Dawn's weak light filtered through the soot-stained torches lining the high stone walls of the arena. Here, torches burned day and night, flames sputtering against the ever-present haze of spilled blood and sand. The pit itself—a circular expanse of compacted earth a dozen paces across—lay ready. Spectators, bundled in dark cloaks, crowded the rough-hewn benches, their guttural cheers and wagers forming a tide of sound.
In the center of the pit, Qiang Ming stood bare-chested, every muscle taut under scars fresh and old. His shoulders were squared, back straight, and eyes narrowed in cold focus. Across from him, two opponents crouched in the sand: an older man as wide as a barn door, his greying hair plastered to a sweat-darkened brow, and at his flank, a lean twelve-year-old boy, wiry and eager, clutching a pair of hooked blades.
This was Slaughter Barony's rite of passage—no rings, no spirit techniques, only raw skill and unflinching brutality.
A single bell tolled, low and raw. Gravel-Fist Doran—so named for the ridged iron gauntlet fused to his right arm—charged like a battering ram. Each heavy step cracked the earth. Qiang Ming waited, head steady, and ducked beneath Doran's sweeping blow. Sand sprayed into the veteran's face, blinding him momentarily.
At the same instant, Quick-Scar Leitai darted in from the side, his hooked blades arcing for Qiang Ming's ribs. Qiang Ming pivoted on his heel, grabbed Leitai's wrist, and twisted. The boy yelped as his shoulder joint protested. Qiang Ming shoved him back into the veteran's path.
Doran stumbled, then lashed out at Leitai again. Caught between two predators, the boy dropped one blade in panic. Qiang Ming seized it and severed Leitai's grip. The boy's wounded hand bled freely, his eyes widening with shock—first mistake.
Leitai retreated, anger and pain twisting his face. He slashed at Qiang Ming's thigh, drawing a shallow cut. Qiang Ming winced but showed no fear. He grabbed both blades in a single motion, twisted out of their owner's grip, and tossed them aside. Leitai spent precious seconds retrieving them—seconds that Qiang Ming used to circle Doran.
The veteran roared and charged again, iron gauntlet leading. Qiang Ming met him head-on, blocking with a forearm and punching the gauntlet wrist with his open palm. The clang echoed through the pit. Doran staggered, off-balance, and Qiang Ming seized that opening: a straight-arm jab into Doran's midsection, collapsing his ribs. Each strike was precise—stripped of flourish, born of discipline.
Leitai, regaining his composure, lunged behind Qiang Ming's guard for a rear knife-hand strike. Qiang Ming's head snapped back in reflex; he spun, catching Leitai's forearm between his own forearm and bicep. He twisted, sending the boy to one knee, then delivered a side-fist to the jaw that laid him flat in the dirt.
Now only Gravel-Fist Doran remained. He knelt, gasping, but his eyes burned with defiance. He swung the gauntlet in a wide horizontal arc that would have felled a lesser man.
Qiang Ming ducked, sand whispering beneath his boots. He dashed forward, closed the distance in two bounds, and unleashed a devastating hammer-fist combo: first a glancing cross to Doran's cheek, then an uppercut into his jaw, then a final downward strike into the veteran's collarbone. Each blow landed with bone-crushing force.
With a final groan, Doran pitched forward and lay still, dust rolling softly from his shoulders.
Silence reigned for a heartbeat. Then the pit erupted in a frenzy of shouts and clattering coins. Spectators hurled copper pieces into the blood-flecked sand. This victory—two lives bested by one—earned Qiang Ming his pay: five pints of gold and the grizzled respect of the Barony.
Bleeding, bruised, and panting, Qiang Ming retrieved the scattered coins and tucked them into his leather pouch. Every scar on his body pulsed with a reminder of tonight's trial. The arena doors creaked open, and two gauntleted handlers pulled Leitai and Doran out by their arms, dragging them toward the medic's tent.
From the high pavilion, the three Bloody Barons watched with impassive faces. A silent nod passed between them—one of the Barons would mark Qiang Ming's record as "Novice Victor." Three such marks would grant the coveted Arena Champion amulet, the only legal exit from this forsaken land.
Qiang Ming lifted his head, allowing the torchlight to catch the fresh cut on his abdomen. Pain seared through him, but beneath it lay exhilaration. Each fight was a lesson in survival. Each scar, a badge of progress.
He stepped through the tunnel that led back to the Black Column, bones aching, heart pounding. Inside, Xi Wo raised a stained tankard.
"Five pints," the barkeep shouted. "And next time? Don't hold back."
Qiang Ming nodded once, placing a handful of coins on the battered bar. As he drank the acrid brew, the roar of the pit still in his ears, he understood at last:
Here, in Slaughter Barony, skill and brutality were currency. And he was earning wealth one drop of blood at a time.