The Tournament Begins

Another day had passed.

Arven stood in a quiet corner of the training pits, fists raised. His knuckles were raw from practice, skin bruised and sore. Sweat clung to his back beneath his simple shirt.

He punched the air again. Harder. Faster.

Each strike snapped through the space, sharp and controlled.

There was no one teaching him. No one cared if he improved or failed. The Arena demanded strength and spectacle. Weakness was its only crime.

He had no choice but to adapt.

His vampire blood pulsed beneath his skin. He could feel it now. His body responded faster than before, muscles twitching with a subtle new power.

But power meant nothing without skill.

He shifted his stance. Again. Again.

Left. Right. Step. Guard. Pivot.

Pain lanced through his shoulder as a punch landed wrong. He gritted his teeth, forced the pain down, and struck again.

There would be no second chances. When the fights began, hesitation meant death.

He exhaled slowly, lowering his arms. His breath came hard now, chest rising and falling.

Around the pit, other fighters trained. Pairs clashed in brutal sparring matches. Metal rang against metal. Grunts and curses echoed off the stone.

Arven watched them for a moment. Some fought with practiced ease. Others relied on brute strength. No one moved like him. Fast, precise, hungry.

He would need more than speed to survive.

Three days had been given to prepare. Now that time was gone.

By midmorning, the common area was alive with restless energy.

Word had spread. The tournament was about to begin.

Fighters moved through the hall with urgency. Weapons were polished. Armor adjusted. Some laughed loudly, masking their nerves. Others sat in silence, eyes closed, focusing inward.

Arven sat near the edge of the room, back against the wall. His pulse was steady now. Mind clear.

Footsteps approached.

A group of Arena workers entered, led by an older man with silver hair. His presence silenced the room in an instant.

He carried a thick board under one arm, accompanied by several assistants.

Conversations faded.

The man set the board down near the central wall.

"Listen well," he called out. His voice was clear and sharp.

"Welcome, fighters. Today begins the one hundred seventy-eighth edition of the Arena Tournament."

A ripple passed through the crowd. Some grinned. Others exchanged wary glances.

"One hundred twenty fighters have entered. You will face each other in single combat. The bracket is final. Each match is one versus one. You will fight until a single winner remains."

The assistants began lifting the tournament board into place. Names were written across the rows, each pairing waiting to be revealed.

Before the fighters could press in, the older man raised a hand.

"Know the rules."

The room fell silent.

"Victory is what matters. You may win by knockout or by forcing your opponent to yield."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"Killing is permitted. You may take your opponent's life, but it is not required."

The air seemed to tighten. Arven felt the weight of that sentence settle across the room.

"Those who cannot fight or choose to surrender are considered defeated. If anyone interferes with another's fight, that fighter will be disqualified and executed."

A few fighters glanced at each other, unease flickering in their eyes.

"You will fight to win. The city demands blood, not games."

He gestured to the board.

"Prepare yourselves."

The crowd surged forward like a single living thing, a crush of noise and bodies funneling toward the board.

Arven moved with them, weaving between elbows and shoulders, his boots skimming the stone floor. Sweat clung to the air. Voices rose in every direction, sharp and urgent.

"Come on, where's my name?"

"Second match, perfect. Less time to sit around."

"Shit. Borzak? I'm dead."

He pushed closer until he could see it, names scrawled across the roster in thick black ink.

There it was.

Arven vs Jucir

His heart kicked against his ribs.

A subtle shift passed through the crowd. Murmurs started low and spread quickly.

"Who the hell is Arven?"

"Never heard of him."

"Must be some nobody. Jucir's gonna break him in half."

He let the words roll past. He knew what they were. Empty noise. They didn't know him. And they didn't matter.

Arven stepped forward, raising his voice just enough to be heard. "I'm Arven."

At that moment, someone moved up beside him.

A shadow fell across the board.

The man stood tall, taller than anyone around him. Maybe two full meters, broad as a wall, wrapped in muscle and steel. His arms were lined with scars, fists locked in heavy gauntlets that glinted with worn iron. Every part of him looked battle-hardened. Real.

He didn't speak. Didn't look down. Just stood there, calm as death.

Jucir.

Arven glanced up, his breath caught halfway to his lungs.

He'd seen monsters before, but this man felt different.

Maybe even more dangerous than Veyra. No wild eyes. No playful grin. Just silent, patient violence waiting to be let loose.

The Arena official nodded between them. "Good. Both of you, prepare. Betting starts now."

Jucir turned and walked off without a word. His footsteps hit the ground with slow, steady rhythm.

Arven exhaled. Shoulders loosened. He didn't feel fear, not exactly. Just pressure. Like something heavy had been set on his chest.

One step at a time. That was the only way through.

The hours blurred.

Fighters were called in groups and led below. Arven followed when it was time, descending deeper into the underbelly of the Arena. The stone underfoot was dark and worn smooth by hundreds of boots. Echoes bounced off the walls,low murmurs, clinking metal, short bursts of laughter that didn't quite reach the eyes.

And above them, the noise. A rising tide.

The crowd.

It was distant at first. Then louder. Thicker. A full roar pressing down from above.

The staging room opened before them. Dozens of fighters stood ready. Some stretched in silence, bodies lean and scarred. Others paced like caged wolves, eyes flicking to every sound.

Arven leaned against a wall and watched. His hands stayed steady. His breathing even.

Not fear. Focus.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the sound wrap around him.

Up above, the announcer's voice rang out over the Arena.

"Welcome to the Dawnlight Arena! Final bets closing! The first match begins soon!"

A second later, a voice called from the tunnel mouth.

"First fight. Step forward."

Arven pushed off the wall and moved toward the call.

Jucir was already there, arms folded across his chest, his eyes still like ice under shade.

The gate ahead groaned as it opened.

Sunlight crashed through.

It blinded at first. Then, slowly, the sand came into view,wide and pale, ringed by walls and roaring spectators. Flags snapped in the wind, and the stands were packed shoulder to shoulder.

Arven stepped forward, boots pressing into soft grit.

The scent hit him next, sweat, steel, blood baked into the dirt.

He didn't look away.

Across the Arena, Jucir entered with measured steps. His gauntlets shone bright in the sun.

Arven locked eyes with him.

I can't hesitate.

The announcer's voice echoed once more across the sand.

"Bets are locked. Fighters, prepare."

Arven took a slow breath.

Ahead, Jucir shifted slightly, shoulders turning as he settled into stance.

It was close now. Just seconds away.

The crowd held its breath.

And the fight was about to begin.