I knew exactly where to train—the secondary sword arena on the outskirts of the main training grounds. This hidden gem was rarely used, making it the perfect spot for focused practice. The arena was a modest space, filled with wooden dummies arranged in rows. Some were stationary, while others were mounted on swivels to simulate moving targets. The scent of old wood and worn leather hung in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass from nearby fields.

As I stepped into the arena, the sound of my boots crunching on the sawdust filled the space. The dummies were worn from countless sword strikes, their wooden bodies scarred and chipped. I had a plan to make this session more intense.

I reached into my satchel and pulled out a small pot of paint and a brush. With careful strokes, I painted crude but recognizable faces on the dummies, each resembling my sworn enemy, Finn. The paint was thick and sticky, its acrid scent mixing with the sawdust, creating a pungent, oddly comforting smell.

“Every strike is for you, Finn,” I muttered, glaring at the painted faces. “You think you can push me around? I’ll show you.”

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching, their rhythmic patter growing louder. I turned around and there stood

Finn, watching me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. The soft thud of his boots against the wooden floor was the only sound, and for a moment, the air was thick with tension.

He glanced at the painted dummies and then back at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Interesting choice of training partners,” he remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The sound of his voice was smooth but edged with an underlying challenge.

I sheathed my sword, trying to maintain my composure. The cool metal of the hilt against my palm was a brief comfort, grounding me in the moment.

“Just getting ready for the real thing,” I replied evenly, meeting his gaze.

Finn took a few steps closer, his boots scraping softly against the wooden floor. He inspected one of the painted dummies, his fingers brushing lightly against the paint. The texture of the crude faces under his touch was rough and uneven. “You’ve got quite an imagination,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. “But imagination won’t save you in a real fight.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” I said, not backing down.

Finn's smirk widened, revealing a flash of teeth. He drew his sword with a flourish, the metal whispering through the air as he unsheathed it. The blade glinted ominously in the dim light of the arena, and I could feel the weight of the challenge in his eyes.

“Care to test that theory?” he challenged, his voice resonating with a blend of mockery and menace.

I took a deep breath, the scent of old wood and fresh paint mingling in the air. My grip tightened on my sword, the leather-wrapped hilt comforting and familiar. Finn lunged forward with a swift, powerful strike aimed at my shoulder. The force of his blow reverberated through my arm, sending a shock of pain and pressure up my limb. The clash of metal against metal rang out sharply, echoing through the empty arena. I parried, the sting of his strike lingering as I struggled to keep my balance.

He was strong, but I was ready. I countered with a quick thrust, my sword slicing through the air with a whoosh. Finn blocked it effortlessly, his eyes gleaming with a confident challenge. His movements were precise, each one calculated and fluid, a testament to his skill and experience.

Without missing a beat, Finn launched his signature move. With a precise flick of his wrist, he hooked my sword and twisted. The sharp, metallic screech as my weapon was wrenched from my grasp echoed through the arena. My sword flew through the air, spinning end over end before clattering to the ground several feet away, the sound reverberating off the walls like a cruel reminder of my defeat.

I stood there, stunned, my hand still outstretched from where I had held my sword. The rough texture of the wood against my palm was a stark contrast to the smooth metal of the sword I had just lost. Finn’s blade was at my throat, the cold steel pressing against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. His smirk was now a full-blown grin, triumphant and taunting.

“My signature move never fails me,” he declared, his voice echoing with a mix of pride and mockery. The cold steel of his blade pressed against my skin was a constant reminder of my vulnerability.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. Finn lowered his sword and took a step back, still watching me with that infuriating smirk. The silence of the arena was punctuated only by the distant rustle of leaves outside and the faint scent of sawdust in the air.

“You’re good,” he said, his tone mocking, but there was a hint of respect in his eyes. “But you’ve got a lot to learn.”

I glared at him, my frustration boiling over. “This isn’t over,” I spat, my voice steady despite the humiliation. The taste of defeat lingered bitterly on my tongue.

Finn nodded, a glint of understanding in his eyes. “No, it’s not. But for now, you need to train harder. The real fight is still ahead.”

I retrieved my sword, feeling its familiar weight in my hand again. As Finn walked away, his footsteps growing fainter, I made a silent vow to myself. I would not only match him but surpass him. My training had just begun, and I would turn every taunt, every smirk, into fuel for my determination.

