The final strike.
It was right in front of him.
The sound of metal clashing echoed in Rin's ears.
A man collapsed to one knee, blood darkening the cracks in his leather breastplate. That was what lay before him. The battle had reached its end, but the crowd was still hungry.
Rin's muscles screamed in protest. He could see it so clearly. All it was going to take was one swing and this battle was going to be over, but unfortunately, he didn't have the luxury of that.
At least for now.
His fans would not allow that.
Voices thundered around him—shouting his name, stomping, cheering, placing bets. They hadn't come to witness precision. They came for pain. For the spectacle. For blood. And Rin had to give it to them.
So instead of the clear strike, he lowered his weapon. The sole of his boot sank into the man's ribs with a dull crunch; the body flew backward like a sack of meat. Despite his size, he was thrown a few meters back. He walked over to the man's seemingly lifeless body—but then something clamped around his ankle.
Tilting his head down, he saw the man's pathetic display of struggle. In a desperate attempt to overturn the fight, he had grabbed Rin's leg.
Rin sighed, grabbed his arm and twisted.
Crack.
The scream was instant—sharp and raw as it tore through the arena noise.
"Damn. I forgot. Can't end it too soon," Rin said to himself.
The man growled, dragging himself upright. Wrenching his mace off the ground with his remaining arm, he launched a barrage of swings. The mace was worn out. It had seen its fair share of fights. The wrapping of cloth on its hilt had almost been ripped to shreds.
The mace itself was nothing special but it had something–the scent of blood and who knew it better than Rin?
The look on the man's face was also quite familiar and he hated it. It was that of a mad murderer. People with only a little power were so hasty in killing others. They did not even need a reason for it. They'd kill just because they could.
Rin stepped aside, letting the first blow whiff past. Then the second. He dodged with practiced ease, each movement a subtle performance.
He let a few swings come close on purpose, just enough to excite the crowd. It worked. They roared with approval.
"You gonna stand there all day, or should I fight him for you?"
The voice cut through the crowd—loud, amused, and annoyingly cheerful.
As usual. Rin didn't even turn to look; he didn't need to. That damn grin was probably glued to Seka's face again. His performance seemed to have pleased him too.
He cast a glance sideways. There he was—blue eyes gleaming, golden hair catching the sun. That infuriating brightness in his smile, as if it could erase the blood-soaked dirt around them. Quite the opposite of Rin who had dull brown eyes, devoid of any life. Rin wondered how he tolerated him. He was everything Rin was not.
Moreover, he always tried to rub off his presence. It was a pain, but there was no denying the fact that he had made Rin somewhat alive again after everything that had happened and Rin was grateful for it.
Glancing at him, Rin smiled and scratched his head. His brown hair falling over his eyes.
"If you say so."
And just like that his dull knife was driven out and was slashed across the line he was seeing so clearly. It was not sharp enough to give a fatal blow but had enough strength to knock the man unconscious.
The crowd roared. Another fight done. Another day in the pit. This was his life at The Arena.
Rin looked up. The Arena's stone arches loomed over him like ancient gods—silent and amused. Its sandstone walls were stained with history and death. How many men had they seen fall?
Thousands of people, including the nobility, came here daily to watch the fights or to bet.
The Arena had existed since the formation of Valyria. Who knew what harrowing battles took place here in the ancient times?
Though it was popular among the peasants and the nobility alike, no one actually talked about it—not officially at least. Still, that did not stop the Arena from becoming the greatest attraction of Valyria.
Since the ancient times, humans had been allured by the act of seeing blood shed for some reason. They cheered for glory, called it valour. But Rin knew better. They just liked to watch people die.
Ridiculous.
All Rin ever wanted was to live. That desire had swayed often—from the moment he lost everything at ten, to the day he was sold to this place.
There were years he'd nearly forgotten what that desire even felt like.
Remembering how he was back then, he scoffed. He deserved those beatings he got in his early days.
The fights were harsh and many people died every day. If there was one thing that put him at ease, it was that no one there could use Aura.
Aura was the power only few could use. No one knew where it came from. No rules, no patterns. It was just there—like the gods had scattered fire among men and watched to see who'd burn.
Rin saw the battered body of the man in front of him and remembered the first and only time he saw the effects of Aura. It was not a scene to remember. What remained of the victim could barely be called a corpse. It was riddled with holes while its limbs were thrown a few meters away. What happened after that was a blur.
Everyone had Aura. But only chosen ones could draw it out. No one knew how the chosen were selected.
Maybe they'd need to ask God for it.
The crowd was going insane with the applause and if that wasn't enough, Rin did his official winning pose by raising his hand high and flashing a peace sign. The whole Arena seemed to shake. That was the persona he had created for himself. The charming madman. The blood-soaked warrior who didn't care.
What a joke it was.
It had been six years since he arrived. Six years of clawing his way up the ranks. Six years of becoming the strongest man in the Arena. He had obtained the strength to survive the world around him, but that did not bring any glow to his life. He should have felt proud.
Instead, he just felt… nothing.
Was this what he wanted?
Rin brushed the thought aside. Power wasn't something he could just turn away from. Not if he wanted to live.
But there was something more important than that—he had found someone. And somehow, that was enough. He'd crawled through fire for six years. He wasn't letting the last light in his life slip away.
Not this time.