A shadow looms overhead—a vulture circles the sky, its dark shape blotting out the sun for a moment. The sight sends an icy shiver down my spine. I muster a dark chuckle, trying to convince myself that I’m no easy prey—not even for this cunning scavenger. The vulture’s harsh cries pierce the air, mixing with the gusts of wind that whip through the desolate arena.

This place is a cruel mockery of civilization, twisting my perception of reality. Each day here feels like a step further into a nightmarish world. The arena stretches out before me—a landscape of cracked earth, twisted vegetation, and bizarre structures. The ground beneath my boots crunches with each step, while jagged rock formations cast long, shifting shadows in the eerie light of the plants clinging to the walls.

The air is acrid with the stench of blood and sweat, a constant reminder of the arena's brutality. Each breath feels like inhaling shards of glass. The rules are simple: fight or die. Yet, there’s an absurdity—a twisted game where the stakes are as much psychological as physical.

“Just my luck,” I mutter, tasting the coppery tang of blood on my lips. "Vultures are on the guest list, and I'm the main course."

This is my third arena run, and it's shaping up to be an absolute nightmare. After barely surviving one close call after another, my body is a canvas of agony, painted with blood and wounds that throb with every heartbeat. Now, demonic vultures are circling above, their eyes gleaming with hunger as they prepare to feast on my flesh.

"It's just another arena bout," I whisper, trying to stay calm. "We're shielded by magic; if I die, I'll respawn back in my room." The arena's rules are brutal, but the magic shield ensures that death isn't final—only the pain and terror are real. Still, the thought of those vultures ripping me apart is chilling. The illusion of safety only makes the stakes more terrifying.

I think about the world outside—if there is one worth remembering. In here, time blurs into a series of brutal bouts and fleeting respites. The mental strain is more insidious; each death is a harsh lesson in the world’s cruelty, where survival is a series of moments where you either fight or falter.

Suddenly, the vultures dive, their wings slicing through the air like razors. The rush of wind against my face is fierce, and the sound is like tearing flesh, sending a jolt of panic through me. Instinct takes over, and I grip my sword tightly, the hilt warm and slick with sweat. With a burst of desperate energy, I spring into action. My blade cuts through the air with a sharp whistle, deadly and precise. The first vulture plummets, a whirl of feathers and blood, its body crumpling to the ground with a sickening thud. The second meets the same fate moments later, its death cry echoing through the arena, mingling with the distant rumble of thunder.

Relief washes over me as their lifeless bodies hit the ground, but my heart still pounds in my chest like a war drum. In the twisted reality of the arena, even victory feels hollow. The fleeting moments of triumph are overshadowed by the relentless reminder of our mortality and the absurdity of fighting for a mere room upgrade.

Before I can catch my breath, a sudden rustle behind me makes me jump. The sound is like a predator stalking its prey, and I spin around, sword raised, every muscle in my body protesting. My heart skips a beat as I come face to face with a smirking stranger, mere inches away. His appearance was so sudden, it was as if he materialized from the swirling dust.

"Seems like you have a choice to make," His voice is low and menacing, like a whisper of wind through a graveyard. "You can face my sword," he taps the hilt hanging at his side, "or try your luck with my spear." He gestures towards the weapon strapped to his back.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

The arena is a stage for a cruel game, with exactly one hundred of us competing for the grand prize—a room upgrade. The winners receive luxurious accommodations, details shrouded in mystery. For now, we’re all just cogs in a brutal machine, fighting for our chance at that elusive prize. This game reveals a deeper truth: our world outside might be just as fractured and merciless, cloaked in the guise of normalcy.

I take a step back, my gaze fixed on him. His face is mostly obscured by a gleaming bronze helmet, adorned with intricate swirls and patterns that catch the sunlight like shards of molten gold. The polished armor reflects the world around him, a stark contrast to the rugged scar etched into his cheek—a testament to countless battles fought and survived. But it’s his eyes that stop me—sharp, probing, as if he’s reading my entire story in one glance.

“Neither,” I force out, gritting my teeth against the pain. “I’d prefer if you just went away.”

“That’s not an option,” he says, his confusion evident. “You have two choices—” I seize the moment to strike, lunging forward with all the strength I can muster. In this arena, every moment is a chance to seize control, to carve out a space of defiance against the chaos that seeks to consume us.

But he's faster. With a swift motion, the stranger twists my blade from my grasp, the metal clattering to the ground several feet away, its echo sharp in the stillness.

“You thought it would be that simple?” He smiles slightly, showing a hint of menace. “You’re just another challenge for me. But don’t worry—I’m not in a hurry. I’m Finn, and you’ll find out what that means soon enough.”

"No escaping now," Finn declares, leveling his sword at my neck. The cold steel against my skin sends a shiver through me. "I'm going to tie you up with—"

Before he can finish, a thunderous roar shakes the ground. We both turn to see a monstrous griffon—a hybrid of lion and eagle—charging towards us. Its massive wings beat the air with a deafening whoosh, and its eyes blaze with primal fury. The griffon materialized from thin air, as did the other griffons that now appear, their origins a mystery that no one dares to uncover. These creatures, with their grotesque and otherworldly forms, are as much a part of the arena as its twisted landscapes.

Finn’s face goes pale. “Looks like I’ll have to finish this later,” he says, his voice betraying his fear. “For now, let’s see if the griffon takes care of what I started.”

With that, he spins on his heel and flees, his feet barely touching the ground as he sprints away. His retreat feels like a cruel joke—a brief respite from one nightmare only to face another.

"Coward," I spit, watching him disappear, just before the griffon lunges at me, its talons gleaming in the sunlight. I don't have time to react. The creature's razor-sharp talons sink into my flesh, pain exploding through my body like searing fire. The last thing I remember is the sensation of dying, the world fading into darkness as the griffon's roar echoes in my ears.

Suddenly, I gasp for air, my heart pounding, as I bolt upright in my bed. The familiar surroundings of my small, sparse room greet me. The soft glow of the magical respawn orb on the bedside table casts a gentle light, reminding me of the arena’s cruel mercy. The pain is gone, replaced by a residual ache that lingers like a ghost. My mind races, replaying the last moments with the griffon, Finn’s taunting words, and the vultures’ chilling cries.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing slightly as phantom pains echo in my limbs. The arena might have its twisted sense of humor, but I have learned to play along. I rise, determination hardening within me. Each death is a lesson, a step closer to mastering this brutal game. The next run will be different. I’ll be prepared for Finn, for the vultures, for the griffon—prepared for whatever the arena throws at me.

The next run is a week away, giving me time to prepare. I approach the armor stand in the corner, inspecting my gear. The leather armor looks as though it’s seen better days, but it will have to do. I make a mental note to repair it before the next bout. My sword lies on the table, cleaned and sharpened, ready for another fight. I grip the hilt, drawing strength from its familiar feel.

"One week," I mutter to myself. "Time to train, to plan."