Chapter 18: Coloseum

"How old are you again?" the Chief asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We're 16..."

"That puts you in the 16-20 age group."

"What?!" I blurted. "We'll be up against guys who have potentially been training for four more years!"

The Chief chuckled, clearly amused by my panic. "Of course you're not going to win all your fights, but that's not the aim. Our aim is experience. Each match is a lesson."

"Okay, but do we even have a chance?" I pressed, my heart pounding at the thought of facing older fighters.

"Let's sum up. You've learned to control your aura with all your muscles, and your aura has now reached level 2 — that's twice the quantity of level 1. You're faster, stronger, and more resilient than most fighters your age. So yes, you do have a chance. You have my word."

I exchanged a glance with my companion, doubt lingering in our eyes. "Well, if you say so," I muttered. "We'll be able to see if your teaching method is truly superior over the other ones."

As we approached the entrance of the Colosseum, the atmosphere grew heavier. The grand archway, about five meters wide, loomed over us like the mouth of some ancient beast. Sunlight poured through the gaps in the stone, casting long shadows across the worn cobblestones beneath our feet. The sound of the crowd inside hit me like a wave — a deafening roar of excitement, hunger, and anticipation. My palms grew sweaty, and I wiped them against my pants, trying to steady my breath.

Before heading to register, we paused near the edge of the arena to watch the fights in progress. The fighters moved with precision and ferocity, their blows echoing through the stone corridors. I noticed one combatant, a towering man in his early twenties, expertly wielding a wooden staff, each strike calculated and powerful. The crowd erupted in cheers as his opponent crumpled to the ground. Watching these seasoned warriors filled me with a mix of awe and dread. "Do you still think we have a chance?" I whispered.

"Only one way to find out," the Chief replied.

The Chief led us forward. "Hello, Miss. I'd like to register these two young boys in the 16-20 age category. Is that possible?"

The receptionist, a woman with sharp eyes and a clipboard in hand, nodded with a practiced smile. "Oh yes, don't worry. Registrations are possible at any time of the day. Do you know how it works inside?"

"Yes," the Chief replied, "but it wouldn't hurt these two to hear it again."

She turned to face us, her tone brisk and efficient. "Very well. Gentlemen, inside there's a board where a list of names is posted along with fight dates. If you wish to fight today or on any other day, you inscribe your name on the board. On that same board, you can either choose an opponent or let someone else choose you once you're registered. And finally, one last rule regarding fight organization: you can only face someone who has fought the same number of fights as you, within a margin of one fight. Do you have any questions?"

I hesitated, then asked, "Are weapons allowed?"

"Only wooden weapons," she replied. "We want our fighters to be able to do more than one fight. Even with our highly reputable medical team, we can't treat critical wounds. That said, wooden weapons can be very effective in the hands of certain individuals."

I swallowed hard, images of splintered staves and bruised ribs flashing through my mind. The Chief clapped us on the back, startling me out of my thoughts.

"Alright, kids. Are you ready?"

"Of course, old geezer," I shot back, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

After registering, we were led to the armory to select our weapons. The room was dimly lit, the walls lined with racks of polished wooden staves, swords, and daggers. I picked up a wooden sword, testing its weight. It felt heavier than I expected, and each swing was awkward, unrefined. Nearby, my companion tried a short staff, twirling it with surprising ease. The Chief watched us silently, arms crossed, his gaze unreadable. "Pick something that feels right," he finally said. "In here, the wrong weapon could cost you the fight."

I swallowed hard, images of splintered staves and bruised ribs flashing through my mind. The Chief clapped us on the back, startling me out of my thoughts.

"Alright, kids. Are you ready?"

"Of course, old geezer," I shot back, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

"In that case," the receptionist continued, sliding a parchment across the desk, "all that remains is for you to sign this document, which certifies that we will not take any responsibility in the event of your death." She said it so nonchalantly that my stomach lurched.

As I gripped the pen, she added, "For your information, the following age categories are: 16-20 years, 21-25 years, 26-30 years, 31-40 years, 41-50 years, 51-60 years, 61-80 years, and over 80 years." Her eyes flicked toward the Chief with a smirk. "Maybe you're interested as well, sir?"

The Chief chuckled. "Not today. But these two? They're ready."

I wasn't sure if he was reassuring himself or us.