Chapter 14 - The Pit of Kings

In the heart of an ancient underground city, a hidden pit buzzes with life, a rough arena where battles have raged for centuries. The walls, made of dark stone, are covered in old carvings that tell stories of fierce warriors and forgotten times. Flickering torches cast shaky light over the scene, illuminating the wild crowd gathered around the edge of the pit—hungry for blood, thrill, and the thrill of the fight.

The pit is a large, shallow bowl of cracked concrete, slick with the remnants of countless battles. The air is thick with excitement and tension, the cheers and yells rising like a wave of noise. People scream for their favorite fighters, throwing their fists into the air as the energy around them builds. The sounds of shouting, laughing, and shouting fill the damp air, creating an electric atmosphere.

Around the edges of the pit, spectators lean in, their faces lit up with eager anticipation. Some are dirty and ragged, scavengers who see the pit as a chance for glory; others wear makeshift armor or show off scars from past victories. Between them, tables are set up with piles of coins and notes, where scruffy bookmakers take bets with eyes gleaming, ready to cash in on the chaos.

As the fighters step into the pit, the crowd erupts into a frenzy. Each fighter is a darker figure against the stone, muscles tense and ready for action. The bell rings—a sharp sound that signals the start of the fight. Cheers roar from the crowd as fists fly and bodies slam into one another, each hit met with wild applause or cries of shock.

Blood spills onto the ground, mixing with sweat and dirt, soaking into the cracks of the concrete. The crowd goes wild at every punch and kick, the thrill of the fight coursing through them. Those who have bet on the fighters watch closely, eyes glued to every move, cheering louder with each step closer to victory.

In this blood-soaked arena, survival is the only goal, and every cheer, every scream represents a life lived on the edge—a constant reminder of the darkness that lies within and above this ancient city.

Aldric stood at the edge of the Pit, the Abysswalker's Veil concealing his expression. Around him, the Hollow Maw seethed with bloodthirsty anticipation. The scent of sweat, steel, and old gore clung to the air like an omen.

He had come to kill Varik the Cleaver.

But the Pit had its own rules.A challenger could not simply walk in and demand a fight with its reigning champion. They had to earn their place. Aldric had known this before he even set foot here. And he did not care.

The announcer's voice boomed across the arena, echoing off the stone walls.

"Let the fighters enter the pit."

Two fighters enter the pit each wanting each others lives, Aldric watch as the fight took place. But he didn't came to watch the fight, so he made his way to the stall where fighters sign to participate in the Pit.

The man at the stall barely looked up as Aldric approached. He was a grizzled veteran, his face a roadmap of old scars, one eye clouded white from some forgotten battle. His fingers tapped lazily against the wooden counter, the rhythmic drumming lost beneath the roar of the crowd.

"You here to place a bet or spill some blood?" the man grunted, finally lifting his gaze.

Aldric didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached into his coat and dropped a small pouch of coins onto the counter. The weight of it was enough to make the old fighter raise an eyebrow.

"I want in," Aldric said, his voice low but firm.

The man studied him for a moment, his good eye narrowing. Fighters came to the Pit every night—some seeking coin, others seeking glory. But the ones who spoke the least were often the ones to watch.

"Rules are simple," the man finally said, sliding a scrap of parchment toward Aldric. "You fight, you win, you move up. Lose, and you'll be lucky if you leave breathing."

Aldric picked up the parchment, scanning the rough inked names. A roster of the damned, men and women who had bled for the crowd's amusement.

One name stood at the top—Varik the Cleaver.

To reach him, Aldric had to fight.

"Who's first?" he asked.

The stall keeper gave a dry chuckle and scratched at his unshaven jaw. "Eager to die, huh?" He reached for another slip of parchment and scribbled something before slamming it onto the counter.

"Ain't no warm-up fights for newcomers tonight. You're straight into the bloodbath." His grin widened. "Welcome to the Pit."

The wait was brief.

Aldric stood just beyond the pit's entrance, his back pressed against cold stone as he listened to the ongoing match. The sounds of steel against flesh, the sickening crunch of bone shattering under brute force—it was all too familiar. The air was thick with sweat and iron, and the crowd's frenzy had only grown louder.

Finally, the bell tolled.

A roar of approval signaled the end of the match, followed by the announcement of a victor. A body was dragged away—whether dead or merely unconscious, Aldric didn't care.

Then, his turn came.