The arena was silent again, except for the soft rustle of sawdust beneath my feet and the distant hum of the wind outside. I took up my stance once more, eyes fixed on the painted dummies. This time, I swung my sword with a new purpose, each strike more precise and determined.

The scent of the paint and sawdust filled my senses, fueling my resolve. I could almost hear Finn’s mocking voice, but instead of anger, I felt a steely resolve.

One day, Finn’s smirk would be replaced by a look of genuine surprise. And I would be ready for that moment.

With fresh determination, I resumed my practice. Each swing of my sword was more focused, every strike more precise. The pain of defeat and the sting of Finn’s mockery fueled my intensity. I worked tirelessly, pushing myself beyond my limits.

Suddenly, a sharp, resonating bell pierced the silence of the arena grounds, echoing off the stone walls and sending a jolt of panic through me. The bell’s tone was unmistakable—a signal that we had five minutes to reach the dining pavilion. My heart raced as I tightened my grip on my sword, slick with sweat from my earlier training, but the dampness betrayed me. The sword slipped from my grasp, clattering to the ground. For a split second, I hesitated, the instinct to retrieve my weapon warring with the gnawing fear of what would happen if I was late.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But the rules were clear: fail to reach the pavilion in time, and you would face punishment. And nobody had ever returned after facing punishment. The air seemed to grow colder just thinking about it. I didn’t dare look back. There wasn’t time.

I bolted towards the dining pavilion, my boots pounding against the dusty ground, kicking up clouds of grit in my wake. The towering arena loomed to my left, its walls casting long shadows over the path. The distant cheers of the crowd from within the arena, excited by the latest bout, were a constant reminder of the twisted spectacle we were all part of.

The pavilion came into view, a massive structure of rough-hewn stone and metal. Its open sides allowed a view of the main arena, where the fighters battled for the entertainment of the regime. I pushed myself harder, my lungs burning as I raced against the clock. The minutes stretched, each second a countdown to something far worse than the fights we endured. I reached the entrance just as the final chime of the bell rang out, a clear note of finality that sent a shiver down my spine.

Breathing heavily, I slowed my pace, letting the cool air wash over me. I scanned the crowded tables, finding a seat at one of the worn, splintered benches. The dining pavilion was a bleak, utilitarian space, designed more for function than comfort. The walls were bare, save for a few faded banners that hung limply, their colors dulled by time and neglect. The air was thick with the mingled smells of sweat, dust, and the unappealing scent of the food being served.

I grabbed my tray, laden with the usual unappetizing fare—a slice of blackened, burned bread, overcooked vegetables, a hunk of tough, dry meat, and a bowl of soggy soup that looked more like dirty water. The tray was cold and unwelcoming in my hands, the contents almost mocking in their inadequacy. Yet, despite its pitiful offering, it was all we had, and hunger left us little choice but to eat whatever we were given.

I sat down, the bench creaking under my weight, and stared at the meal before me. My stomach twisted in protest, but hunger won out. I tore into the bread, the charred crust scraping against my teeth. The vegetables were mushy and flavorless, the meat a chewy struggle, and the soup… I gagged at the first sip but forced it down, knowing it was all the nourishment I would get until tomorrow. As I ate, the noise of the pavilion buzzed around me—quiet conversations, the clatter of metal utensils against trays, and the occasional bark of a guard reminding us of our place.

To my right, a table of VIPs—skilled fighters who had proven their worth in the arena—sat in stark contrast to the rest of us. Their table was laden with fresh, colorful vegetables, succulent cuts of meat, and golden loaves of bread that steamed as they broke them open. Each VIP was distinct, a harsh reminder of the brutal hierarchy within the pavilion. Their clothes were cleaner, their weapons polished to a gleam, and their very demeanor exuded confidence, the kind that came from knowing they were favored by the regime.

Finn sat among them, though he was markedly different. His usual easygoing smile was conspicuously absent, replaced by a distant, almost haunted expression as he pushed his food around with his fork, barely eating. The others at the table noticed his distraction and pounced on it like vultures.

The first to speak was Garth, a bulky man with a scarred face and a mechanical arm, a replacement he had bragged about after losing his real one in training. His presence was imposing, his voice a gravelly sneer that matched his rough exterior. “What’s the matter, Finn?” Garth sneered, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Still using that trash heap of a sword? Or did you finally upgrade to something decent?”

