Drip… Drip… Drip…
All the young boy could focus on was the moisture of the cave wall hitting the stone below. He was cold, tired, and frightened beyond belief as he waited for the Pit-Handler to arrive. His legs were shaking endlessly, in futile attempts to warm himself as nerves wracked his brain.
"I don't want to do it again…" he whispered to the other children seated across the unlit fire pit. The fire was a luxury they hadn't earned yet—but today, Merrow had a chance to fight for warmth.
"This will be your third match, Merrow? After this, you get your Status Access, things get easier from there," said Asher, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. Asher was one of the oldest boys in Evangarde Pit 2 at the age of 16. He's won 13 bouts himself, some saying he is a good candidate for being chosen for The Culling, if he wins his next two matches, that is. Being the eldest, most see him as a fatherly figure in pit 2, and the boy took the mantle happily. He'd helped Merrow win his first two bouts, often saying he had the build of a promising thrall.
Calf—that's what they called the fresh ones. At age fourteen, the mortal herd was inspected by the Shepherds. Those deemed viable were marked and transferred to the various Evangarde thrall pits.
Merrow was taller than the others, not yet strong—but full of "potential," as Asher often reminded him. He didn't understand much about the System, only that it revealed itself after your third sanctioned battle. They said it made everything easier after that. Skills. Traits. Resistance to pain. Even the fear, they said, started to fade.
Merrow hoped especially that the last part was true. More than anything else, Fear was what crippled him to the core. In his first two matches, Merrow had opportunities to end them much quicker, but every time he saw an opening, he hesitated. He was a decent fighter... who was afraid of killing others.
He glanced down at his hands, fingers trembling softly as they clutched at his thin tunic. The tips were still bruised from where he'd clenched his fists too tightly in his last match. He hadn't wanted to hurt the girl—he truly hadn't. But when her wild strike cut his cheek, something in him snapped. He didn't remember the next few moments. Only the aftermath. The look in her eyes as the blunt stone lodged in her throat. The gurgle. The silence.
"I'm sorry...." He whispered then to the girl as the life slowly faded from her eyes. "I'm so sorry.."
*clang*
The sound of the metal gate rising echoed through the tunnel.
The children gathered around the fire pit froze, knowing what was to come next
Moments later, the Pit-Handler's voice bellowed down the cavern corridor, its gravel-thick tone sending a chill through every calf's spine.
"Calf 71"
Merrow stood slowly from the ground, his hands tugging the bottom of his worn shirt as he inched towards the Pithandler. His heartbeat weighed heavily in his chest, like the strain of lifting a heavy stone from the ground.
Approaching the handler is akin to a lamb walking toward a lion. Every fiber of your being is screaming at you to turn and run, yet there is no place to go... escape is unfathomable in the presence of an apex predator.
The handler was a guant man, his face pale like the rest of his kin. Their long, sleeveless coat hung heavy with the dust of the cavern floors, fastened by brass clasps shaped like fanged maws. The leather was stained crimson, with a sigil of a scythe curled around the head of a man, the clan Evengarde crest. His eyes were unblinking, making Merrow shudder under his sharp gaze.
"Remember what I told you." Asher whispered, rising with Merrow, "Don't hesitate, everyone here is doing what they must to survive, so do what you need to win."
Merrow nodded, hollowly, as he continued moving forward.
I want to survive, I want the fear to go away, there is no other way
His thoughts echoed over and over, trying his best to convince himself of the harsh truths of the pits
The handler's clawed hand landed on his shoulder as he shoved Merrow toward the gate. As Merrow moved through the gateway, the rusted iron gate creaked closed behind him.
The corridor outside the sleeping den was narrow and damp, carved from ancient stone that glistened with fungal slime. Flickering braziers lined the path, each one casting long, dancing shadows that made the walls seem to breathe. The heat from the flames barely reached him; instead, they served only to silhouette the rust-streaked iron cages stacked along the far wall—occupied or not, Merrow didn't want to look closely.
He had never gotten in trouble himself, but knew that most thralls considered those cages of punishment a fate worse than death. All the thralls who returned were always shells of what they used to be, their mind lost to the experience. One thing was always certain about those who returned from their punishment: that when they fought their next bout... They lost on purpose.
He moved in silence
His eyes never left the ground as every step echoed
Somewhere ahead, he heard the distant growl of the gate-winch, the clatter of chains being reeled back to reveal the arena's floor. And beneath that—fainter still—the sound of the gathered crowd. Hushed voices echoed throughout the. space, only making Merrow's nerves grow even stronger. The nobles and vampiric initiates of every clan watched these bouts. Some for the pleasure of death, others for the enjoyment of battle. The ones that make Merrow nervous are the nobles searching for their next pet. To them, thralls are not warriors. They are dogs, and these vampires were searching for a promising pup they could turn into a hound.
