The cold steel of the handcuffs bit into August’s wrists as the soldiers marched him through the compound, his mind racing. He had barely enough time to process what had just happened before they seized him. The commander’s words echoed in his ears: “That system on your wrist? It’s a potential threat.”
As he walked, his thoughts swirled in a haze of confusion and dread. The system had guided him, kept him alive, but now it was a target. The weight of the wristband felt heavier than ever, the small interface flickering occasionally with the map of the area, a reminder of the power and danger it carried.
Behind him, Jude and Cara were kept at a distance, their faces showing a mix of concern and helplessness. Jude, with his injured leg, limped along, his eyes locked onto August with a silent promise: We’ll get through this. Cara’s hand, though not broken, shook slightly as she reached out to touch August’s shoulder, her fingers trembling. She had seen the way the commander looked at him—the suspicion, the threat—and she could feel the impending storm gathering.
The path they were on led them to the heart of the Coliseum. As they crossed the threshold into the arena, August couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the outside world and what lay within these walls. The arena had once been a symbol of entertainment, of competition, a place where men and beasts fought for glory. Now, it was a place of survival and fear—a brutal test of strength and will.
The guards led him into a holding cell, where other prisoners were already being held, each of them battered and bruised. There were no comforting voices, no light-hearted banter among them. Just empty eyes, hollow stares. They were all waiting for something, and August knew it wasn’t a rescue.
“I wouldn’t bother trying to escape,” a voice said, low and gravely, from the corner of the cell. August turned to see a man sitting on the concrete floor, his face covered with a scruffy beard and his clothes torn to shreds. His eyes were dark and haunted, but there was a certain calm to him.
“Why?” August asked, his voice quiet but steady. He wasn’t sure whether the man was trying to comfort him or warn him.
“Because if you’re in here, you’re gonna fight,” the man said, his voice laced with bitterness. “This isn’t a shelter. This is the arena. You’re nothing but entertainment to them.”
Just as August was about to ask for more details, the door to the holding cell swung open. One of the soldiers stepped in, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and his eyes fixed firmly on August.
“You’re up,” the soldier said.
August’s heart skipped a beat. “Up? For what?”
“You’ll see,” the soldier replied, turning on his heel and walking back out.
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving August with his racing thoughts and rising panic. What had he gotten himself into? Was this the commander’s way of testing him? But why? And what did he have to prove?
A moment later, the loud blare of a horn sounded, echoing through the entire compound. August’s pulse quickened, and a shiver ran down his spine. The sound was like the starting signal of some horrific game. He had to fight. But he didn’t know who—or what—he would be up against.
Jude and Cara were standing at the edge of the holding pen, watching through the bars as August was ushered into a narrow corridor leading to the arena. Jude called out, his voice filled with desperation, but the guards were too quick, too precise in their movements. They didn’t let August turn back.
“Stay safe,” Cara shouted, her voice barely audible above the din of the horn. “We’ll find a way to get you out!”
August didn’t have time to respond. He was led into the open space of the arena, where the ground was hard and cracked. The Coliseum had once been a place of grandeur, but now it felt like a tomb, the walls towering above him like a cage.
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The crowd roared in the stands, and August could barely see their faces—just dark silhouettes, all eyes fixed on him. His legs trembled as he stood in the center of the arena, a small patch of dirt in the midst of a vast and unforgiving space. The soldiers were lined up along the edges, rifles aimed at him, ensuring he didn’t try anything foolish.
Then, the gate across the arena opened with a creaking sound that echoed through the hollow space. The hairs on the back of August’s neck stood on end. He had expected another person—a fellow survivor, maybe—but what emerged from the shadows wasn’t human.
It was… something else.
A massive creature stumbled out into the arena, its movements jerky and inhuman. Its skin was stretched taut across its bones, mottled with patches of sickly gray and green. Its face was a grotesque mix of human features, twisted and decayed. The eyes were sunken, but there was still a flicker of life—or something close to it—hidden beneath the rot. The creature’s mouth hung open, revealing jagged, bloodstained teeth. It growled, the sound low and guttural, a mixture of hunger and rage.
The crowd went wild, their shouts and jeers filling the air. The creature was no longer a man, but something far worse: a mutated zombie.
August’s heart hammered in his chest as he realized the horrible truth. This wasn’t a test of strength. This was a test of survival. He had been thrown into the arena to fight for his life—and his opponent was far from ordinary.
The system’s voice crackled in his ear.
“Mission: Survive. Objective: Defeat the mutated zombie. Failure results in death.”
The weight of the words hit him like a ton of bricks. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back, his body screaming for him to run—but there was nowhere to go. The system had spoken, and there was no turning back.
In that moment, the mutated zombie let out a horrific screech and charged at him, its movements erratic, but fast. August’s instincts kicked in, and he barely managed to dodge to the side as the creature’s claws slashed at the air where he had been just seconds before. The ground shook with each step the creature took, and August could feel the sheer force of its rage.
The system flashed in his vision, detailing the zombie’s weak points and offering him tips on how to defeat it. The data felt cold and mechanical, but he didn’t have time to question it. The creature was already turning back to face him, its bloodshot eyes locked onto him with primal fury.
“Weapon options available,” the system announced. “Crafting tools: Knife, Spear, Molotov.”
August’s mind raced. He had no weapon, and there was no time to craft anything complex. He needed something simple—something fast. His eyes scanned the area for anything he could use. To his right, a discarded piece of metal glinted in the fading light. He rushed toward it, grabbing the jagged shard of metal and gripping it tightly in his hand.
The mutated zombie charged again, and August barely managed to block the first strike with the metal shard. The impact sent shockwaves of pain through his arm, but he held on, using the shard to keep the creature at bay.
But the zombie was relentless. It slashed at him with its claws, tearing through the air with unnatural speed. August’s heart raced, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he parried each blow, waiting for an opening.
Finally, the system gave him the signal.
“Weak point detected: Left shoulder. Strike now.”
With a surge of adrenaline, August lunged forward, driving the shard of metal into the creature’s left shoulder. The mutated zombie howled in pain, but it didn’t go down. Instead, it swung its clawed hand at him with a savage swipe.
The force of the blow sent August sprawling to the ground, the metal shard falling from his hand. He was vulnerable, exposed. The zombie was on top of him now, its breath foul and hot on his face, its mouth gaping wide, ready to tear into him.
“Mission failure imminent.”
Just as the creature’s jaws snapped shut around his throat, August felt a surge of power—an unfamiliar, burning sensation within him. The system flashed again, a glowing message:
“Quick Reflexes unlocked.”
With an explosive burst of energy, August twisted out from beneath the zombie, his movements faster, more fluid than before. His hand shot out, grabbing the shard and plunging it deep into the creature’s skull. The zombie gave one final, ear-splitting screech before collapsing in a heap, its body twitching and convulsing.
August, panting and bloodied, pushed himself to his feet. The arena fell silent for a moment, the crowd still and stunned. The mutated zombie lay motionless at his feet, the victory his. But as August looked around, he knew the real battle had only just begun.
The commander’s voice boomed from above, and the soldiers began to close in. “Impressive. But there’s more to come, August. You’ve proven your worth… for now.”