Months have passed, an almost the entire year went by since his first fight. Since the first life has been taken.

Sitting near the training grounds the grains of sand were falling through the fingers of the brown-haired boy, finding its way back to its brothers on the small hill between his legs. Raijens hands were that of a stranger, rough, calloused and full of blood. Covered so thickly with the liquid life, they could never be washed properly again, even with all the water in the ocean if there was one.

And apparently, there is only the mist. The purple fucking mist, bringing the world to the state in which it is now. Making people slaves to the wonders around the edge of the world which nobody even understands.

Raijen was angry, yet his anger seldom influenced him in the peaceful moments outside of the pits.

Since that day, when he entered the pits for the first time, Raijen counted each body, but eventually, they become too numerous to count. The pile of bodies he left behind was the testament to the savagery of the men and greed of the masters.

Yet he found it strangely comforting. There wasn’t anything else left, any other moment in his memory when he felt more alive then facing another fighter. He felt intoxicated with what he accomplished over a short time in the Atraga house. Knowing the end is just one step away, one misstep for the blade to penetrate the flesh. Yet it became so far, he just had to convince the other men to take the easy road.

I’m helping them to find the comfort and resolution in their sorry lives. Their choices are limited, to continue fighting and suffering at the leash of the masters continuously or escape to the better place. Kremmel forgot about them, they won’t get the reward for their struggle, and I doubt their gods even exist.

Raijen never believed in the gods, he always thought if anything then reincarnation made the most sense, conservation of energy in a way, with the reset of memories at the end of the road. He just never imagined he would be the one where the mistake was made.

If they do exist though, Nahr might take better care of them once they fell by the sword. Some need more convincing than others, but ultimately all of them decide to end the suffering, and I’m the men at the gate, opening it for them and letting them find the peace.

They can live with the fear of the ever-approaching death and pain, or I can help them let go and find peace in death. Finding the Lady at the end of the road, about which we all dream in the rare cases of peaceful nights.

Raijen could hear the steps approaching. It was hard to imagine he would find someone akin to a friend in this place blessed by Namira and forsaken by all others.

Today is no different, in a few hours another one would face me, looking for a release, and it is my suffering and duty to deliver him safely to the other side.

“So today you fight the champion.”

Looking up Janus was standing there, one of the guys who survived long enough to gain some sort of respect and recognition from master and other slaves.

We might be calling ourselves fighters or warriors, but in the end, we are just slaves, enslaved in order to entertain others. There is no glory or pride in being the slave, but in the illusion of freedom of the pits or arena is all the fame in the world.

There is no higher status, that slaves like us can attain. So nobody cares about it is just a lie, we tell it to ourselves and after enough time we start believing it as well.

“I heard, when you become the champion, you can choose to move to the arena, or remain in the pits.”

Sitting next to Raijen, Janus put his hands on his knees, position Raijen recognized as one for the meditation.

“Guess there isn’t much doubt in where you want to go after this.”

“You sound like it is clear that I will win.”

Grin spread on Raijens face without control. There weren’t that many guys who knew how to massage one's ego and improve self-esteem and even less of them who went out of their way to do it for others. It was one of the reasons why everyone liked him and it was Januss way of surviving.

Scratching people's asses was always a way how to go about it here I guess.

Raijen didn’t like the men, the way he decided to live his life, but he was unable to bring himself to hate him. As his way of surviving was spilling other people's blood over the sand for the pleasure of others and attaining his own goals.

Looking at Raijen with raised brows he frowned.

“Sounds like you doubt yourself. You didn't lose a fight in the last ten months, if you lose now, you will die. Seems like you have added some more of them recently.”

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Pointing to Raijens tattoos he started to look at them more carefully. Janus was always fascinated with the shapes, never fully understanding what they mean, but never giving up the game of finding out their meaning.

“I think I figured it out this time. They are not from your old house of chains, or clan from which you came. They don’t remind you of your family or lost ones. And I know you don’t believe in gods even when you speak their names. But, they look kind of nice, they are just for intimidation, to make you look better in the pits.”

Rising his brows expectantly Janus stared at Raijen almost without blinking.

Raising his hand Raijen focused on the first rune he engraved into his palm years ago in his training as Vulture. The first time was the worst, by cutting the flesh and scarring the skin repeatedly, the skin stopped healing eventually. Learning how deep he could cut so the hand wouldn’t be useless in the following fights and making the scar permanent was one bloody adventure he didn’t want to think about again.

Since the day he found that the runes didn’t just glow, but they had some benefits to them as well he started to put them on his weapons, shields, armor, and skin. It took a long time to gauge the difference, but certain patterns and colors gave him an advantage.

Blood and pain in exchange for an edge that one might not even notice. Or has to kill dozens of innocent in order to figure it out.

At some point, when offered, he asked for a reward, the materials for making tattoos. Going all out on his arms, shoulders and with some help even on his shoulder blades on the back. Thought after a certain number, there seemed to be a limit to how much he could power himself.

His body was stronger, lifting weights he wasn’t supposed to lift, usually, nobody could tell the difference. All thought he was just extraordinarily talented or gifted with a strong body. Only years of weight training and scarce memories of muscle functions from the old world allowed him to know when he was breaking the limits of his muscles.

When his recovery became much faster, scarily so, allowing him to overtrain, again and again, only to wake up in the morning with just a residue soreness in his muscles, Raijen took full advantage of it. Spending every waking hour lifting bags of sand, stones, and wooden poles. Running hundreds of kilometers and sprinting thousands of times from one side of the compound to the other.

Other fighters tried to copy his style, following his steps. A small smile appeared on Raijens lips at the memory of men running with him only to give up after a couple of weeks.

His skin became harder to pierce, and he took less damage on impact. Even his reaction speed increased slightly.

The strangest thing was that no one could see them glow, only him. And the more he trained the darker the glow got, different symbols emanated different colors. The green, yellow, orange and blue mists were emanating further and further from his body, mixing and creating whirl around his hands and shoulders making him look ethereal.

Raijen was glad that the color lights only gloved when his body was under the massive strain of the training or when wielding the steel in the rings of rope. Otherwise, they were translucent with a softly colored mist coming off of them.

As gaining too much power too fast would draw attention that he couldn't afford and because seventeen-year-old boy slaughtering his way through the pits undefeated already put a target big enough on his back to make everyone eager to rip his head off with their bare hands.

Raijen forced himself into the grueling regiment of lifting weights, running, hitting targets and weapon practice with older slaves. He was doing things his mind remembered from the old memories, that no one else seemed to do. But the difference was clear, gaining weight and strength at the rate that even he didn’t expect.

Now he was almost ninety kilos of muscle mass. Hitting growing streak around seventeen years in this body he was well on his way to one ninety centimeters by his estimation.

No idea who my father was, but I’m kind of thankful for the genes.

“It is something one of the girls shoved me in the place I have grown up. Apparently, they represent different aspects of life.”

Looking unconvinced Janus watched him skeptically.

“And they are kind of cool.”

Laughing Raijen patted him on the shoulder.

Shaking his head Janus looked on the training grounds, finding his next target.

“Don’t die today Raijen, would be a shame to see your corpse on the pile with the first-timers.”

Getting up he left Raijen alone.

The fate of defeated, your first time or your hundredth time, doesn’t matter. You end up in the same place, forgotten on the pile of carcasses.