Yet another cell, I grumbled to myself. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room, and when they did, I realized I was very much in deep trouble. A small slat in the door allowed a sliver of sunlight to penetrate the gloom, illuminating the sandy floor of the cell. Above, a series of cables, winches, and pulleys were attached to the door, no doubt designed to lift it when it was my turn to fight. This was a fighting pit of some sort.
I could hear the murmurs of a crowd through the opening and quickly made my way over to see what was causing the commotion. Looking through the open slat, I peered out to see what was causing the ruckus. Though my vision was limited, I could see a roughly circular arena with a white sand floor. Above the sands, rose a fenced wooden stand area made of rough-hewn logs. The audience was a mix of unarmed citizens and armored martial types, all shouting and cheering.
As I watched, from the other end of the arena, I could see an armored warrior entering with a swagger that exuded confidence and skill. I was tempted to use Identify to get a better sense of his abilities, but I knew that Mana was precious and had to be conserved.
I was surprised by a sudden grinding noise, as the wooden reinforced door to the cell on my right was raised. Quickly looking back through my window to the arena, I observed a ceremony official with a colorful plumed helmet and a bronze breastplate throwing a gray steel weapon into the center of the arena. A scrawny figure, clad in rags, abruptly darted from the cell to the center of the sand, scooping up the weapon with thin, weak arms as if it were the most precious thing in the world before adopting his best fighting stance. The crowd roared their approval.
The shape on closer inspection was a pitifully poor specimen of a man. His beard and hair were a long and unkempt brown, and his eyes were wild with panic, and fear. He was holding a straight steel or iron short sword with both hands in front of him, arms inexpertly locked and stiff.
Across from him, the armored warrior closed his face helm, concealing his expression from view, and hefted a large shield in his left arm. Holding a curved backsword in his right hand, he executed a few simple flourishes before walking languidly up to his opponent. The crowd's cheers and jeers faded into a distant hum as the warrior closed in on his prey. For every step forward he took, the wild man took back a step as if forced by an invisible aura.
The armored warrior reached the center of the arena and gave a wild ululating battle cry, which was met by a great roar from the crowd as he suddenly charged. The man who was clad in rags broke and panicked, seeking to escape to the arena’s edge. He threw his sword down and tried to clamber up the stanchions. After his second failed attempt, he gave up and retrieved his short sword with shaking hands, his eyes now filled with the look of a cornered animal.
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Clad in heavy armor, the warrior moved closer with fast but sure steps. Sprinting, he aimed a cool, methodical cut at the poor soul in rags, who threw up his sword to block the blow. His effort was in vain as the warrior’s long, curved blade cut a crescent through the air, leaving a red line across the poor man’s chest.
Screaming in pain and shock, the thin man crumpled to his knees, holding his pouring lifeblood through his hands. Methodically, like a gardener plucking weeds, the armored man put an end to his misery with a simple flick of the wrist, cutting across his throat and severing the thread of his life. Turning to the crowd, he raised one closed fist in salute, and another roar of approval erupted. Another of the Children of the Tides had been blooded this day.
Despite the violently surreal scene playing out in front of me, I could not help but briefly wonder how many experience points the victorious warrior had gained from killing his opponent. It was a callous thought, but one that revealed the brutal nature of this place.
As soon as the man fell to the ground, the victor picked up the defeated man’s short sword in his other hand and turned back to his corner, walking through the gates at the far end to the riotous applause of the crowd. On the sands, a group of young boys, between the ages of ten and fifteen, hurriedly dragged the corpse away in preparation for the next bout.
This scene would repeat itself ten more times as the doors to my left and right were opened one by one. Blood was spilled on the sand, and a bitter harvest was reaped. Some prisoners surrendered without a struggle, huddling in their cells, and were butchered like livestock. Others fought with all their might and were cut down in a gruesome display of force.
One desperate soul even tried to outrun his fate, but the mocking jeers of the spectators were little comfort as he met his end like an animal. It was a stark reminder that in this world, as in any other, power was the only currency that truly mattered. The unfairness of it all made my blood boil.
The only way I could prevent myself from devolving into a state of utter panic was to compartmentalize and view the upcoming trial as if it were part of a game. I thought of it as the stage of the main questline, perhaps the end of the tutorial phase, after which I could finally explore the wider world.
As the door to my cell slowly rose with the grinding of gears, an official from above threw a weapon onto the sands. It traced a graceful arc, glittering as it reached its zenith before falling to signal the start of the Blooding. It was a kill-or-be-killed scenario, and it seemed the universe agreed as a new quest notification flashed across my inner vision.
New Quest: Kill Jongshoi and survive the Blooding.