Separating the Weak from the Useful

Garik sat outside his tent, a piece of meat in one hand, a dull knife in the other, scraping the charred edges as he watched.

He wasn't looking at his men.

He was watching the cage.

Watching them.

He had kept them long enough.

Most of them were already broken. Too weak to be worth selling, too useless to be fighters.

Dead weight.

Garik took a slow bite of meat, chewing as he went down the mental list.

The weak ones? They'll be sold cheap, manual labor, maybe some to brothels if the buyers were desperate enough.

The fighters? They go to the arena.

His gaze lingered on Torik.

Torik still held his men's loyalty. 

That wasn't what Garik wanted.

He wanted the crowd to see a fallen leader, a man so beaten, so desperate, that his fight was more painful to watch than satisfying.

That's what sold tickets.

He needed Torik to suffer first.

And Then There Was Kain…

Garik's eyes shifted to the boy.

He hadn't cracked yet.

Even after the beating. Even after the hunger.

And that smirk, that little thing that flashed in the dirt after Garik had knocked him down.

That had been interesting.

The kid was still fighting, even if it wasn't with his fists.

That meant he was worth watching.

Garik let out a slow breath, thinking.

He wiped his knife against his sleeve, then stood, stretching.

"Alright, boys." His voice carried through the camp, and his men turned toward him.

"Get the prisoners up. We're making some decisions today."

The prisoners were pulled from the cage, lined up like cattle.

Kain moved with them, wrists still bound, dirt thick in his wounds. His ribs ached, his stomach empty.

But hunger wasn't the worst thing anymore.

This moment was.

Garik stood at the front, boots planted firm, arms crossed over his chest. Watching. Deciding.

This was the moment where lives were given away.

And for some? Where lives ended.

"Start with the useless ones," Garik muttered.

His men walked down the line, grabbing the weakest, the sick, the old.

"You lot aren't even worth feeding. Sell 'em cheap, whoever takes 'em gets a bargain."

One prisoner, a thin, balding man, barely able to stand, fell to his knees.

"Please… ." His voice cracked. Broken.

One of Garik's men kicked him in the ribs.

"Don't beg," the soldier muttered, hauling him up.

The first ones were taken. Gone.

Kain clenched his teeth. They weren't even given a chance.

Then Garik turned his eyes to the rest.

"And now…" he exhaled, tapping his chin, looking at the stronger ones.

"Let's make some entertainment."

The word hung in the air like a noose.

His men moved again, picking out those who still had some strength left.

One man tried to fight back, he was knocked to the ground, ribs stomped in. Another wept, he already knew what was coming.

Garik grinned.

"You'll be pit dogs now. Maybe you live, maybe you don't. That's the fun of it."

Then Garik's eyes landed on Torik.

A moment of silence.

One of his men moved forward to grab him, but Garik lifted a hand. Stopped him.

"Not him."

Kain saw Torik's shoulders stay squared, his breath slow.

But he knew. This wasn't a mercy.

Garik's smirk deepened.

"No, no. We're not sending this one in yet."

The men around him laughed, low and cruel.

"Torik gets the real show." Garik's voice was slow, deliberate. "Weaken him. Humiliate him. Break him apart first."

"And when the time comes?"

His grin widened.

"We'll send him into the arena against something he has no hope of surviving."

The others had been taken.

The weak? Sold. The strong? Thrown into the arena.

And the ones still standing?

They were the ones Garik wanted to suffer.

Torik. Kain. A few others.

Kain understood now.

They weren't spared.

They were the ones Garik wanted to play with.

Night had settled over the camp.

Kain sat near the bars, arms resting on his knees. His body was tired, but his mind was awake. Thinking. Watching.

Torik sat a few feet away, silent. His posture was the same as always, steady, unshaken. But Kain knew he wasn't unaffected.

He had just been given a slow death sentence.

The fire crackled outside the cage.

Neither of them spoke.

For a long time, there was only silence.

Until Torik finally exhaled.

"You think it means something, don't you?"

Kain glanced over.

"What?"

Torik didn't look at him. Just at the fire.

"Who they take. Who they leave."

Kain frowned slightly. He had been thinking about it, but he didn't realize Torik had noticed.

Torik tilted his head slightly, his voice calm.

"You think it's fate. That there's a reason you're still here. That I'm still here."

A beat of silence.

Then—Torik shook his head.

"It isn't."

Kain's jaw tensed.

"Then why?"

Torik exhaled, slow and deliberate.

"Because men like Garik don't get to decide when I stop."

Kain stared at him, watching the faint glow of firelight on his bruised face.

"That's it?" His voice was low, sharp. "Just spite?"

Torik gave a small, humorless chuckle.

"That's enough."

Kain frowned. He didn't understand.

He had fought because he had no choice. Because he would rather die on his feet than be used like an animal.

But Torik had already lost.

His men were gone. His fate was sealed.

"Then why not just give up?"

Torik finally turned his head. His eyes, locked onto Kain's.

"Because dying isn't hard."

His voice was steady. Unshaken.

"Living with what's left of yourself is."

Kain didn't look away.

Torik wasn't afraid to die.

He just refused to let someone else choose how it happened.

Garik could starve him, could throw him into an unwinnable fight.

But Torik would never kneel.

And in the end, that mattered more than whether he lived or died.

Torik exhaled, leaning his head back against the wooden bars.

"Don't be in a rush to become like me, boy."

Kain furrowed his brow.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Torik didn't answer immediately. Just let the silence stretch.

Kain didn't fully understand what that meant.

But the words stayed with him.

Even as the fire burned lower.

Even as the night stretched on.

Even as he sat there, realizing,

He still had no idea who he really was.

The camp felt different.

