The screech of tires tore through Seoul's afternoon drone.
Kai was thinking about his dead-end job, the mountain of unpaid bills, and the damp one-room apartment waiting for him. He didn't see the delivery truck jump the curb. Its grill filled his world a second before impact.
His last thought was a bitter curse at the life that had always cheated him.
Blackness swallowed him whole.
Kai gasped awake, lungs burning. Cold, damp stone pressed against his back. A metallic taste filled his mouth—blood. His wrists screamed in pain, bound by heavy iron manacles.
He was in a pit.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat, waste, and despair. Around him, figures groaned and shuffled in the gloom. Not all were human. One had the furred ears and tail of a beast. Another had skin like bark. A green-skinned woman hugged her knees, rocking back and forth.
Where am I?
A flicker of blue light cut through the darkness. It hovered in the center of his vision, transparent but undeniable.
[System Initialized.]
[Host: Kai Voss. Identity Confirmed.]
[World: Elysara. Status: Transmigrated.]
[Perk Awarded: Transmigrator's Edge.]
[Primary Quest Issued: Survive the Pit.]
- Objective: Kill 1 Gladiator.
- Reward: +5 Strength. Basic Sword Skill.
Kai's breath hitched. A system. Like in the trashy webnovels he'd read to escape his own life.
He was dead. And somehow, he was here.
He looked down at his own body. His familiar, slender office-worker's frame was gone. In its place was a taller, powerfully muscled form, crisscrossed with faint, silvery scars he didn't remember earning. Earth echoes, a distant part of his mind supplied.
"Fresh meat's awake," a rough voice grunted from above.
Kai looked up. A guard in rusty plate armor peered over the pit's edge, a sneer on his face. The language was guttural, alien, yet Kai understood it perfectly.
"Where is this?" Kai called out, his new voice deeper, rougher.
The guard's sneer widened. He unhooked a whip from his belt. "Drakoria's coliseum, outlander. You're entertainment now. Fight and die for the crowd's pleasure."
The whip cracked down. Kai flinched, the lash slicing across his shoulder. Fire bloomed on his skin. He gritted his teeth, swallowing the cry of pain. He wouldn't give the brute the satisfaction.
As the guard walked away, laughing, an older man shuffled closer from the shadows. His face was a roadmap of scars, and one eye was milky white. He held out a crust of hard, mold-speckled bread.
"Eat," the old man grunted. "You'll need your strength for the games tomorrow."
Kai took it. "Thank you. I'm Kai."
The man shrugged. "Names are for free men. Call me Old Scar." He squinted. "Though… you look more like a 'Ragnar' to me."
The system flickered in Kai's vision.
[Suggested Alias Detected: Ragnar Voss. Designation: Shadow Reaper. Accept? Y/N]
A strange feeling settled over him—a shedding, like a too-tight skin. Kai was the man who died under a truck in Seoul. The man in these chains needed to be harder. Sharper.
He mentally selected Y.
A jolt, subtle but profound, rewired something in his core. The fear didn't vanish, but it was pushed down, buried under a layer of cold calculation.
"Ragnar," he said, the name solid and heavy on his tongue. "My name is Ragnar."
Old Scar gave a slow, approving nod. "Better. A name with teeth."
Ragnar turned his focus inward, to the blue interface. He willed it to show him more.
[Status]
Strength: 10
Agility: 10
Vitality: 10
Intelligence: 10
Charisma: 10
Luck: 10
[Perk: Transmigrator's Edge]
- 50% chance to partially steal a skill or trait from a slain foe.
[Inventory: Empty]
His eyes scanned the filthy floor. A single link from a broken chain lay near his foot. He reached for it, focused, and willed it away. It vanished from his palm.
[Item Added: Rusty Chain Link.]
Good. A hidden tool. A potential weapon.
The hours crawled by. The pit's miserable inhabitants whispered prayers, wept, or sat in silent terror. Ragnar sat against the wall, conserving energy, studying the guards' routines, planning for nothing but the next minute, the next breath.
Dawn came, announced not by sunlight but by the blaring of horns and the shouted curses of guards.
"On your feet, maggots! Time to earn your slop!"
Chains were yanked, slaves were hauled upright, and they were marched through a narrow, dark tunnel. The sound of a roaring crowd grew with every step, vibrating through the stone.
Old Scar shuffled beside him. "See a weapon, take it," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Fight dirty. There are no rules out there. Only survival."
Ragnar gave a tight nod. The system quest glowed insistently in his mind: Kill 1 Gladiator.
A massive iron gate groaned open ahead, blinding sunlight flooding the tunnel. The roar of the crowd became a physical force.
Ragnar stepped out onto hot, red sand.
The Drakoria Coliseum stretched around him, a vast bowl of screaming humanity. The scale was overwhelming.
"Fresh blood from the pits!" a booming announcer's voice echoed. "Let's see how long they last!"
A gate on the opposite side of the arena shuddered and began to rise.
From the dark maw, a creature emerged.
It stood eight feet tall, a monstrous fusion of man and bull. Its body was a mountain of corded muscle, covered in coarse, brown fur. In its hands, it held a massive, double-headed axe, stained dark with old blood. Its horns, each as long as Ragnar's arm, curved wickedly skyward.
A minotaur.
It snorted, hot vapor puffing from its nostrils. Its red eyes scanned the cowering slaves before locking directly onto Ragnar. It let out a ground-shaking bellow, a clear challenge, and charged.
The crowd's roar reached a fever pitch.
Ragnar's world narrowed to the thunder of hooves, the glint of the axe, and the cold, blue interface in his mind. This was it. His first fight in this brutal new world.
He had one broken chain link in his inventory, ten in every stat, and a will to live that burned brighter than his fear.
The minotaur crossed half the arena in seconds, axe swinging down in a killing arc.
Ragnar threw himself to the side. The axe head smashed into the sand where he'd stood, sending up a cloud of dust. As he rolled, the rusted chain link materialized in his fist. He had no sword, no shield, no armor—just this piece of metal, his new strength, and a desperate, rising fury.
The minotaur turned, its eyes blazing. It raised its axe again, ready to cleave him in two.
In the stands, a man clad in opulent silks watched with keen interest. Lord Vortigern leaned forward, a cruel smile touching his lips. He had seen countless slaves die in this arena.
But this one… this 'Ragnar'… didn't have the eyes of a man waiting to die.
He had the eyes of a man deciding what to kill first.
To be continued...