The magician’s words hung in the air like a death sentence. My mind reeled. Four more days of this? The thought alone made my stomach churn. How could anyone endure this? My legs felt weak beneath me, but I forced myself to stay upright, not wanting to show even a hint of the fear clawing at my insides.
The man stared at me with those cold, calculating eyes, as if weighing my worth. "Your hesitation today will cost you if it happens again. Learn from it. Or don't. It makes no difference to me." He turned and left without waiting for a response, leaving me alone in the silent, bloodless arena.
I sank to my knees, my breath shallow and unsteady. I had won—if you could even call it that—but I didn’t feel victorious. My opponent’s face, her pleading voice, her final, terrified moments, were all burned into my mind. And then the way her life was erased, discarded like garbage.
They didn’t just want us to fight. They wanted us to become monsters.
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The next four days passed in a blur of terror and bloodshed. Each morning, I was marched to the arena. Each day, a new opponent awaited me, their faces different but always bearing the same haunted determination to survive.
I quickly learned the truth of the magician's words: hesitation would get me killed. My opponents didn’t hold back, and I couldn’t afford to either. The more I fought, the more my instincts took over. My magic flowed faster, sharper. My spells grew stronger. I didn’t have the luxury of guilt or regret—not in the moment. It was only later, in the quiet of my cell, that the weight of my actions would crash down on me, leaving me sobbing until exhaustion claimed me.
By the fourth fight, something inside me had shifted. My fear didn’t vanish—it couldn’t—but it had been pushed down, buried under a hardened layer of survival instinct. My opponents grew stronger, more ruthless, but I forced myself to be stronger still.
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On the fifth day, the supervising magician greeted me with a faint smirk as I stood in the arena once again, bruised and battered but still alive. "You've proven yourself capable, Number 247," he said. For the first time, his tone held a sliver of respect—or perhaps it was just acknowledgment.
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I didn’t respond. I kept my expression neutral, my hands clenched at my sides.
"As promised," he continued, "you’ve earned the right to a magical teacher. From now on, you’ll receive formal instruction, alongside… practical training." He gestured toward the far end of the room, where a new door stood open.
A tall woman stepped through, her presence commanding. Her sharp, emerald eyes swept over me with an appraising look, and her lips curled into a cold smile. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had seen countless battles and come out victorious every time.
"I’m Instructor Vela," she said, her voice smooth but firm. "You’ve survived the trials, which means you have potential. My job is to turn that potential into power."
Her words sent a chill down my spine. Potential. Power. Here, they weren’t just abstract concepts—they were the difference between life and death.
Vela stepped closer, stopping just a foot away from me. "I won’t coddle you, and I won’t tolerate weakness. If you want to live, you’ll do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"
I nodded, though my throat felt too dry to speak.
"Good." She turned on her heel, already heading toward the door she had entered through. "Follow me."
I hesitated for only a moment before forcing my legs to move. I glanced back at the magician, who watched with a faint, knowing smile. Then I followed Vela through the door, leaving the arena—and the nightmares it held—behind me.
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Over the next few weeks, Vela pushed me to my limits and beyond. Her lessons were brutal, designed to strip away any remaining softness in me. She drilled me in advanced spellcasting, combat strategies, and survival techniques. Every mistake was met with harsh criticism, but every success brought a glimmer of approval in her otherwise cold demeanor.
But even as I improved, I couldn’t forget what this place was. I couldn’t forget the girl I had fought on the first day, or the countless others whose lives had been snuffed out in these halls.
I had survived this far, but at what cost? What was I becoming?
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One night, as I sat alone in my cell, staring at the pale, unyielding walls, I felt the weight of it all pressing down on me. The faces of my opponents, the screams, the blood—all of it haunted me. My hands trembled as I clenched them into fists.
I wasn’t just fighting to survive anymore. I was fighting to hold onto the last pieces of who I used to be, to keep the flicker of humanity inside me alive.
Because if I didn’t… I knew this place would destroy me.