Merrow's hands trembled at his sides.
Status Access, Asher had said. Just one more fight. Then he'd understand the System. He'd be able to grow, to fight, to survive. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so weak. Maybe then he wouldn't hesitate. None could blame him anymore if the deaths of other thralls served a tangible purpose. Most importantly, he couldn't blame himself anymore; they would be making him stronger.
The passage opened into the Preparation Hall, a circular room walled in metal and dimly lit by magelamps. There were a few benches, a rack of training spears and broken shields, and a wash trough—never clean.
The handlers gave no instructions. They simply pointed at the rack and stood by the exit, waiting.
Merrow walked towards the rack and examined the minimal weaponry at his disposal. Asher had tried to convince him that a two-handed sword would be best for him. His long arms make up for the need of smaller boys with polearms or spears. He could use his reach to his advantage by using a heavier weapon at the same range. However, he instead picked up a one-handed sword and shield. The safety of having the worn wood to block with brought Merrow some comfort. He is by no means a seasoned fighter, so he would take his time working up to relinquishing the shield for a larger blade.
After putting on the incredibly crude pieces of sullied armor that they offered to the thralls, he found the sword and shield he had used in his previous 2 matches
He picked them up, getting used to the feeling of the cold metal in his right hand and the straps of the shield on his other, he slowly looked at the closed portcullis ahead of him.
Breathe... remember what Asher said... it gets easier after this
The boy nodded sheepishly toward the handlers as the metal slowly began to rise. Every link clinking in rhythm, as his heartbeat rose to match.
The arena floor was slick with mud and dried blood. Lichen clung to the cavern ceiling like veins, faintly glowing and casting a greenish hue across the harsh stone. Surrounding him, the bright red glares of countless vampires landed on him from their elevated alcoves, sitting on their chairs of bone and steel. Merrow's eyes accidentally met the gaze of a vampire recruit. The woman flashed her fangs as merrow flinched backwards, falling to the ground.
A ripple of laughter followed Merrow's fall. Somewhere above, a voice barked, "Pathetic." Another chuckled, "He's cute... I like a dog that whimpers."
The harsh voice of the pit-announcer echoed throughout the Arena
"Bring out theCalf"
The handlers let out a guttural laugh as they picked the boy up from the ground and threw him past the gate, closing it behind him.
"Bye-bye, little doggy," said the handler who brought him from the cave to here, as the handlers slowly backed away.
A single torch illuminated the center of the pit. Its light barely reached the far side where his opponent waited… silent and still.
The spearman was older—at least fifteen—Matching Merrow's height, but built like a hunter. He wore no armor, only a tattered cloak and a wrap of bandages around his knuckles. His weapon was a rough spear fashioned from bone, chipped at the point but deadly nonetheless.
Meeting his eyes, Merrow instantly felt that something was wrong. Not just from the boy's build or stance, but from the lack of expression on his face. When he looked at the calves in his previous 2 bouts, they looked similar to how Merrow did... nervous and slightly frightened. Yet this boy didn't look nervous. Or angry. Or anything at all.
The boy just looked.... ready.
"Begin."
The word echoed like a bell toll.
Merrow darted forward, hoping to catch his opponent before he could use the spear's reach—but the older boy didn't even flinch.
The strike missed.
The spearman moved just enough to the side and swept his leg, sending Merrow crashing into the dirt. Before Merrow could recover, the butt of the spear cracked against his ribs.
Pain bloomed like fire through Merrow's side.
The second strike came faster—aimed at his arm this time. Merrow blocked the stab with his shield, rolling to narrowly escape the third strike. He scrambled to his feet, gasping, clutching his sword harder as if it could protect him.
Merrow's nerves turned to anger as he bashed the boy's spear with his shield, preparing his sword to strike the off-balance spearman... The instinct to swing was there; the boy had no chest armor and could easily be taken down by a swing to the midsection or a stab through the chest. However...
"Hesitation," one vampire judge muttered with disgust.
"Same as the last two matches."
Merrow paused for just half a second, but that was more than enough for the spearman to capitalize.
Merrow lunged, panic giving way to the delayed instinct. He swung wildly.
The spearman deflected it with the spear shaft, then closed the distance. One hand grabbed Merrow's wrist. The other brought the spear up and—
*Crack*
A dull sound. Like a melon splitting.
Merrow collapsed, twitching. The world spun. His ears rang. His mouth filled with blood.
His eyes widened as he felt the blood pour from his head... his life slipping away.
But more than that… he felt a tug in his soul. Something reaching for him. Something… awakening.
*[System Integration Failed]*
User: Merrow
Designation: Calf-Class Thrall
Status: DYING
"Three battles. Two wins. Fear unresolved.
"Integration aborted."
The presence of the system faded from Merrow's mind as he took a small, shallow breath
and as he exhaled, the pain overwhelming....
He died.