Center
Luke walked in line, wrists bound by cold metal cuffs. A thick iron chain ran through loops on each pair—linking him to the boy with long auburn hair, and a younger, shaking girl behind. Every step they took, they took together.
Just in case someone got ideas.
The chains clinked with every movement, a mechanical reminder that freedom was only a memory here.
The Knight leading the line glanced back with a smirk.
"Don't tug too hard now," he said mockingly, patting the hilt of his blade. "You're all lovely little angels today, but I remember when one of your kind tried to bolt last week prior to the Blood Brawl.
Poor kid tripped the others when he ran—snapped his neck and dragged three down with him."
He laughed, like it was a funny memory.
"Lesson learned: If you don't want your skull split open like a pumpkin, stay in line."
The boy turned his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder with a crooked grin.
"What you did last night—to silence that noble brat?
Haha. What a sight to see."
His voice was too light.
Too casual for the words he said.
"I'm Caelan. Caelan Verrand. Came from a mercenary band. Real rough crew. Good
fighters. Good people."
There was a pause—too short to mourn.
"Then they got ambushed. Slaughtered in front of me. I got sold off and wound up here. Slavery, the works. So... yeah. Life."
He glanced back at Luke, a half-smile on his lips.
"Your turn, Mr. Opener."
Luke blinked.
Damn.
Trauma dumping on the spot, huh?
He smirked to himself.
"Luke Davin. You can just call me Luke."
He exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair.
"Opener, huh? If I was that noble brat I beat down yesterday, I doubt you'd be calling me that."
A pause. A glance ahead.
"Honestly? I don't know how I got here. Everything's a blur... until yesterday."
He didn't say more.
He didn't need to.
Caelan laughed as if their situation was a pleasant one.
...
The knight leading them suddenly stopped, gauntlet slamming against a side panel.
CLUNK.
HSSSS—
The metal door groaned open.
On its faded surface were the words:
"Sanitation Unit 3A – Human Test Pool"
But what greeted them beyond the threshold wasn't the steel and stench of the lower cellars.
It was... surprisingly clean.
Wooden buckets stacked by the wall. Simple plastic stools scattered near metal faucets. The floor was tiled—not beautiful, but functional. And at the far end, a massive full-body mirror stretched across the wall, slightly fogged from years of poor maintenance.
There was no separation between boys or
girls. Just space. Shared and impersonal.
But compared to the rust, the filth, the bloodstains of the cells—
This was luxury.
A twisted kind.
Luke stepped inside and took an empty seat near a faucet. The water was lukewarm. Not freezing. Not hot. Just enough.
He stared at the mirror.
For a second, he didn't move.
It was the first time he had truly seen himself—this self.
His reflection blinked back at him.
Blonde hair. But threaded through with streaks of black like ink veins. His face… it was familiar. Too familiar. The jawline. The cheekbones. The eyes.
Silver. Deep. Tired.
His face looked like a painting someone had tried to repaint halfway through—a fusion of what was, and what is.
His body and the boy's body.
Merged.
His lips parted, but no words came out. Just a quiet breath.
Elarin sat a few stools away, silently washing her arms, her back to him.
Caelan hummed while pouring water over his hair, as if nothing in the world could break his stride.
But Luke couldn't stop staring at himself.
Not because he was shocked.
But because this was the first moment he realized:
He was still here.
But not fully.
....
Luke sat on the cold stool, the metal biting into his bare thighs. With a slow exhale, he peeled the makeshift bandage from his forehead.
Slick... ssschk.
It came off wet and crusted with dried blood.
But beneath the cloth—no wound.
Only a smooth, pale scar, already sealed.
He blinked, stunned.
It wasn't fresh. It wasn't tender. It looked like it had healed weeks ago.
"What the hell…?"
His fingers hovered near the scar, brushing it.
No pain.
No burning. No swelling.
Just that faint pull beneath the skin… like something was moving under there.
His breath hitched.
"What's happening to my body…?"
A whisper. A thought.
But he didn't have time to dwell. Eyes were everywhere.
Quickly, Luke rewrapped the bloodied strip of cloth around his head, hiding the unnatural healing. The bandage stuck slightly, soaking up the leftover dampness.
Can't let anyone see this.
Can't give them a reason to whisper. Or report.
He tied it tight.
Tchk. Tchk.
The scar was out of sight—buried under old blood and filthy cloth.
He stood and began washing the rest of himself.
The water came out in stuttering sputters from the pipe.
Drip... drip... splutter—SPLASH.
Luke scrubbed with his hands, scraping blood from his ribs, his neck, his thighs. Last night's battle—self-inflicted or not—had left its stains.
All around him, the room was filled with the sounds of scraping flesh, gurgling pipes, and soft sobs.
A boy two stools down scratched too hard—his nails raking off scabs and revealing pink muscle underneath.
"Ghkk—!"
A girl coughed violently into her bucket, spitting out thick, black mucus. It clung to her lip before she wiped it away with trembling hands.
No one spoke.
They just endured.
---
After what felt like a precious half-hour of suspended time, the steel door slammed open.
