Kenneth stared down at the arena and couldn't keep a wide smirk off his face. Around him, all the other floor five inmates were banging their fists against the glass, cheering.

Kenneth found their enthusiasm infectious, and let out a pleased laugh. He even began clapping and yelling.

"How did this fucker think he was going to beat all of us? He’s struggling in his third fight against some random floor three inmate!" He let out a loud barking laugh. "What a joke."

Jason, who was standing to his right remained silent. He stared out at the arena with arms crossed, and observed the scene below.

Kenneth elbowed his arm and chortled. "But at least this idiot is bringing us the floor rank up reward on a silver platter."

Still staring down, Jason replied dryly, "I think, we shouldn’t be laughing at this."

Kenneth raised an eyebrow as he turned to look at his friend. "What? Why? Are you feeling sympathy for him?"

Jason spoke slowly, "This guy, what he’s doing, or at least trying to do, isn’t something we can do."

"Huh?"

"Have you forgotten where we are? We were put in this prison by Arden. This guy is clearly going against them, and I'm thinking laughing at him, and wanting him to lose, is the wrong thing to do."

Kenneth clicked his tongue and scrunched his nose, clearly displeased with what he was hearing. "What the hell are you talking about? What good would it do us if he won this thing? It wouldn’t change the fact that we still need to play nice with Arden when it comes down to it."

"But, don’t you feel angry?" Jason asked. "Arden put us in here, and yet we’re acting like we are on the same side. Where is our pride? Are we just going to cower before Arden like a bunch of weaklings?"

Kenneth shook his head. "Jason, you sound crazy right now. Forget your pretentious ideals, and live in reality. Who the hell has any say against Arden? They are a mega corporation with power beyond anything we could imagine. What can we, small fries, do against those people?"

Kenneth turned His gaze back down to the arena. "In this world, you either conform to what the strong want, or you die. Rebellion will only get you killed."

***

Blood dripped off the tip of the blade. Owen was wounded. Badly.

A swing came towards him, which he narrowly dodged by leaning his torso out of the way. Another quick slash of the blade, this time nicked his side.

Blood flowed easily through the clothes, and Owen stumbled back. He squinted his eyes, and willed himself to focus.

The man grinned menacingly and slowly paced forward. Owen was struggling to follow his movements, the blood loss and the dizziness was getting worse.

He gritted his teeth. This guy wasn’t even that good. On any other normal day, this entire fight wouldn’t even last a few seconds, but here he was struggling.

"Man, people thought you were going to blast through the floor three inmates. But why are you struggling so much here?" The lanky man taunted, enjoying the spectacle.

Owen ignored him, and instead focused on circling essence throughout his body. He had to play defensively and keep his wounds from becoming worse.

Three fast consecutive swings flashed through the air, the blade flying towards his body. All Owen could do was shield against them with his good arm. A barrage of cuts were opened up on his left arm, causing blood to squirt and flow down in large amounts.

The lanky man closed in on him again, and Owen tried to throw his right fist to counter. But he winced as his arm couldn’t extend fully. The blade met his extended side, slashing upwards in a quick swing, lacerating his skin.

More blood gushed down and Owen stumbled backwards. His head hung down low, with a line of blood falling from the top of his forehead and down his nose. He struggled to stand tall and firm.

The man stopped a few meters in front of him and flicked his tongue. "Wow, you’re still not down yet?"

Owen stood there silently. He was honestly fighting hard to remain standing. The essence circulating throughout his body was the only thing keeping him upright.

That was until he felt the last wisps of essence leave his soul, completely exhausting him of all his reserves. He almost fell on his face from the sudden lack of strength, but he willed himself to stay standing.

The man’s eyes went wide and lit up. His mouth opened into a mad grin. "I guess I should end this now, huh?"

An orange aura erupted from him, revealing himself to be a time essence user. He outstretched his free hand to the side and conjured another sword.

The man took a step forward, and for the next five minutes, stabbed and slashed. Owen's body kept wilting back, trying to dodge each and every one, as he lacked the ability to block them. Blood poured from where fresh new wounds had opened up.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The white ground became a canvas of red, painting most of the centre of the arena in a deep crimson. The inmates' cheers had died down, and instead were now replaced with gasps, as they watched the violent scene.

As time passed, the man grew increasingly more irritated. His essence ability allowed him to alter the perception of time for himself and any other person. He had slowed down Owen’s perception of time causing him to become extremely slow. Every attack he launched landed on him.

Yet an annoying question rang inside the man's head. So why the hell wasn't this asshole passing out yet? His blood was everywhere.

He momentarily backed away, heaving. Sweat was running down his neck.

He clenched his jaw. "Why the fuck aren’t you on the ground!?" He pointed his sword at him. "Man, the only reason I haven't run my blade through you, is because I’m not sure if I’m allowed to kill you!"

The man turned his head to look up at the viewing box. "Can I fucking kill him?"

He waited a second. No response came.

The man turned his head back to Owen and grinned with wild eyes. "They didn’t say no."

He threw away one of his swords to the ground and clenched the remaining sword tightly with both hands. The man charged forward, yelling furiously.

As he closed in, he thrust his sword forward aiming straight Owen's torso.