Meg, a short girl with sharp, intelligent eyes behind her glasses and a face full of freckles, leaned forward, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I saw him eyeing that rusty spear in the armory yesterday. He looked at it like it was gold. Can’t tell garbage from a real weapon, can he?”

Laughter erupted around the table, each voice grating against my nerves. Finn’s cheeks flushed crimson. He tried to shrug off the taunts, but the jeering continued, relentless as ever. The ease with which they turned on one of their own was a testament to the cutthroat nature of the world we inhabited—loyalty was a luxury none of us could afford.

Bulldozer, a massive man with muscles like boulders and a perpetual sneer, added his own insult. His real name was Freddie, but no one dared call him that to his face. “Maybe he’s always picking on the rookies because it’s the only way he can feel tough,” Bulldozer said with a smirk. “Too scared to face someone who might actually fight back.”

The VIPs laughed louder, their voices echoing through the pavilion, but their attention soon shifted back to their own conversation, leaving Finn to simmer in silence. Meg leaned in with a wicked grin, clearly enjoying the attention.

“I caught one of those rookies at the mall yesterday,” she boasted, her voice dripping with malice. “His name’s Ethan. He was trying to buy a decent blade, but I made sure he left with a wooden practice sword instead. You should have seen his face—like he’d just been slapped!”

Garth, always one to enjoy others’ misery, added his own story with a sinister grin. “I take it further. Found a group of fresh recruits near the food stalls. Had some fun roughing them up. They scattered like rats when I started swinging. Easy pickings, those greenhorns. No fight in them at all.”

Their conversation sickened me, but I forced myself to keep eating. Their casual discussion of bullying tactics and their amusement at tormenting the less fortunate was a harsh reminder of the brutal hierarchy governing our lives. The more I listened, the more I realized that in this world, power was everything. It was a lesson we all had to learn, some sooner than others, and the cost of ignorance was high.

Finn remained silent, his gaze fixed on his plate. He didn’t seem to share in their enjoyment, nor did he challenge them. For a fleeting moment, I almost felt bad for him, trapped among them but clearly not one of them. But I quickly dismissed the thought. Finn had humiliated me earlier, and he likely had done the same to countless others. His silence now wasn’t out of kindness or regret—it was the silence of someone who knew better than to show weakness.

As the VIPs resumed their meal, Finn suddenly muttered something under his breath. It was so quiet that even I, with my sharp hearing, barely caught it. But I did. “Rude,” he whispered, his voice almost a sigh. I glanced around the table, but none of the other VIPs seemed to have noticed. Their ears were not as finely tuned as mine.

Still, despite his bravado, Finn’s vulnerability was evident. The other VIPs didn’t respect him; they merely tolerated him. In their eyes, he was just another fighter, scraping by like the rest of us. The thought was both comforting and troubling. If even someone like Finn could be on the verge of losing his place, what hope was there for the rest of us? The hierarchy was a fragile thing, and one misstep could send any of us tumbling down to the bottom.

As I chewed on the rubbery meat, I wondered about the fierce warrior who had disarmed me so effortlessly earlier. Perhaps he wasn’t as invincible as he appeared. Maybe, like me, he was struggling to find his place in this harsh, unforgiving world. Maybe the bravado was just a shield, as flimsy as the one I held when I first entered the arena—only to discard it as worthless.

But that was none of my concern. I had my own battles to fight, my own survival to focus on. I finished my meal in silence, ignoring the VIPs’ laughter and jeers. The next time I faced Finn in the arena, I would be ready. The next time, I would not let my sword slip through my fingers.

After finishing my meager meal, I pushed the tray aside and stepped out of the pavilion. The cool evening air hit my face, a welcome change from the stifling environment inside. I made my way back to the dormitory, passing through the bustling marketplace and the luxurious VIPs' village. The differences between their world and mine were a constant reminder of the harsh hierarchy I faced.

I arrived at my small dormitory, where the quiet was a stark departure from the day's chaos. As I lay on the hard mattress, Finn's taunts and the day’s battles replayed in my mind. The soft glow of the magical respawn orb on my bedside table cast eerie shadows, a reminder of the relentless nature of the arena.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the future. Tomorrow, I would be ready. One day, I would rise above all this, not just survive, but conquer. With that thought anchoring me, I let exhaustion pull me under, knowing that each day brought me closer to my goal.