Chapter 15: Chains and Cheers

The chains were heavy—more than just metal. They pulsed with a dull, magic-infused weight that sapped at the strength in Aryan's limbs, forcing each step into a struggle against both iron and pride.

His wrists bled where the cuffs bit in.

His ankles dragged over coarse stone, trailing dust and blood, yet his eyes remained fixed forward—cold, unreadable.

Beside him, Kat limped silently, his jaw clenched, one eye swollen, his sword long taken. Even his spirit, usually sharp and cocky, was dulled by exhaustion. But his gaze, like Aryan's, refused to break.

Two dozen guards flanked them. All bandits. Their mismatched armor jingled with trophies stolen from fallen hunters—teeth, tags, fingers. One even wore a beast's skull as a helmet.

The alley opened ahead into a roar of noise.

And then they saw it.

The arena.

A colossal pit carved into the Wasteland's stone, shaped by cruel hands and old violence. Circular walls stood high and scarred by magic. Fires burned in iron bowls. A hundred—maybe two hundred—bandits surrounded the upper ledges, screaming, laughing, hurling bones and bottles into the dust-choked air.

And in the center… fifty.

Fifty prisoners. Men and women. Young and old. Mages and hunters. All chained. All broken.

Aryan felt the pressure of the place crawl up his spine like a serpent. This wasn't a battlefield. It was a cage.

Kat's voice was hoarse as he whispered, "So this is the hell those rumors spoke of…"

Aryan didn't answer. He couldn't—not with the bile rising in his throat, not with the sheer wrongness in the air.

A sudden magical surge silenced the crowd. Crackling, it exploded above the arena like lightning in a bottle. From one of the balconies, a man emerged.

He was dressed not like a bandit, but like a lord—silks torn and dark, armor elegant yet wickedly sharp. His face was hidden behind a golden half-mask shaped like a jackal's snarl.

He raised a hand. The crowd quieted.

Then, his voice—amplified by magic—rang across the pit.

"WELCOME, MY BROTHERS OF DUST AND BLOOD!"

The bandits howled in response.

"Tonight, you will be entertained by a show of survival, strength… and slaughter!"

Aryan's eyes narrowed as he studied the man.

"Fifty souls stand before you," the man continued, arms wide. "Some have power. Some have nothing. But all will fight… because to not fight… is to die."

His voice turned mocking now.

"Let me explain the rules to our lovely contestants. There will be three rounds. In Round One, all of you must survive for the next thirty minutes. That's it. Just survive. Against what, you ask? Well, that would ruin the surprise."

He chuckled.

"Those who survive… will learn the rules of Round Two. Those who don't…" He snapped his fingers. "Will become food for the crows."

The chains on Aryan and Kat were unlocked roughly, sending both to their knees in the sand. The bandits dragged them forward with kicks and jeers, dumping them like trash into the pit alongside the other captives.

Kat grunted as he hit the ground, wiping blood from his lip. "We're just animals to them…"

Aryan slowly rose to his feet, his breathing steady. He looked around at the terrified faces, the false bravado, the desperate shuffling of people trying to group up or hide.

"I've seen worse cages," he murmured.

Kat raised a brow. "When?"

Aryan didn't respond. He didn't need to.

Because in his mind, he saw it again—his childhood in the gutters, the faces of the starving, the dying, the forgotten. The memories of waking in alleyways and praying for one more meal, one more day.

This wasn't new.

This was just a different flavor of cruelty.

"30 minutes until Round One," the jackal-masked man announced. "Pray to your gods… if they still listen."

The crowd erupted once again.

Aryan took a slow breath, staring at the high walls and the burning lights above.

Survive.

His fingers curled into fists. His eyes burned with resolve.

"Let them come," he whispered. "I'm not dying here."