The silence was deafening.
Fifteen survivors stood bloodied and bruised in the center of the ruined arena. Around them, crimson sand bore the prints of pain and victory alike. The bodies of the fallen were being dragged away like sacks of meat while the remaining fighters leaned against pillars, blades, or their own trembling knees.
Then the voice returned.
"Everyone, listen carefully."
The announcer's voice no longer carried the artificial cheer of entertainment. Now, it was sharp. Clean. Cold.
"The final round… is simple.""Defeat us. And you go free."
A pause.
At first, silence. Then, murmurs of confusion.
Someone laughed nervously.
"Defeat… you?"
Another survivor, a wind mage, tilted his head.
"That's it? That's the last round? Finally, something fair."
But the voice returned, now laced with something darker.
"You'll be fighting our leader—Sir Roy. And the remaining 250 members of our clan."
Dead silence.
Then, it hit.
The crowd didn't cheer.The survivors didn't breathe.
Even the sand seemed to fall still.
Aryan's lips parted.
"...What the fuck?"
He wasn't the only one.
"You're kidding, right?!" someone shouted from the back, voice cracked with disbelief. "That's suicide!"
Another survivor dropped to their knees.
"We were dead the moment we got captured… weren't we? This was always the end."
Panic surged like wildfire. Magic flared instinctively. Some began backing up, clutching weapons. Others screamed at the sky. All hope—ripped away with one sentence.
But the voice cut through them all.
"Do I sound like I'm joking?"
A heavy silence dropped over them. There was no sarcasm. No mockery. Just ice.
On the high platform, Roy, the bandit leader, stood up from his throne-like chair. Tall. Broad. Draped in black war armor with a long crimson coat that flowed like flame. His eyes gleamed like a predator watching its prey lose hope.
Aryan stared at him.
This was the man who orchestrated everything.The one who smiled while people died for sport.
How the hell are we supposed to fight that? Aryan thought.
Kat stepped beside him, jaw clenched.
"Aryan…"
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
"We stay close," Kat said, tightening his grip on his blade. "No matter what. If we get separated, we're dead. We don't know what kind of powers these bandits have, or how organized they are."
Aryan nodded, though his insides twisted.
Even Kat sounds nervous…
250 enemies. And just fifteen of us.
And not all fifteen were fighters. Some were wounded. Some broken. Some already shaking.
But they had no choice.
The announcer's voice echoed again.
"You have one hour to prepare. Rest. Heal. Say your prayers."
"Then the final trial begins."
The sky above the arena dimmed, the clouds darkening as if in mourning. The sand whispered under the feet of the condemned. The surviving fighters slowly gathered into their own small circles, glancing around with mistrust—or quiet resolve.
A few sat to meditate. A few checked their blades. A few… just stared off into the void.
And Aryan?
He closed his eyes, breathing shallow, fists clenching.
This is no longer a test of power.This is survival against hell itself.