Chapter 7: The Death Arena

"Lieutenant, what is the skill of taking a beating?"

A timid black boy asked.

Lieutenant Ron nodded, saying, "Good question. Enduring a beating is an art in itself. In battle, getting hurt is inevitable. To minimize one's injuries requires a keen awareness of the situation and one's own body. Master these principles, and you will understand how to mitigate damage. For instance..."

He walked to a bloodstained iron bed where a young girl lay motionless, her naked body marred by crimson welts on her left ear and cheek. She had been whipped to death by an instructor. Without a shred of pity, Ron dragged the corpse to the floor, turned her head aside, and pointed to her ear. "Look, this is the consequence of not protecting oneself. Compared to the head or ear, her arm could withstand much more. If she had shielded her head with her hands, the worst outcome would have been an injured arm, not death."

"As for the arm," Ron continued, gesturing to an instructor behind him who handed him a dagger. With a swift motion, he slashed the corpse's shoulder. "See, the muscles and fat here are thicker. A cut here is superficial. But if the knife strikes here..." He deftly sliced the wrist artery, and blood spurted, covering Ron. Unfazed, he wiped his face and grinned menacingly. "Do you see now? To survive, you must understand your body. Knowing which parts can take a hit and which can't is crucial."

Using the girl's body as a grim teaching aid, Ron delivered an impromptu anatomy lesson. By the end, the corpse was mutilated, the organs laid bare. The air was thick with the stench of blood. The instructors were indifferent, but most of the children were retching violently.

Allen did not vomit. He had seen worse. His face was pale, and Ron's callous treatment of the corpse disturbed him. After all, she had been alive moments ago.

Ron, pleased, ordered the instructors to note down the numbers of those who didn't vomit. Spotting Allen, he approached. "You're impressive, kid. More agile and alert than the others. What's your name?"

"Allen."

"Well, Allen, let me guess, your father is a hunter?"

"No, I have no father. My mother died when I was five." Allen replied.

Ron was taken aback. If this white-haired boy hadn't learned his skills from his parents, he must have developed them himself, suggesting he had lived in the wild for years. This piqued Ron's interest further.

"I like you, Allen. Try to survive till the end." He patted Allen's shoulder hard enough to nearly break it.

Back in his office, Ron reviewed Allen's file and laughed dryly. "Someone is playing tricks under my nose." The boy with the number 666 was listed as Bess, not Allen, and Bess had a father who owned a mine. This was vastly different from Allen's story. Summoning an instructor, Ron tossed the file at him. "Who brought this kid here?"

"It was Lieutenant Lewin, sir."

"Good. Bring Lewin to me."

In the barracks, two soldiers handed out ointments for the children's injuries. Allen applied his, then started reading the manual given to them. Before she died, Lanny had taught him many things, the most crucial being literacy. Unlike most of the children who couldn't read the manual, Allen could.

The Death Arena was a product of the Dawn War. The federal government, established amidst the ruins, created this competition to remind future generations of the war's importance and the need for survival. Initially, the Death Arena was held on floating islands. Later, due to population growth and increased tensions between the islands and the surface, the selection extended to the surface. Every two years, the system randomly selected federal citizens aged ten to fifteen from twenty-two districts. After training and elimination rounds, one person from each district would compete in a designated area on Babylon's floating island, fighting for their lives.

The victor shall receive numerous rewards, including weaponry, startup funds, and permanent residence on the floating island. Some even catch the eye of noble families, becoming adopted members and gaining access to greater resources and opportunities for advancement.

More importantly, the winner possesses a special privilege: the right to bring 5 to 10 direct family members to live on the floating island. For surface dwellers, this is an enormous temptation.

In short, the Death Arena represents a pivotal opportunity for surface citizens to alter their destinies. The condition, however, is survival—enduring to the very end!

Just as Allen finished reading the manual, a blood-curdling scream echoed from outside. He and the other children crowded the windows, witnessing Lieutenant Ron whipping a fat man tied up in the square. Allen recognized him as the officer who conspired with Hearn to have Allen replace Hearn's son in the Death Arena.

An instructor entered the barracks, shouting, "Number 666, step forward!"

Allen stepped out and was led to the square. After delivering a final lash, leaving the man bloodied and limp, Ron's face was a mask of menace, his murderous aura palpable. Standing before Allen, whose pallor deepened but who stood tall in silence, Ron reined in his bloodlust slightly.

"I've investigated. This number was not meant for you. Lewin confessed; he took a bribe. I despise anyone who challenges my intellect. This pig and Hearn's family will pay with their lives!"

"As for you," Ron continued, "you can choose to stay and continue training or leave. I'm rarely merciful, so seize this chance wisely."

Allen bit his lip, raising the manual. "I want to know, are the rewards in here real?"

"They are real," Ron replied, taking a towel to wipe his hands and gazing skyward. "Though the Death Arena has been tainted by the nobles' manipulation, its rewards remain substantial, enough to change one's fate."

"Then I choose to stay," Allen declared.

Ron squinted, "Why? Most kids would flee this hell. Believe me, today I was lenient. It will only get tougher."

Allen's red eyes were calm and cold as he looked at Ron. "I need to change my fate, so I have the power to settle some scores."

Ron stared at Allen, who didn't avert his gaze. After a moment, Ron nodded. "Very well, if you choose to remain in hell, be prepared to become a demon. Otherwise, you won't survive."

After Allen returned, Ron told the instructor, "I like this kid more and more. He has the eyes of a hunter. If he survives, I pity his prey."

The instructor's uneasy laugh betrayed his discomfort. Those who knew Ron understood that his favor was rarely a good omen.

At four in the morning, a sharp whistle pierced the air. Allen sprang from his bed, leapt to the nearest window, and climbed out. He slept in his clothes, even his shoes. Many children, having undressed for comfort, now hesitated. The swift ones dashed out naked, while the slower ones fumbled to dress.

In just ten seconds, Allen reached the field first, followed by others still in their camp uniforms, having slept in their clothes. The third group comprised half-dressed children, and the last stragglers barely made it within the time limit.

When fifteen seconds elapsed, the instructors stormed into the barracks. Whips cracked, accompanied by screams. Four latecomers received five lashes each, their backs bleeding, before being driven outside.

Seeing the bloodied boys, the others shuddered. Ron, unperturbed, announced, "This is your first mistake. Each of them received five lashes as a warning. Their numbers are recorded. Reoffend, and the punishment doubles, and so on, until they stop or die."

"Now, start running around the field. You stop only when I say so. Understood?"

"Understood!" the children chorused.