At the end of the tunnel, the arena revealed itself in all its grim majesty.

Built deep beneath the castle, the arena was a vast circular chamber, surrounded by thick stone walls. Tiered seating rose high around it, giving the spectators a perfect view of the center stage. The floor was covered in thick sand, stained with the ancient marks of blood, designed to absorb fluids and soften the bodies that fell upon it.

The noble guests, excited by the impending spectacle, were already descending the spiral staircases that surrounded the arena, filling the air with murmurs of anticipation. The nobles made their way to their reserved seats, while the exhausted servants, including Ale, found themselves surrounded at the bottom, right in the center of the arena.

At the top of the arena, in a lavish private box, sat the viscount, his family, and the most prestigious guests. Princess Ismérie, the third daughter of Emperor Redès, was there, a slight smile playing on her lips as she watched the scene unfold with a detached air. The viscount, with his son Aldric by his side, seemed to relish the moment.

The spectators were safe, far removed from any danger. While some nobles murmured among themselves, seemingly uncomfortable with the cruelty of the event about to unfold, the majority applauded, eager for blood and chaos.

The viscount stood, speaking with arrogance, his voice echoing through the arena.

"You are lucky! You have the honor of serving nobles and aristocrats. You, who were nothing, will finally have the chance to prove your worth. Now, this is your moment to impress us!"

Immediately, cries of despair erupted from the group of workers. Some began to weep, while others, terrified, screamed for help. Two men, panicked, attempted to scale the walls of the arena to escape, but before they could get more than a few feet up, archers stationed in the stands loosed their deadly arrows. The two men fell to the ground, lifeless, to the horror of the remaining workers.

"Fools!" the viscount shouted with a cruel smile. "You are the stars of tonight's show! The task is simple: defeat your opponents, and you can leave with ten times your pay. Am I not generous?"

Laughter echoed from the stands, and the viscount continued, savoring each word.

"In addition, I am giving you an advantage. Look over there!" He pointed to a corner of the arena where a selection of weapons lay scattered. "You have weapons at your disposal. But, of course, you'll need to know how to use them! Hahaha!"

Panic spread through the workers. Despair overwhelmed them as the mocking laughter of the nobles filled the air. It was at that moment that Ale, sensing the growing fear, quietly whispered the incantation for a calming spell.

"Calmos Verdor…"

A gentle green light rose from his palms, forming a soft, glowing veil around the group. A shimmering green mist enveloped each worker, creating a soothing aura around them. The green aura danced softly, releasing a sense of peace and comfort before slowly dissipating, fading away like a gentle breath in the cool air.

The paralyzing fear began to fade. Hearts, once heavy with terror, felt lighter. Breaths, once ragged and shallow, became more even. Ale sensed the atmosphere shift around him. Though anxiety remained, it no longer suffocated them.

"Oh, look at that! He knows magic!" one of the nobles in the stands exclaimed, visibly impressed. Ale knew that this drew attention to him, but he had no other choice.

Taking a deep breath, Ale stepped forward, raising his head toward the viscount's box.

"I want a guarantee," he declared, his voice firm. All eyes turned to him. "You promise us freedom if we survive. But I don't trust your word alone."

The viscount, surprised by such audacity, raised an eyebrow. "A guarantee? And what sort of guarantee would you like, boy?"

Ale remained calm despite the pressure. He looked up at the royal box where Princess Ismérie sat, her expression neutral but observant. "That your promise be witnessed by Princess Ismérie, the third daughter of the Emperor. Let her be a witness to your word and guarantee that those who survive tonight will be freed, as you have promised."

The viscount, clearly caught off guard by the demand, hesitated for a moment. That's when Aldric, sitting beside his father, turned abruptly, looking agitated.

"Father, you're not seriously considering this, are you?" he exclaimed, a sneer of disdain on his face. "A mere servant dares to challenge you like this, and you'd grant him such a request? It's absurd!"

The viscount, amused by his son's irritation, replied with a smug grin, "Don't be so uptight, Aldric. This boy wants the princess as a witness? Then let him have it. It won't change his fate. And it adds a bit of… flavor to our entertainment, wouldn't you agree?"

The viscount smiled, clearly entertained by Ale's boldness. "Ah, you're smarter than I thought. Very well." He turned to the princess, offering a mock bow. "Princess Ismérie, would you honor us by witnessing this promise?"

Princess Ismérie, though surprised by the request, gazed at Ale. After a brief silence, she nodded softly. "I will be a witness," she said in a clear voice. "If the viscount breaks his word, he will bear the consequences."

Ale felt a weight lift off his shoulders, though he wasn't entirely relieved. At least with the princess as a witness, there was a chance the viscount's promise would be upheld. The viscount nodded, a sly smile on his lips. "You have my word, and the princess as witness. Those who survive will be free to go. But remember, boy… very few leave here alive."

Though still anxious, Ale now felt a glimmer of hope. The upcoming battle would be brutal, but at least he knew he had a chance to survive, and he wasn't about to let that slip away.

The underground arena was cloaked in palpable tension. The cold stone walls echoed the anxious murmurs of the workers from the slums, now scrambling toward the tables where an array of weapons lay scattered. Sharp axes, gleaming swords, heavy hammers, sleek spears, shimmering magical wands, bows and arrows, as well as sturdy shields were arranged haphazardly. Vividly colored potions lined the tables as well, their mysterious contents offering both hope and dread.

