Darkness swallowed me whole the second I clicked the damn challenge button. Then—nothing. Silence. Void.
When my eyes finally cracked open, the world looked different. Smaller. I felt lighter—like my whole body had shrunk overnight. Panic hit me like a freight train, and I shot up, only to get slammed back down by a brutal kick to my ribs. The breath whooshed out of me, my vision spinning.
"Oi, brat! Since you've got the energy to move, why not get up?" a rough voice barked. "First day in hell, welcome!"
I blinked up at the man standing over me—scar slicing through his grimy face, eyes cold and merciless. His hand gripped a whip, cracked like thunder in the stale air. The smell of sweat and rust hung heavy around us.
"What the—" I started, clutching my side, but before I could finish, he raised the whip, muscles taut.
"Don't just stand there!" he snarled. "What're you looking at? Just because you're a battle slave doesn't mean you can fight back."
Instinctively, I raised my arms to cover my face, bracing for the sting, but just then a sharp voice cut through the tension.
"Stop!"
The whip froze mid-air. A man stepped forward—an eyepatch covering his left eye, his presence calm but commanding.
"You'll damage the goods before the fight," he said, voice low but sharp.
The scarred man growled, stepping back. "Why do you care? This guy's dead meat anyway."
The eyepatch man's glare was ice. "Even so, don't ruin it, or you'll regret it."
The scarred brute shoved past him angrily, bumping shoulders as he growled, "Fine, out of my way."
I lay there, ribs aching, heart hammering in my chest, screaming inside. Me? Die? Battle slave? What the hell is this place?
"Kid, get up," the eyepatch man ordered. "They're waiting."
I pushed myself off the ground, dizzy and raw, struggling to catch my breath.
"Wait… what?" My voice cracked.
The man with the eyepatch looked down at me, expression unreadable. "You don't know what's happening, huh? Let me make it simple. This is the Arena of Heaven or Hell. Win, and you survive—call it heaven. Lose, and you become meat paste for the dogs. You're a battle slave now. Your job? Survive. Or die trying."
The words hit me harder than any punch.
I glanced around. The arena was a grim cage of rusty iron bars, sharp spikes, and grime-streaked walls that echoed the screams of the damned. Beyond the gates, shadows moved—crowds? Monsters? I couldn't tell, but the low growls and snarls rattled my nerves like a nightmare come alive.
"Why me?" I thought, voice lost inside my head. "Why this? Why now?"
The scarred man spat at my feet, eyes blazing with hatred. "Because you're expendable. Because you're meat for the fight pit. Because someone's got to die so the rest can live."
I shook off the panic, trying to find something—anything—that wasn't pure terror.
"Alright," I muttered, voice tight. "If this is hell, then I'm not just gonna lay down and rot."
The whip cracked again, closer this time, and a sharp sting radiated across my shoulder. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, breath hitching in my throat. Pain was new. But so was fire.
"Get your ass moving, slave," the eyepatch man barked. "The others are waiting for you in the pit. This is your first fight—don't embarrass us."
The doors of the arena creaked open, revealing a bloodstained floor slick with sweat and old scars. The stench was suffocating—a mix of iron, rot, and death. I stepped forward, legs trembling, every nerve screaming.
The crowd beyond the gates roared—something deep and hungry. The beast inside me stirred.
I clenched my fists, knuckles white. Whatever this place was, whatever hell I'd fallen into, I'd fight. Not just to survive, but to own this nightmare.
Because if this was the Arena of Heaven or Hell, then I'd make damn sure I was the last one standing in both.
The iron gate groaned open like a beast waking from a nightmare, its massive metal teeth clawing skyward, revealing the grim, shadowed pit beyond. It looked like some monstrous maw ready to swallow the weak and spit out bones. My heart hammered in my chest as I stared at the yawning abyss.
I glanced sideways at the man with the eyepatch—the bastard who seemed as cold and unyielding as the gate itself. His single eye drilled into me like a judge, weighing, measuring, deciding if I was worth a damn.
"What? Go in, kid. I ain't got time to babysit," he said, voice rough like gravel underfoot.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and held out my hand, voice steady despite the storm raging inside. "Bandages."
He snorted, eyebrows shooting up like he thought I was joking. "What? You think those rags are some kinda magic? You're just a low-tier slave. No one gives a damn."
I kept my gaze locked on his, steady and unblinking, because I knew the moment I looked away, the fear would claw its way back to the surface. I didn't have time for that bullshit. Not now. Not ever.
"Grr... Fine," he growled, clearly irritated by my silence, "but don't come whining when I want those bandages back intact." Then he tossed the coarse strips straight at my face.
I caught them without flinching, feeling the rough, scratchy texture bite at my palms. The scent of dust and sweat clung to the fabric, thick and choking. I tore into the strips and wrapped them around my legs, my small arms, my torso, even my head, layering the bindings thick and tight. The sting of the fabric against my skin reminded me I was vulnerable, fragile—just a five-year-old kid trapped in this hellhole.
"Five years old," I muttered bitterly under my breath, voice barely a whisper. "Cruel bastards."
But whining wasn't going to save me. Survival was the only option—and training came later. I gritted my teeth and flexed my fingers, feeling the bands tighten like a cage.
Inside, my heart was a warzone—fear, fury, and something darker that refused to die. You might think I'd sound scared, but that's the thing about fear—it's a constant companion. I'd been face-to-face with death more times than I could count, and yet it still terrified me every damn time. The difference now? I couldn't afford to freeze.
The eyepatch man gave a low whistle, stepping closer. "Damn kid, you know how to wrap monk guards? Who taught you that? Last I checked, slaves don't get trained. They just get thrown to the dogs."
His tone was mocking, but I caught a flicker—maybe respect. Or maybe surprise. It didn't matter. I ignored him, because I had bigger things to worry about than some prick's opinion.
The arena loomed before me—a vast pit stained with old blood and sweat, the floor slick with grime and history. Walls rose high, twisted iron bars like prison walls. The air tasted like rust and decay, thick with the screams of those who'd come before me.
Each step I took echoed hollow and fragile beneath my small feet, my body aching, my breath shallow. I felt like a toy soldier placed on a battlefield too vast and cruel for a kid my size. But I wasn't just any kid. I was Mike. And I wasn't going down without a fight.
"Cheeky brat," the eyepatch man sneered behind me, his voice dripping with venom. "Let's see if you've got what it takes to survive the first round."
The gate slammed shut behind me with a thunderous crash, metal grinding like a guillotine sealing my fate. The roar of the crowd surged from somewhere beyond the shadows—a hungry, ravenous beast that seemed to shake the very ground beneath my feet.
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, white-knuckled. My ribs screamed in protest, but pain was just noise in the background now.
I had to make it through this. Had to prove I wasn't just a pawn to be crushed underfoot.
A sudden crack echoed—the sound of a whip slicing through the air—reminding me that mercy wasn't on the menu.
My breath hitched, chest tightening. But I squared my shoulders, chin up.
I didn't know what awaited me in this pit of hell, but I knew one thing for sure—fear was a luxury I couldn't afford.
And survival? That was my only goddamn option.