The Ring of Survival

I swung my sword again. And again. And again. My fingers had long since gone numb, but I couldn't stop. No, I wouldn't stop. I had to survive.

For what felt like an eternity, the colosseum was my prison. The bloodstained sands beneath me, the deafening roars of the crowd, the endless cycle of combat. It was all I knew. But over time, my name—Renatus—became a symbol. Every time it was spoken, my opponents would tremble, surrendering without a fight. It became a curse as much as it was a title. A legend built on fear, not strength.

But somewhere in the haze of endless battles, I lost track of time. Years passed, and my name, once powerful, faded into obscurity. I became nothing more than a shadow in the arena, fighting because I had nothing else to live for.

And then, one day, everything changed.

He appeared out of nowhere—unlike the usual spectators. His presence alone commanded attention. Tall, noble, with an aura that felt like it could bend the air around him. His clothes were finely made, pristine, even in this hellish place. He was no ordinary spectator.

He was a noble.

The question that immediately crossed my mind was: Why would someone from such a high station care about a washed-up fighter like me?

Before I could speak, he broke the silence.

"Renatus, how long has it been, old friend?"

His voice was calm, familiar. But the words he spoke… they didn't make sense. I stared at him, my brows furrowed. "Who are you?" I rasped, my voice rough from years of shouting orders in the arena. "And whose name is that?"

The man simply smiled, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. It was as though he found my confusion amusing.

"That's your name," he said, almost gently. "The one given to you at birth—Renatus."

Renatus? I had no recollection of such a name.

"My name is Orien," he continued, his voice still light but somehow weighty. "Not that you'd remember. Clearly, you don't."

His words sent a shiver down my spine. I didn't remember him. I didn't remember anything. But something about him, something in the way he carried himself, stirred something deep within me.

His gaze swept across the arena, taking in the cracked stone, the bloodstained sands, the stench of sweat, blood, and despair that filled the air. It was a look of pity. Not disgust, but pity. I hated that look.

And yet, he sat down beside me, his pristine cloak untouched by the filth of the arena. He didn't flinch, didn't even seem to notice the blood splattered across the ground, the screams that echoed in the distance.

"Do you wish to rot here for the rest of your life?" he asked, his voice soft but firm. "When there's so much more waiting for you out there?"

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. "No!" I shouted, my voice hoarse and desperate. "I want to live. For the people I've met here. For the friends I've made. If I had the power… I'd go back and save them."

But then—a thought, sharp as a blade—pierced my mind. My mother. What had happened to her?

The question slipped from my lips before I could stop it. "What happened to her?"

Orien's eyes hardened, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then, with a finality that shattered my fragile hope, he spoke.

"She's dead."

The world around me cracked. I could hear the echo of his words, but they didn't make sense. My breath caught in my throat, my heart skipped a beat. No. No, that couldn't be true.

The one person I had fought for. The reason I clung to life, even in this hellish place. Gone?

"No…" I whispered, my voice trembling. "You're lying."

But deep down, in the hollow pit of my stomach, I knew. I saw it in his eyes. The weight in his voice. He wasn't lying. She was really gone.

A hollow emptiness spread through me. A cold, suffocating emptiness that threatened to consume me whole.

But something in Orien's gaze still lingered, a strange warmth, as though he understood. There was more to him than I had initially realized. It wasn't just pity I saw in his eyes. It was something deeper, something… personal.

"I didn't come here just to talk," he said, breaking the silence that hung between us. "I came to give you something."

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a small, shimmering gem. It glowed faintly with a power that made my pulse quicken. He pressed it into my hand, and the moment I touched it, a strange sensation swept through me. It wasn't just the magic—I could feel it. This gem, whatever it was, held power far beyond my understanding.

"You spoke of going to the past," Orien continued, his voice low and deliberate. "Countless magic users died to create this."

I looked at him, my grip tightening around the gem as a wave of unease washed over me. "Why?" I whispered, my voice raw. "How close were we… for you to give me something like this? To let me restart my life instead of using it for yourself?"

Orien's smile was bittersweet, heavy with something I couldn't name. "We were like brothers," he said simply.

His golden hair caught the light as he stood up, the soft wind tugging at it. His expression was unwavering, determined. There was no hesitation in his words, only a quiet resolve.

"Change your past, Renatus," he said, his voice firm yet filled with an almost painful depth. "Do it for their sake. And for mine. Watching my own friend disappear like that… It broke me."

Before I could speak, Orien moved. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, and I gasped. Looking down, I saw the dagger—his dagger—buried deep in my flesh.

The world blurred. Darkness took over, swallowing everything in its wake.

And then—

I woke up.