Ale grabbed a basic sword. The familiar weight in his hand brought him a small measure of comfort. He didn't need a physical shield; his mastery of magic would allow him to create protective barriers if necessary. Around him, the workers moved with frantic desperation, their fear and helplessness written plainly on their faces.

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"I don't know how to fight!" one of them cried, trembling as he awkwardly gripped a spear.

"Which potion heals wounds?" another asked, shaking two vials frantically—one green, the other blue.

Ale raised his hands to calm them. "Listen to me! Take a deep breath. Those who can use a bow, stay back and cover us. Those with melee weapons, protect those who can't fight. Green potions heal wounds, blue ones restore your magical energy."

But before he could finish, a sinister grinding noise filled the air. The large gate through which they had entered began to rise, its rusty chains screeching with each movement. The workers froze, eyes locked on the slowly revealing opening.

"The enemies are coming," Ale murmured. "Don't scatter, stay together."

Up in the raised stands surrounding the arena, richly dressed nobles stirred with excitement. Members of the Montclair family walked among the crowd, shouting eagerly:

"It's time to place your bets! The fight will begin soon! Odds are 1 to 10 on the prisoners and slum workers!"

"I'm betting 10 gold pieces on the prisoners!" shouted a nobleman in golden attire.

"50 gold pieces for me!"

"Same here!"

Princess Ismérie, seated with graceful poise, declared in a clear voice, "I'll wager 100 gold pieces on the slum workers."

Viscount Alaric turned to her, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Interesting. I'll wager 100 gold pieces on the prisoners. It's not too late to reconsider your bet, Your Highness."

The princess smiled slightly. "In desperate situations, humans can become stronger than you'd think."

"That is, if fear doesn't devour them first," the viscount chuckled. They exchanged a knowing glance before bursting into laughter.

Back in the arena, the tension reached a new peak. Three warriors emerged from the yawning gate. At the forefront was a towering giant encased in iron armor from head to toe. Deep scars etched into his armor told of countless battles he had survived. His stern face bore its own marks of war, and his cold, steely eyes seemed to pierce through the souls of anyone who dared meet his gaze.

Behind him, a lithe woman moved with lethal grace. Clad in light leather armor, she held a bow, her arrow already nocked and drawn, her sharp eyes never leaving the group of workers as if waiting for the slightest twitch to release her strike.

The third figure was wrapped in a dark hooded robe. Curly hair spilled out from the sides, partially concealing a pale face. But what caught Ale's attention were the fiery red eyes glowing beneath the hood. In the figure's left hand, a wand swayed gently, its tip flickering with an ominous light.

"These three... they're no ordinary prisoners," Ale thought, his mind racing. He didn't need long to realize just how dangerous these opponents were.

Before he could rally the group, one of the workers, his face contorted by a mix of excitement and fear, shouted, "Come on, everyone! Let's rush them together! There's only three of them!"

Without hesitation, a dozen slum workers charged forward, weapons raised. "Wait! Stop!" Ale shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos.

The woman with the bow wasted no time. She released a flurry of arrows with deadly precision. Several workers fell before they even made it halfway across the arena. Fireballs erupted from the mage's wand, exploding into the hapless ones who had no defense against such magic.

The few who managed to close the distance with the iron-clad giant swung their weapons with all their might. But their blades clanged uselessly against his armor, as if striking solid rock. Sparks flew, but no scratch marred the metal.

"He's protected by reinforcement magic," Ale realized, his eyes widening.

The giant warrior smirked, a cruel expression. With a powerful swing, he swept his enormous axe across the battlefield. Three workers were cut down instantly. Another tried to dodge to the side, but the warrior caught him by the shoulder, slammed him to the ground, and crushed him with a single, devastating stomp.

The last two workers, terror in their eyes, tried desperately to flee back toward the group that had stayed behind. But they were not given the chance. Arrows whistled through the air, piercing their backs. They collapsed at the feet of the remaining slum workers, who recoiled, screaming in horror.

The scene was one of indescribable carnage. Blood stained the sand of the arena, and the cries of agony still echoed in the cold air. Up in the stands, the nobles were ecstatic, clapping and laughing as if it were the most delightful entertainment.

"Look at them running like rats!" laughed a man dressed in richly embroidered robes.

"This is the most amusing spectacle I've seen in years!" exclaimed a woman, waving her fan with glee.

Ale clenched his fists, fury bubbling inside him, but he knew he had to control his emotions. He turned to the remaining workers, whose faces were etched with fear and despair.

"Listen to me!" Ale shouted, his voice commanding, cutting through their panic. "If we stay scattered, we're finished. We need to organize!"

One man, eyes wide with terror, stammered, "But... they're invincible... Did you see what they did?"

"No!" Ale countered, his voice filled with determination. "They aren't invincible. They're strong, yes, but if we work together, we can defeat them."

A woman holding a spear trembled from head to toe. "What should we do?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"Those of you who can use a bow, move to the back and provide support from a distance," Ale instructed, his mind racing. "Those who fight with melee weapons, form a line in front to protect the others. If you don't know how to fight, grab the green potions to heal the wounded. Stay behind us and keep yourselves safe."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Slowly, the chaos began to settle as Ale's orders gave them direction. The workers moved into position, and a semblance of organization formed, but time was running out.

Up in the stands, Princess Ismérie watched the scene with growing interest. "That young man... this is about to get much more interesting," she said softly, a glimmer of intrigue in her voice.

Viscount Alaric raised an eyebrow. "You think he can make a difference?"

"Perhaps," she replied enigmatically, her gaze fixed on Ale as he prepared for what was coming next.