The arena pulsed with life, but it was not chaos.
Every cheer, every clatter of metal, every faint hiss of the air conditioning had its place.
Everything here had a pattern, and I intended to understand it before the first punch landed.
I leaned against the railing of the upper tier, watching the lower floor carefully.
This wasn't just a fight pit—it was a hierarchy, a system of survival.
Rankings.
Every fighter had one.
Some were kings, untouchable.
Some were pawns, desperate and dangerous.
And then there were those like me: new, underestimated, invisible until proven otherwise.
The arena itself had rules.
Some obvious: no weapons, no interference, no stepping outside the boundary.
Some hidden: political favors, secret alliances, bets that could end careers—or lives.
I had survived Kaine not because I was the strongest, but because I had seen the cracks in the system.
From above, the spectators watched like vultures.
Some came for entertainment.
Some came to track fighters, seeking patterns, weaknesses, opportunities.
And some… came because they held power over life and death in this arena.
I scanned the new roster.
Opponents were warming up, flexing muscles, stretching tendons.
Every face told a story: hunger, fear, arrogance.
Some had trained years for this moment.
Some barely understood the danger until now.
I inhaled slowly.
Each breath measured, like counting the beats of a hidden drum.
Fear? Of course it existed.
But fear was a tool—if wielded correctly.
Why survive?
Not for glory. Not for applause. Not for money.
Because death was not honorable here.
Death was meaningless.
And I had seen it too close once.
I wasn't just fighting for victory.
I was fighting to stay alive, to keep control over the one thing that mattered: myself.
Above the lower floor, I spotted a man observing the arena with sharp, calculating eyes.
Mason.
He wasn't a fighter like Kaine or the others.
Mason was older, lean but strong, with a mind like a trap.
A former champion who had retired under mysterious circumstances, he now served as a guide of sorts—for those who had the potential to survive the Pit's deadliest challenges.
Some whispered he could read fighters better than any opponent could read a punch.
Others said he made the rules bend in subtle ways for the people he chose.
And yet, no one could claim to know his true motives.
I had crossed paths with him once before.
His presence commanded awareness.
Not authority, not respect—attention.
One look from him, and I felt the arena in a new way.
Patterns that were invisible before now revealed themselves.
I didn't need words.
I understood why Mason was here.
He was the kind of man who tested not just strength, but mind, strategy, and willpower.
He didn't fight; he prepared.
And those he chose to prepare were either extraordinary… or dead.
The arena lights dimmed further.
The crowd quieted, anticipation tightening the air.
It was time.
The first fight of the day hadn't started yet, but the game had already begun.
And I, Creed Hale, was ready.