Sixth of the Seventh
An hour before the sunrise, all within the slave chambers were already up and about. As slaves which had spent many years being trained to become elite soldiers, they naturally were taught discipline long ago. Arren was among his fellow slaves, moving to the showers for a quick drenching of water.
Before long he arrived at the shower area, they were the five rooms located opposite to the entrance door within each level of the underground tower. He joined the line, spotting a few familiar faces among the crowd.
He chose the fourth line and coincidently to his right was none other than his close friend Walker 247. The two noticed each other at the same time however their reactions could not be more different. While Walker 247’s face paled, Arren's own donned a wide, toothy, smile.
“Walker 247, I hear today is a combat focus day! Just my luck! Don’t worry though, should fate decide to make you my opponent then I’ll be sure to hold back. Hmm how about only shattering your teeth but letting your jaw stay in place?”
Arren said earnestly, reveling in the other party’s visible fear.
“Damn you! Everyday I pray that this stage’s end approaches quicker, that way I can finally witness a savage dog be put down!”
His words remained ineffective against Arren.
“Walker 247, you seem to have forgotten, if I’m put down then it will only be a moment before you join me. Doesn’t that sound great? Returning to the sand together!”
As the two spat hateful words at each other, none around them bothered to interject. However the small commotion they were causing was interrupted when the increasingly growing lines suddenly began to move.
At this point Arren turned his head to see what was happening. It was not long before he saw three figures walking leisurely towards the showers. As they cut past the line, none of the other slaves dared to stop them. After all, all three were part of the 10 Swords.
They were the kings of this generation, and standing at the peak naturally came with some unspoken privileges.
The first of the three figures was a man with brown eyes, and short brown hair. Unlike the rest, he did not wear his gray shirt uniform and walked with his pants alone. His body was wide and filled with muscles which appeared as hard as rocks. He wore an aloof expression, almost appearing perpetually mad. He was the Seventh Sword, nicknamed: The Stone Golem.
The second figure was far more lean yet his sturdy body had been tested many times over within the past years and none would dare underestimate him just because of his lacking appearance. He walked with confidence, his blue eyes never bothering to turn to anyone. This was the Third Sword, nicknamed: The Unbreakable Twig.
Lastly was the figure which stood the tallest, he possessed black eyes and fiery red hair. He had a lean, muscular body, walking confidently without a care in the world. Of the three he appeared the least threatening, however none here were ignorant of his strength. After all he was the First Sword, the strongest of their generation and nicknamed: The Dual Wielder.
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The Seventh Sword and Third Sword walked forth to the showers without delay, however to everyone’s discomfort, the First Sword suddenly halted half way. His black eyes then turned towards the fourth line, landing directly upon Arren.
Arren immediately turned tense, however his outward expression remained indifferent to the First Sword’s stare. A smile then etched its way onto the tall youth’s face and he began making his way towards Arren.
Everyone watched this unfold, eager to see what would occur. None here were ignorant of the history these two shared.
“Walker 248, I see that your luck with magic has remained poor even now. Best hurry and fix your foundation or death is all that awaits you.”
The First Sword said, his tone friendly yet sharp like a blade. Arren met his dark eyes then answered nonchalantly.
“Venerable First Sword, thank you for your considerate advice. I shall take it to heart.”
The First Sword’s eyebrow raised, and a moment after he could not help but burst into laughter.
“Venerable? Shall? Hah-hah, since when has the ferocious tiger of the second stage turned so tame? Even bothering to speak properly towards his old prey!”
His laughter rang across the silent chamber, sounding maniacal to all which it reached. Eventually he ceased and his polite demeanor shifted into a serious, almost contemplative one.
“What a pity. Back then the rank of First Sword appeared unreachable with you as its holder. Just how many times did I fall short of you? And now…”
His dark eyes examined Arren’s figure from head to toe, a frown slowly forming on his brows.
“And now you stand here so pathetically as nothing more than a fallen rival.”
Saying nothing more, he turned and continued down to the fourth shower. Arren was left with nothing to say. He watched the fleeting figures back, his heart a whirlpool of emotions. Back within the second stage, Arren’s talent for combat was laid bare for all within his generation to witness. The current First Sword was the Second Sword then, and the two often fought tooth and nail for the right to stand at the peak of the stage.
However, when the third stage began, the Second Sword’s talent had not faded, while his own lack of more was exposed. It was not long after that a new First Sword arose, a consequence of their final duel together and one which ended with the last stage’s undisputed king as a pitiful sight, crawling upon the sand.
The First Sword had not accepted Arren's ineptitude then, yelling vigorously for him to rise and face him once more. But the truth was not what either of them wished. In the end, Arren fell from the top, leaving behind a bitter conclusion to a long rivalry.
*****
After they were done cleansing themselves they returned to their respective rooms, standing like statues before it. Not long after, a heavy door squealed and it was pushed upon by two guards dressed in rust colored armor and hosting a maroon sash around their waists.
Behind them were a plethora of women dressed in gray robes, each holding a plate at hand. Some sort of orange liquid moved within the plates, black meat protruded from the orange substance occasionally as they walked.
In practiced synergy they made way to each slave, handing them a plate. The slaves bowed respectfully to the caretakers, not daring to disrespect them within the gazes of the many guards which had walked forth. A ten minute period of silence passed, each slave taking the small moment to enjoy the meal bestowed upon them.
Among them, Arren found his meal to be especially delightful. That was only natural, for today his mood had yet to fall. Alas his bliss was not meant to be eternal like the heavens. Soon he finished his meal and each slave readied themselves for the day to come.
Less than an hour later everyone was once again within the expanse of the grand arena. Far upon its spectator seats were the many Record Keepers, watching each of their actions with keen eyes. At the ground floor, the slaves entered a familiar routine.
Back within the second stage they had done these series of combat exercises many times. In truth it mattered little when all was said and done. The reason was because if one did not possess the skill already, then a single day was not enough to shield them from the trial to come.
Just as expected, when the time turned noon, the Record Keepers stood from their seats and began their journey down. The time for combat was here.