Kain felt it before he even opened his eyes.

Something was coming.

Then he heard it.

The heavy thump of boots approaching the cage.

"Get them up."

Garik.

Kain's eyes snapped open just as the cage door was thrown open.

The guards stepped in, grabbing Torik first.

Torik didn't fight.

He didn't resist as they yanked him up, his body stiff from hunger and bruises.

But Kain saw it, the silent tension in his muscles.

Garik stood near the camp's center, arms folded.

He grinned.

"I let you sit nice and comfortable for too long." His voice was slow, deliberate. A man enjoying the moment.

He tilted his head toward Torik.

"You're not as fun when you're just sitting there, all noble and stubborn. So, let's see how much fight you've got left."

Then Garik turned.

And Kain saw what was waiting.

A man stood at the edge of the circle.

Tall, broad-shouldered. A bruiser.

One of Garik's best. Not just a random thug, but a seasoned killer.

Garik wanted Torik beaten. He wanted him humiliated.

Torik stood in the dirt, breathing slow.

Garik clapped his hands. "No weapons. No armor. Just fists."

The bruiser cracked his knuckles. Grinning. Hungry for blood.

The crowd formed around them.

Men who had once feared Torik. Now waiting to see him fall.

Kain's fists clenched.

"What's the point of this?" His voice was sharper than he intended.

Garik glanced at him, amused.

"The point?" He gestured to the crowd. "They need entertainment."

Then his smirk darkened.

"And I need him to bleed."

The bruiser didn't hesitate.

He lunged.

Torik dodged. Fast, even in his weakened state. He shifted back, feet steady.

But Garik had chosen well.

The bruiser wasn't just big. He was fast too.

A fist slammed into Torik's gut.

A sickening thud.

Torik staggered.

Kain felt the impact like it was his own.

The crowd cheered.

Torik straightened. Didn't groan. Didn't give them the reaction they wanted.

He lifted his fists.

The bruiser grinned. Pleased.

Another hit. A clean strike to the ribs.

Then another.

Torik barely flinched.

Kain saw Garik watching, eyes sharp.

This wasn't about winning or losing.

It was about making Torik's body give out.

Because the moment his knees hit the dirt?

That's when Garik won.

Torik took another hit. A brutal strike to the jaw.

Kain's breath came slow, controlled.

Alric's words whispered in the back of his mind.

"The real question isn't whether he stands. It's how much longer they let him."

And that's when Kain realized the real game.

Torik wasn't meant to die here. He was meant to survive this, then be dragged into something worse.

Garik was stretching out the suffering.

The bruiser lunged again.

Fast. Faster than a man his size had any right to be.

Torik shifted, twisting his body just enough to make the first strike glance off his shoulder.

The next one wasn't a glancing blow.

A fist the size of a mallet drove into Torik's ribs. A sickening crunch echoed through the camp.

Torik staggered back, but he didn't fall.

The bruiser grinned, rolling his shoulders.

"Still standing? Let's fix that."

The next punch came high, a feint.

Torik didn't take the bait. He ducked low, twisting his entire body into a counterstrike.

His fist collided with the bruiser's ribs.

A sharp, meaty crack.

The bruiser let out a grunt, stumbling one step back. Pain flashed in his eyes.

The crowd didn't cheer for Torik. They just waited.

Waited to see how long he would last.

The bruiser didn't waste time.

He drove forward, hammering blows into Torik's body.

A right hook to the ribs.A left to the side of the skull.A knee, hard into Torik's gut.

Torik's body absorbed the pain.

He had been beaten before.Starved before.Brought to the edge before.

But he had never fallen.

Blood dripped from his lip, staining the dirt beneath him.

He spit.

A tooth landed at the bruiser's feet.

"That all you got?" Torik growled, wiping his chin.

The crowd roared.

The bruiser's smirk faded.

He rolled his neck, and then, he came at Torik like a beast.

This time, there was no testing.

This time, he was going to break him.

A hook slammed into Torik's jaw.

Then another.

Then another.

The fourth hit sent blood spraying.

Torik's vision blurred for half a second, just a half-second, but that was enough.

The bruiser caught his opening.

A monstrous uppercut sent Torik's head snapping back. His legs wobbled.

Kain's breath caught.

No.

Torik wasn't going to fall.

He couldn't.

The bruiser stepped back, waiting for Torik to hit the dirt.

Waiting for him to break.

Torik wavered. His body swayed. Blood dripped from his face, a deep cut split open above his brow, running like a crimson river down his cheek.

And then—

He lifted his fists again.

Kain saw it. Garik saw it.

The bruiser took a step forward, but he hesitated.

Because in Torik's eyes, there was no defeat.

No surrender.

Just hunger.

A hunger to keep standing.

A hunger to keep fighting.

"Come on then," Torik muttered, voice thick with blood.

The bruiser snarled and rushed him again.

The first punch landed. Torik tanked it.

The second one landed. Torik tanked that too.

The third, Torik caught it.

His fingers locked around the bruiser's wrist. Tight. Unshakable.

The bruiser's eyes widened, too late.

Torik drove his forehead into his nose.

A sickening crunch. Blood burst like a broken dam.

The bruiser reeled.

Torik didn't let him go.

Torik pulled him back in.

One punch. A full-force body shot.

The bruiser grunted, then gagged.

The second punch, straight to the jaw, sent him staggering back.

The third one?

The third one put him down.

A thunderous crack split the air as Torik's fist connected with his temple.

The bruiser hit the dirt like a lifeless sack.

The crowd went dead silent.

Even Garik tilted his head slightly, surprised.

Torik stood there, swaying. Covered in his own blood. Covered in his enemy's.

But still standing.

Still breathing.