In the dim light of the pit, a wiry fighter steps forward, standing at about five and a half feet tall. His lean, muscular frame is built for speed, moving with a quick, purposeful stride. A hooked nose gives his sharp face a predatory look, while a leather patch over his right eye adds a touch of mystery. The visible eye gleams with a wild spark, a hint of the chaos within.

He wears a tattered black tank top that clings to his form, revealing faded tattoos and forearms wrapped in fraying cloth. Fingerless gloves cover his hands, stained with sweat and grime, ready for action. When he grins, yellowed teeth flash, revealing a blend of mischief and danger that draws the crowd's attention.

His tangled dark curls are pushed back as he bounces on the balls of his feet, brimming with contagious energy. In this pit, he's not just a fighter; he's a wild card—unpredictable and eager to embrace the chaos of battle, ready to entertain the crowd with his speed and cunning.

"Looks like I get the masked freak," he sneered, rolling his shoulders. "You got a name, or should I just call you dead?"

Aldric didn't respond. He stepped forward, his sword sliding from its sheath in a slow, deliberate motion. The Abysswalker's Veil concealed his expression, but his stance was unmistakable.

The announcer's voice rang out.

"The next match! A nameless challenger against Gregor the Hound!"

Gregor spat onto the ground and cracked his knuckles, a roguish grin spreading across his face. "Let's see what you got."

The bell rang.

With a sudden burst of speed, Gregor lunged low, dagger flashing in his grip and aimed for Aldric's ribs. Aldric sidestepped with eerie precision, his coat billowing as he drew his sword, the blade a blur of silver in the dim torchlight. Gregor barely managed to twist away, but not before Aldric's sword caught him across the forearm, blood splattering onto the sand.

The crowd erupted in approval as Gregor staggered back, his grin replaced by wary aggression. "You bastard," he spat, shifting his grip on the dagger, his stance becoming more cautious.

Aldric seized the moment, closing the distance. He moved in fast, striking with brutal efficiency that forced Gregor onto the defensive. The wiry fighter dodged left and right, but Aldric was always one step ahead, anticipating his movements and cutting off his escape routes.

Just as Aldric slashed toward him again, Gregor managed to evade the strike by inches, rotating his body to thrust toward Aldric's neck. Aldric felt the rush of air as the dagger grazed past him, but he quickly ducked under the blade and countered with a powerful swing aimed at Gregor's legs.

The wiry fighter jumped to avoid the sweep, but the force behind Aldric's blade connected with the ground, sending a spray of sand into the air. Gregor, sensing his opponent's strength, grunted and charged forward with renewed determination, delivering a series of rapid stabs that made the air crackle with tension.

Aldric defended with skillful parries, the clash of metal ringing out as he fought to maintain control of the match. He began to notice a pattern in Gregor's movements, spotting the slight twitches that signaled his next attack.

In a decisive moment, Gregor aimed high with a fierce downward slash, but Aldric ducked again, his instincts guiding him. He stepped to the side, thrusting his sword forward, catching Gregor in the side and drawing blood once more.

The crowd roared with excitement as Gregor staggered back, breath heavy, determination shifting into panic. "Not today!" he shouted, channeling everything he had left as he lunged in for one last desperate strike.

Aldric defended deftly, each clash of steel echoing in the pit, the crowd roaring with excitement. As Gregor overextended on a thrust, Aldric noticed the moment of vulnerability. With a burst of adrenaline, he lunged forward, pivoting on his heel to deliver a powerful upward slash.

The blade found its mark with brutal effectiveness, cutting deep through Gregor's body. The wiry fighter's eyes widened in shock, blood spraying as he staggered back, collapsing to the ground. The cheers from the crowd turned into gasps of horror, the atmosphere thick with disbelief.

Gregor dropped his dagger, hand clutching the wound, desperation filling his gaze as he struggled for breath. "No... it can't end like this!" he gasped, his voice trembling with disbelief and pain.

Aldric stood over him, sword still drawn, heart pounding in his chest. He saw the defiance flicker in Gregor's eyes, but it began to fade, replaced by the harsh reality of defeat.

As Gregor's strength waned, the life fading from his gaze, he sank deeper into the sand, the fire in his spirit extinguished.

Silence in the Pit

Then—the crowd exploded.

The announcer's voice rang out once more.

"And just like that, the nameless challenger takes his first victory!"

Aldric flicked his blade, sending droplets of blood scattering onto the sand. One down.

But there were many more to come.

He turned, walking back toward the edge of the Pit. He didn't wait for the next call. He already knew he would fight again.