As Roven was dragged forward by a chain, the coarse grip of the guards tightening, he found himself marching down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The guards paid him no attention, their eyes fixed straight ahead as they maneuvered through the tangled corridors of the coliseum's underbelly.
After a seemingly endless series of twists and turns, they finally arrived at the entrance to the main access point of the building. Roven's heart sank as he realised what awaited him. The silent guard guiding him purposely led him towards a section of the stone floor covered in spilled sand—a grim sign of what was to come.
It was his turn.
As they passed through a long iron wall, Roven's gaze was met with the sight of hundreds of eager faces pressed against the bars of a barrier, their eyes fixed upon the newcomer. The spectators, dressed in opulent gowns and silks that spoke of their wealth. They were here for one thing: entertainment at the expense of the doomed souls who passed through these gates, never to return.
"Who's this then?" called out a voice from the crowd.
"Why's his hair all weird? Is he a Drugal?" questioned another.
The guard paid no heed to the barrage of questions, clearly accustomed to the shouting. Roven's gaze hardened as he glared defiantly at the sea of onlookers, unable to contain his contempt. With a scowl, he spat in their direction, a small act of defiance amidst he knew was childish but brought him satisfaction as a few nearby spectators cried out in shock.
As Roven was led through the iron gates, disappearing from the view of the excited bettors, he thought he caught a slight smirk on the guard's face. It seemed the guard himself was not entirely accepting of his role in this cruel place. Roven couldn't help but wonder what kind of town would breed such desperation that people would willingly endure a job that involved pitting humans against monsters for slaughter.
His jaw clenched, both in anger at the fate of those trapped here and in preparation for his own impending fate. Images of the black-haired woman battling the monstrous creature flashed through his mind. He knew he could never match her skill and speed. Though confident in his own abilities to defend himself, he realised the odds were stacked against him. The battle for his home had left him with barely a scratch, but the memory of the foreign lightning-fast beast haunted him.
Summoning his resolve, Roven braced himself for whatever lay ahead as he emerged from the cold confines of the underbelly into the expansive sandy oval of the arena. The grandstands encircled the killing floor, filled with a sea of bobbing heads. Each section of the seating was a stark contrast, showcasing the glaring divide between the humble and the affluent in Branside. The corruption of the place was unmistakable.
The chain that connected his iron collar fell free, and the guard disappeared from sight.
Scanning the long oval for his opponent, Roven apprehended he was the only one standing there. A low thud echoed behind him, drawing his attention. A familiar sight bounded into view, and a grin spread across his face as he spotted the green-tinted handle of a weapon he knew well. It was his chance to escape.
Without hesitation, Roven scooped up the handle, ready to fashion a makeshift ladder out of the living metal. However, his escape plans were interrupted as an iron gate creaked open on the opposite side of the oval.
His gaze swiftly shifted, revealing a group of men emerging from the other end. There were about seven of them, each wielding a different weapon and each wore dirty matted animal hides.
Arching an eyebrow in curiosity, Roven turned his attention back to the task at hand. There was no time to waste.
Roven had wielded the green wood countless times before, shaping it into various objects. This time, he envisioned a long pole with footholds, creating a single pole ladder. A smirk played on his lips as the green wood stretched and sprouted horizontal bars.
Planting the pole firmly into the ground, Roven began his ascent. A sense of triumph welled up within him as he climbed, ignoring the pointing fingers, surprised exclamations, and laughter that erupted from the crowd. Higher and higher he climbed, nearing the row of faces that grew closer with each step.
With one hand grasping the edge of the wall, Roven prepared to pull himself up when a sharp tug yanked him away. Grimacing, he plummeted through the open air, the iron collar around his neck proving to be his downfall. He landed on the dirty floor with a thud, a cloud of sand billowing around him. His green living steel weapon clanged to the floor beside him. The crowd erupted in laughter and jeers, mocking his futile escape attempt.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Swearing under his breath, Roven quickly got to his feet, his eyes fixed on the approaching group of men. It was clear they had no qualms about killing a stranger, their weapons and clothing stained with blood and mud. Gripping the shaft of his living steel weapon tightly, Roven pictured a set of guardian armour. The one his people used to defend his home.
In an instant, the green living metal wrapped around his torso and limbs, forming a protective shell. A shield sprouted from one hand, while a thick leaf blade emerged from the other.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as they witnessed the sudden transformation of the man before them. There was barely a spot on Roven’s body that wasn’t protected.
The nobles on the rich side of the arena began shouting bets, their excitement palpable.
Roven could feel the metal on his skin, empowering his limbs to greater strength.
