The Summons
Early the next morning, the prison stirred awake with the thunderous footsteps of approaching guards. The iron gates creaked open, and a deep voice rang through the dimly lit chamber.
"All five of King Greg's wives have returned."
Murmurs spread among the prisoners—confusion, curiosity, and unease flashing across their weary faces.
But no one reacted more than one man.
Aron.
The last champion of the arena.
His head snapped up, muscles tensing like a coiled spring. For a moment, he remained still, processing the words.
Then, without hesitation, he pushed himself to his feet and stormed toward the exit.
The guards barely spared him a glance as he shoved past them, his steps heavy against the stone floors.
He knew exactly where to go.
The throne room.
The King's Trap
When Aron arrived, King Greg was already waiting.
Draped in opulent silks and golden ornaments, Greg lounged on his throne, a goblet of wine in hand. A smirk played on his lips as he watched Aron approach.
"Well, well." Greg swirled his drink lazily. "Look who finally decided to show himself."
Aron didn't slow.
His eyes locked onto Greg, rage boiling beneath his skin.
Then—he lunged.
Greg didn't move.
Two figures King Greg's Wives forward.
Isolde—a former knight with unmatched swordsmanship—moved like a phantom, steel flashing as she intercepted him.
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Amara—a brutal brawler—swung low, her fist slamming into Aron's gut like a battering ram.
Aron's breath ripped from his lungs, pain exploding through his ribs.
Before he could recover, his arms were wrenched back, thick ropes binding his wrists together.
By the time he gasped for breath, Greg was already laughing.
Aron's fists clenched, but the ropes held firm.
"Where are they?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Greg chuckled, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment.
"You mean your wives?" He took a sip of wine before setting the goblet down. "They're right where I left them. In the dungeons."
Aron's jaw tightened. "You promised me a wish. I wished for them. They belong to me."
Greg leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand, his grin widening.
"Ah, but you never wished for wealth. Never asked for land, food, or power. You only wanted five women. Tell me, Aron—how do you plan to feed them? Where will you shelter them?"
His eyes glinted with cruel amusement.
"Did you think I'd provide for them?"
The words struck like a blade to the gut.
Aron took a step forward, his hands twitching toward his bound wrists, frustration boiling inside him.
The guards tensed, hands on their hilts.
Greg simply raised a hand. The room fell silent.
Then, with a slow, calculated smirk, he spoke.
"I'll give you one more chance."
Aron's breathing was heavy, controlled only by sheer will.
"What do you mean?"
Greg leaned back, feigning boredom.
"Win the arena again. And I'll grant you a second wish." His smirk widened. "This time, perhaps you'll make a smarter choice."
The amusement in his voice was infuriating.
"Choose wealth. Choose land. Choose something that will keep your precious wives from starving."
Aron's body trembled with rage, his nails digging into his palms.
He had no choice.
He knew that.
Greg knew that.
This was never about granting wishes.
It was about control.
And then—
"One more thing," Greg added, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "You will fight under a mask. No one will know your face until the end."
Aron's breath caught.
Of course.
The king wasn't just forcing him to fight.
He was erasing him.
Stripping away the champion's identity.
Making sure that when Aron stepped into that arena again, no one would chant his name.
No one would know his story.
Just another nameless gladiator, destined to kill and bleed for the crowd's entertainment.
Aron swallowed hard, his jaw locking.
He knew the game the king was playing.
And he had no choice but to play along.