CLANG.
Boots echoed.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The Knight stood at the threshold, voice booming with mockery.
"Get in line! Finished or not!"
"We're going to the 'Center'!"
Chains clattered as the children rose. Some were still dripping wet. Others hadn't even finished wiping the filth off.
Luke stood, fully clothed now, the bloodied bandage firmly in place. He moved back into line—Caelan ahead, still whistling softly, and the little girl behind him, silent as shadow.
The chains between their cuffs rattled like restless snakes.
---
The Center
They were herded like cattle into a space so massive, it defied comprehension.
The Center was not a hall.
It was an arena of horror.
Tens of thousands of children—thin, bruised, scarred—stood in rows across a cratered stone floor, surrounded by elevated steel platforms where adults watched like vultures at a feast.
The walls were slick with condensation, blood, or both. Cameras blinked red from every corner. The Center was akin to a octagon shape.
And at the heart of it all… was a stage.
A man stood at its center, dressed in a pristine black suit, standing beneath a single spotlight. A microphone stood before him.
"Welcome, children," he said, his voice calm and amplified by the speakers.
"I'm glad so many of you are still
breathing."
The man chuckled lightly, a sound that curdled in the air.
"As they say… 'Honesty is the best policy.' So today, I'm going to tell you the truth."
He stepped forward. The microphone hissed with feedback.
"You are part of a grand experiment. An arms race. A collaboration of nations, merchants, scholars, scientists, and kings. You were sold, traded, selected, and now—here you are."
He gestured grandly to the crowd.
"You are weapons in progress. And the thinning process has only just begun."
Children murmured. Fear rippled like static.
"You will survive—alone or with others. Or you will die. But either way, you will serve your purpose."
Behind him, a giant screen cracked to life.
BZZZT—KRK—FOOM.
What it displayed made even the bravest faces pale.
Monsters.
Gnashing teeth. Blades for limbs.
Unholy hybrids of flesh and steel. Some with the vague shape of humans—others like walking nightmares.
They tore children apart like paper dolls.
"AAAAHHHH—!!"
A head was bitten clean off.
CRUNCH.
Bones snapped.
Blood splashed across the floor like spilled wine.
One child screamed and tried to run.
Another girl collapsed, vomiting violently.
Luke staggered.
His body convulsed.
Even though his stomach had nothing in it, he vomited bile—splat—onto the ground.
His throat burned.
His vision blurred.
The speaker didn't stop.
"Those who fail... end up like this."
He laughed, almost giggling.
"Oh, and a surprise I nearly forgot!"
He leaned closer to the mic.
"These monsters? They're part of the experiment too. Some of you will be fed to them. Others... may become them.
And the lucky few..."
His grin widened unnaturally.
"...might learn to 'command' them."
---
Luke said nothing.
He stared at the screen, bile dripping from his lips, the bandage tightening around his head with sweat and heat.
The scar beneath it pulsed—just once.
Like it was alive.
Like it had heard everything.
The man on stage smiled one last time, eyes glinting with something far beyond joy—something ancient, cruel, and inevitable.
He stepped back from the microphone.
"That is all I can disclose as of now..."
His voice was velvet over glass.
"...may you survive—'Pioneers of Pride'."
He bowed, ever so slightly.
As if the performance had ended.
And then—
Blackness.
The lights cut out with a BOOM of dead electricity.
The screen flickered, sputtered, and died.
The entire coliseum fell into darkness.
Total, suffocating silence.
Chains shifted. Children breathed shallow.
Some whimpered. Others froze, waiting for instruction, punishment—anything.
But no voices came.
No orders.
No Knight.
Luke looked left, then right—his vision struggling to adjust. But all he saw were faint outlines, silhouettes of trembling bodies.
Where were the Knights?
The metallic links between the children's cuffs clinked nervously.
Someone whispered a prayer.
Another child was quietly sobbing.
Then—
A low growl.
Grrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhh…
From the shadows.
Then another.
Closer. Wet. Animal.
But... not just animal.
CLINK.
Something metal dragged across the floor.
HSSSSSSSST—CRRKKK…
Something breathing from a throat too wide, too wet.
"Wh–what is that?" someone whispered.
Another scream echoed across the stone.
"Something's moving! It's—!"
CRUNCH.
A scream was cut off mid-shriek.
Then something heavy hit the floor with a SPLAT.
Luke's blood ran cold.
He couldn't see it, but he could hear it.
Bones being chewed.
Meat being pulled apart.
Wet. Viscous. Gushing.
SKRRRRRSHHHH—CHOMP. CHOMP.
The sound of teeth grinding through bone.
Children broke formation.
The line shattered.
Some tried to run—forgetting the chains.
CLANG!
They tripped each other.
Bodies collapsed.
Limbs tangled.
Cries rose.
"UNLINK US—PLEASE!"
But no one came.
No Knight.
No answer.
Only the growls.
And the smell—the thick, hot stench of blood and bile spreading through the arena like rot in the lungs.
Luke's fingers clenched the chain between him and Caelan.
The thinning had already begun.
And no one had told them the rules.