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***The kid***

I was cleaning the stands of the arena with the other slaves.

The sun was coming up, and soon the arena would be filled with people. Fortunately, there were many of us working on it, so it wasn’t too hard if everyone did their part — and everyone did since the supervisor was there.

I will have to get used to it, I thought while moving my tired body.

I had been sold to the manager of the arena only recently, and the work turned out to be bearable, most of the time, but it became really challenging on the days when the events were held. Everything had to be perfectly cleaned, refreshments had to be prepared, and we had to be ready to cater to the spectators at every moment.

Most of those who came to watch were nobles or rich people, after all.

After we finished, I dragged my already tired body to the kitchens to help the slaves assigned to cooking, since people were already coming in.

I was carrying a container full of food ingredients, my arms trembling from the weight, when I bumped into another slave. The container slipped from my hands, hitting the ground with a clang, scattering the vegetables around.

There was a momentary pause around me, but the other slaves soon resumed doing their jobs as if nothing happened, avoiding the scattered food. I hurriedly tried to gather them, but soon the shadow of the supervisor was on me. I shot up saying, “I’m so—”

A slap on my cheek sent me back to the ground before I could finish, leaving me disoriented. I could feel the blood in my mouth, but I didn’t make a sound — if I cried, he would hit me again.

“I don’t give a shit bout your apologies. Pick them up and wash them,” he said, icily. “There better not be a next time, or you won’t get away with just a slap.”

I started gathering them as fast as I could before he could hit me again.

Everyone kept working in silence, already used to such scenes — I was too. I even felt lucky I still didn’t have a Class since I didn't have to bear with the pain of the Slave Contract, though I also couldn’t wait to get one — no one with a Class ever made such stupid mistakes.

The day proceeded as usual, and I did my best not to cause any other incident, while my body felt heavier and heavier.

It was also a blessing somehow that I could work in the arena, since most of the time the work wasn't as demanding. And I would also never be able to see the gladiator’s fights otherwise.

I really envy them, I thought as I peeked at their fights during those few moments I could catch a breath.

They were strong, valued, and had a much better chance at freedom than me. The stronger ones, as I heard, were former soldiers who came for the pay, or the rare Noble who fought for glory, but there were also many slaves who fought valiantly. I really enjoyed it when they threw fire, or when their blow made the ground blow up. It made me uneasy when they got wounded badly or died, but they often admitted defeat when they saw they were outmatched and, usually, losers were spared, so not many of them lost their lives.

There was one fight I always found scary, though.

It was when the one they called “The Godless” or “The Heathen” fought; he was a big and burly gladiator, full of scars of every kind all over his body.

He, as I heard, refused to take a Class. I couldn’t understand the first time I heard that, I thought they were joking, or that I misunderstood something, but he really was without a Class.

Why would he refuse a Class? It made you powerful, I thought at first. No sane man would, especially those who fought with their life on the line.

But then I understood after I saw the first fight. He just didn't need it.

Most of the gladiators tried to keep him at a distance, unsuccessfully, but there were some that were strong enough to fight against him in close combat. When that happened, the fighting got so bloody it made me sick. The spectators loved that.

Nobles are crazy, I thought back to their reactions.

They didn’t like him, but they loved his battles. Especially, the bloody ones. They screamed themselves hoarse, and they looked out of their minds.

This time too his opponent kept swinging his sword, as slashes kept appearing on the ground from the invisible wind blades, trying, fruitlessly, to hit him. The blades moved so fast that only an instant passed from the swing to when I saw the scar in the ground, but he weaved through them, moving as soon as the man slashed with his sword — it looked like he was dancing, and he made it seem effortless.

He's going to win this time too. Everyone probably thought the same. To me, that looked like a predator closing in on his prey, ready to finish it off — it was inevitable. As always, I couldn't help a chill creeping up my back when I imagined myself in the place of his opponent, seeing him coming ever closer, knowing he wouldn't show mercy.

I’ve not been an arena slave for long, but I never saw him lose. He couldn’t lose. They didn’t speak of defeat when they talked about him, they wanted to see who would kill him. That may have been the reason why he was so fierce. He only went for the kill, and only stopped if the opponent was unconscious or completely unable to move.

It wasn't rare to see body parts scattered when he fought; rarely, some were his, too.

In one of the matches, I saw him willingly getting stabbed through the chest by a sword in order to kill the opponent.

