Abscess

A few days passed. Still in the cage. 

Still naked. Still starving. Still f*cked. 

And worst of all? 

Boredom. 

Soul-crushing, brain-melting boredom. 

There's nothing to do. 

Nothing to punch. 

Nothing to scream at — except my own thoughts. 

People come by. Lots of them, actually. 

Why? No idea. Maybe this is the black market's version of window shopping. 

But no one buys me. 

Well… some tried. 

Until I opened my mouth. 

"Hey, you gonna feed me or just stand there like a discount noble with a stick up your ass?" 

That sort of thing. 

They always flinched. 

Whispered. 

Walked off. 

Guess slave buyers don't like getting verbally mugged by the merchandise. 

Good. 

Let them be scared. Let them run. 

They can shove their silver coins and twisted morality up their collective asses. 

Still — my body's healing. Slowly. 

Bruises are fading. Pain's dulled. 

But something's off. 

There's this thing in my mouth — like a lump growing on the inside of my cheek. 

Not sharp. Not soft. Just… there. 

Might be an infection. Might be a tumor. Might be hell's way of saying "f*ck you." 

No way to know. 

No healer. No potion. No mirror. Just a ticking bomb in my mouth. 

And then there's the heat. 

It used to be freezing in this cage. Cold metal on bare skin, breath fogging in the air. Hellish. 

Now? 

I'm sweating like I'm stuck inside a fever dream. 

Even the other slaves are shivering, teeth chattering — but me? 

I feel like I'm on fire. From the inside out. 

Something's wrong with me. 

A man showed up. 

Another fat bastard. 

Seriously — how? 

The food in this world tastes like wet socks and moldy dirt. 

So why the hell are there so many fat people? 

He waddled over, eyeing us like meat on a shelf. 

"I want to buy slaves for my arena," he said, voice greasy. "All male. I'll take them all." 

Arena? 

You mean like… a place where slaves beat the shit out of each other for entertainment? 

Awesome. 

The merchant crossed his arms. "That'll cost you. How about three big silvers?" 

"One big silver." 

"Hey! I'll be losing money! These guys still have limbs! Three silvers!" 

"I heard rumors. People say you're trouble." 

He turned away. 

"Wait, wait — fine. One big silver." 

What the f*ck? 

"HEY! FCK YOU! I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE, YOU ROTTEN PIG-FCKING PIECES OF SHIT!" 

But I wasn't really thinking anymore. 

I was burning. Inside. Like my veins were boiling. 

The fat merchant — the seller, not the buyer — walked up, expression stone-cold. 

And he beat the living shit out of me. Again. 

No words. No hesitation. 

Fists. Feet. Pain. 

Then we were hauled out. 

Dragged. 

Shoved into wagons. Again. 

Destination? 

The arena. 

We arrived somewhere. 

I don't know where. 

Some fortress? Some underground pit? Some hellhole with walls? 

No one told me shit. 

BUT— 

They gave me clothes. 

Finally. 

Thank f*cking god. 

I was so damn tired of being naked I almost cried. 

The clothes were simple — rough shirt, scratchy pants, sandals made of rope and pain. 

But still. 

Clothes. 

Then some guy — looked important, probably a doctor — came in. 

Started checking each of us. Head to toe. 

Everyone else? Apparently fine. 

A few bruises. Maybe a cracked rib or two. Whatever. 

Me? 

I needed treatment. 

Like, actual treatment. 

The doctor looked bored. 

He barely glanced at us as we stood in line, wearing our new clothes — thin tunics and sandals that barely fit. 

One by one, he checked the others. A poke here, a grunt there. No real interest. Just a job to finish. 

When it was my turn, he waved me forward. 

"Name?" he asked, not looking up. 

"Jake." 

He ran his hands over my arms, checked my ribs, my legs. Nodded. 

"You're fine." 

I hesitated. "Wait. My body's fine, yeah, but… there's something wrong in my mouth." 

The doctor stopped. 

He stared at me longer this time. I saw the moment his bored expression changed — just a bit. 

"Where exactly?" 

I pointed to the inside of my cheek. 

He motioned for me to open my mouth again. This time, he actually looked — used a wooden stick to pull my tongue aside. 

His face darkened. 

"...Abscess. It's swollen bad. Probably infected." 

I raised an eyebrow. "So, are you gonna—?" 

"Lie down." 

I blinked. "Huh?" 

"Now." 

I obeyed. Mostly because I didn't want to pass out and fall on my own teeth. 

He walked over to a crate, opened a rough leather kit. Pulled out… something. A sharp, hooked blade. And a cup of what looked like blackened metal tools. 

"Wait—what the hell is that?" 

He didn't answer. Just said, "Bite down on this." 

A rolled cloth. Dirty. Smelled like old blood and herbs. 

He poured something onto the blade — alcohol maybe. Or just strong vinegar. Then held it over a small flame. 

"You scream, I won't stop. You bite me, I'll knock your teeth out. Understood?" 

I nodded. 

And then the cutting started. 

The pain? Unreal. Like someone was slicing open the inside of my face with fire. 

I couldn't scream. Couldn't even move. My body locked up. My fingers dug into the floor. My eyes watered instantly. 

He pressed. Pushed. 

Then— 

POP. 

Warmth spilled out of my mouth. Blood. Pus. Rot. 

He didn't flinch. Just wiped it away with a dirty cloth, kept pressing until it stopped flowing. 

My whole jaw felt like it had been smashed in with a hammer. 

He stuffed something in my mouth — a mix of herbs, maybe soaked in alcohol or vinegar. Bitter. Burned like hell. 

"You'll live," he muttered. 

I lay there, half-dead, mouth stuffed, blood on my chin. 

Great. Day one, and I'm already getting butchered. 

Welcome to the f*cking coliseum.