The blade went into his stomach, and sunk to the hilt. It buried into his insides and impaled him through the back. The man leaned in close, almost hugging Owen's body. He hadn’t stabbed someone for a long time since he was brought here, and by god did he miss the feeling.

He missed it so much in fact, he didn’t notice the slow and heavy arms wrapping around him. They closed in behind him like a blanket, completely locking him in place.

Owen whispered into the man's ear. "Finally…"

The man felt a chill go down his spine. An uneasy feeling came to him, and he tried to struggle free, but those hands held him firm. Owen surged the essence he had been saving into his arms.

Strength came to him, and he used all of it to squeeze. The man screamed and his body quivered. Bones gave way under Owen's grip, and the screams grew louder.

With desperation, the man pulled out an arm free and conjured a jagged knife. He plunged it down onto Owen's back, the blade piercing his flesh. But Owen didn’t seem to care. Instead, he squeezed even tighter. The crunching and popping of the man's bones increased and tears trailed down the man's cheek.

Then, it was silent. The screams stopped.

The man's unconscious body went limp, and his knives dissolved into thin air. Owen opened up his arms and he sled to the floor. He breathed out a heavy sigh.

Guards rushed into the arena from the entrance to grab the fallen man. Owen meanwhile, was holding onto his stomach where the sword had pierced. His mouth hung open like a zombie and a raspy breath whistled out as he tried to calm himself.

He had lost a lot of blood. Enough that he probably should be dead. So why was he still standing? Was it his willpower? Or his insignia?

Even so, as the buzzer rang out again to signal his next opponent, he knew he had to keep on fighting.

***

As a novice essence user, the recharge time to fully recover one's essence reserves were between one hour and thirty minutes, with that time decreasing when one ranks up.

Owen hoped to find an easy opponent for his next few fights in order to take it easy and recover his essence to at least heal his body. But, the good will of the gauntlet gods didn't favour him.

For the next five hours, one fight after another, the gauntlet did not stop, not allowing Owen a moment of respite. He went through eighty-one more gruelling fights. Though unlike the old woman from earlier, none of these challengers had a powerful insignia like her.

But still, each fight followed a certain pattern. Owen would be assaulted from the very beginning, and he would tank the blows. Then, once he had recovered a minimal amount of essence, a slug match would occur where Owen would slowly but surely overwhelm his opponent.

Fight after fight, opponent after opponent, and with injuries mounting up, Owen did not fall. More than that, an oxymoron was taking place. He was becoming more and more injured, but at the same time he felt himself becoming tougher, stronger and more resilient.

This constant brutal fighting, the pain that he was enduring, it was transforming him. The cuts he had suffered, healed. It took awhile, but they closed up. The arm that he couldn’t extend to its full length, was stronger than it had ever been. Even the leg, which had become useless earlier, was capable of holding him again.

Owen’s current opponent was struggling to fight back. None of his attacks were landing on him, and Owen was dodging, and countering, without exerting too much effort.

Owen ended the fight by throwing a right straight at his opponent's face, nailing him with enough force to lift him off his feet. When the punch made contact, the sound of knuckles burying deep into flesh was heard. A line of spittle exploded out the man's mouth, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

He hit the floor with a thud, as he entered a world of darkness. As the guards rushed in, Owen sat down on the ground, with his legs crossed. His arms were over his knees as he patiently waited for his next opponent.

To the inmates that were watching from up above, what was happening was... unexpected.

The turn around was almost unbelievable. Owen was on death’s door hours before, but now, he was dominating all his foes. What kind of demonic beast was hiding inside of him?

The buzzer sounded once more. A man walked out of the tunnel. He looked afraid and uncertain.

He cautiously moved forward while looking nervously at Owen, before eventually coming to a stop a good distance away.

Upon stopping, he looked into the eyes of Owen. Dead eyes peered back, waiting.

The frightened man whimpered, before finally raising his hand.

"I… forfeit."

It was the first time a floor three inmate had backed out of a fight. Wordlessly, the man turned around and left back into the entrance.

Owen wondered if that would be the first and last time someone would concede to him, and as if to mock him, the next opponent that came out had raised up there hand, the mere second the two of them made eye contact.

And like that, something unexpected happened. Three, then five, then ten, and soon after thirteen straight forfeits followed that first one.

No one wanted to fight him.

Owen had stayed sitting on the ground throughout it all, recovering and conserving his energy. Eventually, Mayers voice was broadcasted into the arena. It was exasperated and annoyed, while it echoed from the speakers.

"You have somehow managed to beat all the floor three inmates. Congrats. Therefore, we will be moving on now to the floor four inmates."

Owen’s eyes widened. He was finally through with all the floor three opponents.

The buzzer sounded, indicating the start of a new round, the one hundredth and eighty seventh. A young woman probably in her late twenties, walked in. She was at an average height and her physique was athletic. Her blonde hair was tucked behind her ears, and she walked towards Owen with measured steps.

After a few seconds she gave an extravagant bow, her hair flowing through the air as her upper body lowered. When she rose back up, a smile adorned her face. "Let me congratulate you on making it this far. I am Joyce Alford, your first opponent from the fourth floor. Now, let us have a grand bout."

Owen remained silent and pushed himself off the floor. He raised up his fists and steadied his stance. With practiced breathing he readied himself.