A few minutes later, as I thought, he won by stabbing the opponent's throat. He should have conceded, when he lost his hand, instead of retaliating, but he was ordered not to stop until "the godless beast" was dead; one couldn't go against orders when under the slave contract.

The Heathen didn't show mercy.

I knew he couldn't, and I admired his strength, but he also scared me so much.

That's also why, months later, when they told me I had to bring him food, alone, in the empty dungeon, I was terrified.

Unfortunately, slaves couldn't refuse, so I reluctantly took the tray they gave me and walked down to the entrance. When I reached it, the guard gave me a torch and opened the door.

“We moved him to the back since he was getting too damn loud,” he said, before closing the door behind me.

I started walking, as my heart drummed like crazy in my chest. The dungeon was dark, silent, and eerie... so eerie. My footsteps resonated in the silence. I could hear the faint sounds of water running down the canals on the walls, and I smelled a faint, lingering scent of sweat and blood in the air. The torch didn’t make enough light for me to see more than a few meters in front of me, making it impossible to see the back of the cells I was passing by. It felt like someone was watching me, just beyond the light.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

No one is here, I kept thinking to myself, like a mantra. The only one is the gladiator, and he’s in a cell.

It was not working, all the terrifying stories they told about heathens came to mind, about their evil rituals and sacrifices. I knew I was safe, and I knew that he didn't worship evil gods, but my mind was going away on its own.

Still, I forced myself to keep moving. I didn’t want to be punished later.

I walked, trying to keep the tray balanced with one hand, until I reached the end of the corridor. And then I saw him just at the edge of the light.

He was even scarier up close, and he was glaring at me while shadows danced on his scarred face.

I was petrified.

“Finally here,” he said in a grating voice, as he stood up suddenly.

That made me jump, and I lost balance of the tray, sending all the food on the ground in front of his cell.

“Hey!” He shouted, dashing to the bars.

I ran away.

I don’t think I ever ran so fast in my life, only a long-ingrained habit prevented me from screaming my lungs out.

Reaching the door, breathless, I banged on it. When the guard opened, I gave him the torch and ran away before he could ask anything, finding a spot to calm down.

I knew I had been irrational, but it was so scary, so, so scary.

And now I was even more scared of going there the next day.

He must be furious.

Fortunately, staying outside in the light, with people around, helped me calm down quickly, and I resumed my work before I got scolded. I was still apprehensive about returning down there, though.

The next day, the closer the time came to enter the dungeon, the worse I felt. I was perhaps even more scared than the previous day when I found myself in front of the dungeon door. The guard didn’t say anything; he just opened the door. I wasn't even sure he was the same guard, since the helmet covered his face.

Come on, I thought, trying to give myself courage, Nothing happened yesterday, and even if he’s angry he won’t be able to do anything. He’s behind the bars. You can just jump away if he comes close.

This time too, my self-encouragement didn’t work so well, but, regardless of my fear, I continued.

Surprisingly, when I reached his cell, he neither spoke nor moved. He just looked at me and closed his eyes again.

I didn’t linger, and put down the tray with the food, taking away the one he had already cleaned.

Did he wash it with water? I found it surprisingly nice for some reason, but not enough to make me stay a second longer.

He didn’t speak even the day after. Or the day after that.

I started feeling more at ease. It turns out that you can get used to even the scariest places with time — it helped that nothing dangerous was really there.

He seemed to notice that too, because a few weeks later he greeted me... after I put the food down. It was good that he waited because I jumped a little and I may have dropped something. I was so used to him being silent by now that it took me by surprise.

I wasn’t as scared as the first time, so I was able to croak out a timid, “H-hello…” before taking the food away.

We gradually exchanged a few more words the following days, though he was always the one speaking, with me giving a few short responses. I also couldn’t linger too much, since I had work to attend to. It’s been more than a few months since the last event in the arena and the manager also sold a lot of slaves, so the few of us that remained had a lot of work to do, even without an event coming — we still had to maintain it after all.

“Hey kid,” he started one day in a, I think, chipper tone, “I’ve got a quick question if you don’t mind.”

I’ll never get used to his voice — it gave me the impression of two rough stones grinding together — but I thought that he was looking happier than before when seeing me lately. It was probably solitude. I think I would have gone mad in a few days if I had to stay in perpetual darkness and silence most of my time. I felt sorry for him.

“Yes?” I said, waiting for his words.

