A deep and low rumble -- like the earth itself awakening -- that rippled through stone seats and sandy floor alike, causing the Colosseum itself to tremble.