The fighters before Roven shifted uneasily as one man pulled an arrow from an unseen quiver and loosed an arrow straight at his chest. Rove lazily blocked it with his shield and jogged forwards.
The fighters closed in on Roven, their toothless snarls echoing in the air. Roven lunged forward with his blade, but the fighter he targeted raised his own shield in an attempt to block the blow.
The blade slice through the iron shield like a knife carving through sand.
Shock registered on the fighter's face as he dropped his broken shield, staring at the severed stump where his arm used to be. The power of the living steel was truly extraordinary.
The injured fighter fell backward, his screams piercing the air as blood gushed from his wound, drenching him in his own crimson lifeblood. With two swift steps and a flick of his wrist, Roven dispatched the man, ending his suffering with one sickening crunch of his blade against his neck-bone.
The remaining six fighters hesitated, taking a step back before rallying with a unified shout. Two of them charged at Roven, who sought refuge behind his green shield. He exerted a forceful push upon impact, sending the attackers hurtling backward. Seizing the opportunity, he threw his blade toward the archer, deflecting another arrow with his living helmet. His blade continued its flight, striking the archer in the chest who fell instantly with a thud.
Swiftly growing a spear from his shield, Roven tossed it to another fighter, impaling him on the shaft as he attempted to catch it.
Roven inwardly scoffed at the foolishness of the man.
"Haaa!" he shouted, startling the remaining fighters.
Another blade sprouted from his shield as he strode towards the three upright attackers. With each swing of his blade, Roven delivered a deliberate, powerful blow. The air whistled as his blade sliced through the air. Though the movements may have appeared slow, there was an undeniable force behind each strike.
The influence of his living steel armour amplified his strength, causing each blow to land with bone-crushing impact.
The remaining fighters crumpled under the force, their bodies unable to withstand the sheer power. The sound of impacts echoed through the arena, mingling with the gasps and cries of the onlookers. Roven's determination and resolve were palpable as he pressed forward, his movements steady and unwavering. It was a display of raw strength and skill, as he single-handedly dismantled the opposition with calculated precision.
Confidently, Roven strode toward the two he had knocked away, their fear evident as they scrambled to escape.
A flicker of pity passed through him as he advanced, questioning whether taking lives for his own sake was the right path. But any trace of empathy swiftly dissipated as he noticed the grotesque jewellery adorning the fighters. Rows of teeth and what appeared to be ears hung from ropes around their necks, gruesome trophies of their kills. Some of the ears were disturbingly small, undeniably belonging to children.
Growling with rage, Roven closed in on them, systematically executing them.
A deafening roar filled the air as the crowd cheered, mixing with the scent of blood and sweat. But amidst the cacophony of cheering and applause, Roven stood stoically over the lifeless bodies. There was no trace of excitement or triumph in his expression, only a deep sense of sorrow that weighed heavily upon his heart.
As he surveyed the jubilant spectators, Roven couldn't help but feel a profound sadness for the people of Branside. Their backward thinking and lack of moral compass were clear in their enthusiasm for such a brutal spectacle. It pained him to witness the depravity that allowed these fights to exist, where human lives were treated as mere entertainment.
The cheers and exultation from the crowd grated on Roven's senses, serving as a reminder of the twisted values that prevailed in this society. He couldn't fathom how people could find joy in the suffering and death of others. It was a stark contrast to his own beliefs and principles, which emphasised compassion, justice, and the preservation of life.
In that moment, Roven made a silent vow to himself. He would do whatever it took to challenge the prevailing mindset of Branside, to fight against the corruption and immorality that plagued the city. No longer would he be a pawn in this cruel game, but a force of change and redemption.
With a heavy heart and renewed determination, Roven turned his gaze away from the cheering and to the approaching guards.
As the guard approached him, Roven made a deliberate decision. With a heavy sigh, he let go of his living steel armour and weapons, allowing them to clatter onto the sandy floor. His hand slowly rose, signalling his surrender to the guards who had been mere observers of the brutal fight. Reluctantly, he submitted to the iron collar being clasped around his neck once more, the weight of captivity settling upon him.
The guards showed no concern for the line of blood that trickled down Roven's thigh, their indifference a stark reminder of the callous nature of this place. They had become desensitised to the sight of wounds and the shedding of blood, seeing it as nothing more than a consequence of the fighters' existence. Roven clenched his teeth, fighting against the urge to grin defiantly at them.
Silently, the guards led him away, their steps echoing through the dimly lit corridor. Roven could feel the sharp splinter of metal grinding under his skin as the iron collar tightened.