“Ahh, you should work on your responses,” he said, shaking his head. “Anyway, I’m feeling hungry. Like, really, really, hungry. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not getting half of what you’ve been bringing me in the beginning, and that was already less than what I was having before.”

He kept squinting as he looked at me. I had thought he was glaring at me when I saw him for the first time, but later I realized it was just the light of the torch hurting his eyes.

“I mean, look at what you’ve brought me today,” he kept saying, pointing at the tray I just put down, “It's just two small loaves of bread, a soup with not so much meat inside, and an apple. That’s the food for a whole day.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had noticed, but I didn't know the reason. My meals were less than that, but I was used to it. He was also much bigger than me. He must be starving.

“I have even had to stop exercising lately,” he kept going. “Well, it’s not like I could do much here anyway, but at least I tried to break a sweat. Now I feel like dying if I move too much.”

He sighed. “So, do you know when they'll take me out, or where my lanista disappeared to? I'm starting to think they want to starve me down here.”

I could only shake my head. My task was to bring the food they prepared, and I didn't ask questions.

“Eh…” he said. He fell silent after that.

He still kept his cheerful tone when he saw me, but the food kept dwindling, and he often asked me if I knew why. I noticed a decrease in the food of the other slaves too, and when I asked them they told me they didn’t know. I didn’t eat much to begin with, so even when they divided the food, mine was still mostly the same quantity and didn’t affect me much. The mood of the other slaves wasn’t the best though, and, since I wasn’t on friendly terms with any of them, I didn't have the courage to ask more food for him.

He kept asking me, and I could only repeat that I didn’t know.

He must have been desperate.

I felt bad every time, but until food still came in for the slaves, I was sure that some would still get to him, so I didn't worry he would starve to death at least.

One day, though, I took too much time to complete a job I was assigned to, since the other slave I worked with was recently sold. Most of the work now was neglected or outright abandoned, but still, some places needed to be kept clean in case the manager or other important people came suddenly. Those were checked by the supervisor, so they had to be perfect.

There was a curfew for the slaves, and we were punished if we weren’t in our room by that time.

They must have already brought him the food when they didn’t see me coming, I thought naively that day, when I heard the sound of the clock. There wasn't enough time to go to the kitchen and the dungeon, so I could only give up.

The next evening, though, when I went to take the tray, the slave in charge of our food proved my thoughts wrong.

“Oh, you’re here," he said, when he saw me enter. "Too bad, I thought I’d have an extra meal today too.”

“What?” I asked dumbfounded.

“Oh, you didn’t show up, and nobody took it, so Marv and I ate it before going to bed. The supervisor is mostly absent too from the kitchen lately, so it wasn’t a problem,” he said. Then, giving me a wink, “Don’t tell the other guys tough.”

“But what about his meal? He—” I tried to say before he interrupted me with a snort.

“He’s lazing around in a cell all day, he doesn’t need too much food. Besides, all the gladiators were always strutting around acting all important — it will do him good to remember he’s a slave too.” He was smirking as he said that.

“Now that I think about it, he doesn’t need this apple,” he said, taking it before I could stop him.

I was about to say something, when he told me with a glare, “Secret, okay?”

The words died in my throat. I nodded and walked away with the remaining food.

I had never felt so guilty in my life, but I was too scared to refuse.

I hated to be so weak. I hated not having the courage to speak up. I hated this place. I hated the other slaves.

Sometimes I felt like I hated the whole world.

As I walked down the familiar dark dungeon, I wondered what he would say. I was sure he was angry that I didn’t show up the day before.

When I reached his cell, he was waiting sitting on the wall, squinting at me. I wasn’t sure if he was glaring or if it was just the light of the torch.

I cautiously put the food down, and then he spoke, “Hey kid! How're you doin’?”

The same cheerful tone as always. It didn’t seem like he was angry at me.

“Fine,” I murmured.

“Aaand. I’m telling you. Be more cheerful! How about you stay chatting with me a bit today? By the way, I’m sorry I pestered you about the food the other days — I’m really, really, sorry. You don’t have to worry, you can come even if you have just a piece of bread, you know, I won’t say anything anymore. You can come even if you don’t have anything, just chatting a bit is fine,” he rattled off, without taking a breath, “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, just nodding is fine for me, though you should really try to speak up more.”

It was a cheerful tone, giving voice to desperate words.

“Anyway, I'm sorry, about the other days. Can you stay a bit more today?” he asked, hopeful.

“Sorry, I can’t,” was the only thing I could say before walking away.

I hated myself so much.

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