A punch came before Luke even had time to ask where he was.
His head snapped sideways, pain bursting across his cheek. He stumbled back, eyes wide, heart racing.
"What the—?!"
Another fist came flying—small, desperate, trembling. He ducked before his mind even caught up. Instinct, not thought, saved him.
He straightened, breath shallow.
Where am I?
The world around him swam into focus—a wide, circular field of cracked stone, enclosed by high, seamless walls. Above, seats stretched into shadow.
Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of figures filled them, but none moved. None spoke. Their faces were buried in darkness, as if the night itself had come to watch.
A coliseum.
Luke's pulse throbbed in his ears.
Is this judgment? Did I die? Why is it so… cold?
The boy attacked again. A wild kick grazed his ribs, followed by another flailing swing. Luke blocked, barely, his back hitting the wall. No room to retreat.
And then—he saw him clearly.
The boy was barely twelve. Pale, dirt-streaked, shaking. His knuckles were split, his knees bruised. Around his neck hung a thin cord with a cracked glass bead—like a toy, or maybe a charm. His eyes weren't hateful.
They were terrified.
Luke froze.
A kid? They're making me fight a kid?
But the boy didn't stop. He came again—swinging like his life depended on it. Because maybe it did.
Each punch was clumsy, but full of panic. Luke moved automatically. He had trained before—his parents had pushed him into sports, drills, self-defense—but this was different. His body reacted like it remembered every motion even though his mind screamed in confusion.
Slip left. Duck. Step back. Weave.
His body obeyed; his brain rebelled.
"What the hell is happening?!" he muttered under his breath.
The boy lunged, overextending. Luke's hand shot up and caught the kid's ankle mid-kick. For a heartbeat, everything froze—the sound, the crowd, even the air.
Their eyes met. The boy's lip trembled.
He's just a kid. Don't—
But instinct—the old, primal one—moved faster than mercy.
Luke struck.
His fist drove into the boy's ribs.
A gasp.
A cry.
The boy collapsed to one knee, clutching his side. He couldn't even scream properly—just wheezed, lips trembling, breath stuttering.
Luke's hand shook.
He can't fight anymore… I should stop.
But the crowd stayed silent—utterly still. The silence was worse than cheers. It felt expectant. Like the whole place was holding its breath.
Waiting.
"They… they want me to finish it."
He glanced around. The shadows above leaned forward—closer, darker, faceless.
He could feel their hunger pressing down on him.
If I stop now… what happens to me?
The boy's weak arms rose to protect his face.
Luke hesitated.
And then, with trembling fists, he whispered to himself.
"I'm sorry."
He feinted left—the boy flinched, trying to block. Luke pivoted, sliding under his guard, and drove an uppercut clean into his chin.
The crack echoed.
The boy hit the ground hard—like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His body twitched once. Blood trailed from his nose; his eyes rolled white.
And then—
Silence.
Luke's chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. His knuckles burned. He looked down at the child. Not moving. But thankfully still breathing.
He stepped back, trembling.
"Sleep child...."
A sound tore through the silence.
A roar.
Then another.
Then thousands.
Cheers erupted from above—thunderous, monstrous, inhuman. The noise shook the stone under his feet. It wasn't applause—it was frenzy.
They were feeding on what they saw.
Luke looked up. The figures above thrashed and howled, voices blending into a single monstrous sound. The light flickered across them—and he could almost see teeth. Rows and rows of smiling teeth.
His breath came faster.
This isn't judgment.
This isn't heaven or hell.
It's entertainment.
He clenched his fists tighter, blood dripping from his knuckles. His body was shaking—not from exhaustion, but from understanding.
"They made me defeat him," he whispered. "For this."
The cheers only grew louder, drowning his voice.
He tried shouting, desperate to fight back against the rising noise.
"Then what the hell is this place?!"
His words vanished into the storm of laughter and applause.
The crowd's hunger rose to a fever pitch. A distant rumble echoed through the ground—a gate, somewhere behind him, creaking open. The cheers shifted tone, anticipation thickening the air.
Luke turned toward the sound, his breath caught in his throat. The scent of iron and ash filled the air.
The shadows lengthened.
He stood there—blood on his hands, heart hammering—alone in the arena where mercy meant death and survival meant guilt.
The crowd wanted more.
And from the darkness behind the gate, heavy footsteps answered their call.