The clock read 3:20 PM. Sam, who was usually punctual, was nowhere to be seen.

  "Maybe he had something to take care of first," I muttered to myself, trying to stay optimistic. I passed the time by mentally organizing my training schedule, going over different drills and lessons in my head. The wait felt longer with each passing minute.

  But as the minutes dragged on and the clock neared 4:00 PM, an uneasy feeling crept into my chest. The marketplace was starting to clear out as vendors packed up their stalls, the golden hues of the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets. Yet still, Sam hadn't arrived.

  "Something’s not right." My fingers curled into fists, anxiety gnawing at me. Without wasting another second, I bolted toward the Eastern District, my heart pounding with every hurried step.

  After weaving through the winding roads and back alleys, I arrived at Sam’s house—a tiny shack in a pitiful state. But this time, something was horribly wrong. The front door was ajar, swinging slightly with the breeze.

  The inside was more chaotic than usual. Broken furniture littered the small room, the worn-out wardrobe smashed to pieces, its contents—tattered clothes and a few personal belongings—strewn haphazardly across the floor. Dishes lay shattered near the entrance, as if someone had struggled here. The air was thick with the scent of iron.

  Wait… feet. There were feet on the floor.

  A cold dread settled in my gut as I stepped inside, my boots crunching over shards of glass. My breath hitched as my eyes landed on the still figure of a woman lying face down, a dark pool of blood spreading around her head.

  "No…" My voice came out in a whisper.

  I rushed to her side, pressing my fingers against her neck. Nothing. No warmth, no pulse. Her body was cold and stiff—she had been dead for hours.

  Swallowing hard, I carefully lifted her, placing her onto the bed. My hands trembled as I smoothed her bloodstained hair away from her face. Sam’s mother.

  A wave of nausea hit me. My mind screamed at me to do something, but all I could do was stare at the lifeless body. Then, panic set in.

  I staggered outside, scanning the streets for someone—anyone—who could tell me what had happened. The Eastern District was still bustling, yet when I called out, people avoided my gaze, quickly turning their heads and hurrying past me as if I were invisible.

  "Hey! What happened here?!" I demanded, my voice carrying through the streets. But no one answered. Faces twisted in fear, eyes darting away as they walked faster.

  They knew something. And I wasn’t going to stop until I found out where Sam was.

  Then, out of nowhere, a hand clapped my shoulder from behind.

  "Hey, City Boy."

  I turned sharply, my hand instinctively reaching for my pouch.

  "Come with me," the man said in a hushed tone.

  I recognized that gruff voice instantly—a middle-aged drunkard I’d seen loitering around before. Luther.

  "I don’t have time for this," I snapped, fishing out ten Mana Stones and shoving them into his hand.

  But instead of pocketing them like I expected, he shook his head. "I’m not here to shake you down. I know where the kid is."

  I froze. "Where?"

  "Not here. Too many ears around. Follow me."

  We moved swiftly through the alleys until we reached a secluded spot. Luther let out a deep breath, glancing around before speaking in a serious whisper.

  "The Pit. They took him there."

  I frowned. "The Pit?"

  "Right, you’re not from around here," he muttered. "The Pit is an underground fighting ring owned by a man called Nineteen. His goons killed Sam’s mother and dragged the boy there. Too bad I came here too late," he replied, his voice filled with gloom and disappointment.

  My fists clenched. Who the hell names themselves after a number?

  Luther exhaled sharply. "Nineteen’s one of the most feared men in the Eastern District. Word is, someone saw Sam use magic. Now, Nineteen wants him in The Pit."

  My stomach dropped.

  "Take me there. Now."

  Luther hesitated. "Listen, that place is heavily guarded. You won’t make it out alive."

  "I don’t care. I’ll crush every bastard who stands in my way."

  Luther shook his head. "You’re insane… but hell, I’ve got nothing left to lose either. Alright, I’ll take you. I don’t want that kid to die, either."

  Without wasting time, we slipped into the labyrinth of narrow, dimly lit alleys, descending into the sewers beneath the city. The air was thick with the stench of rot and filth, the tunnels damp and twisting like the veins of some underground beast. It reminded me of Deepnest Tunnel—a place with horrible memories.

  "Stay here a sec," Luther whispered. He picked up an empty can and tossed it forward.

  Clang!

  "Oi! Who’s there?! You got a death wish?" A gruff voice echoed through the tunnel. Footsteps approached.

  In the blink of an eye, Luther moved. His fists struck with precision, dropping both guards before they even knew what hit them. The efficiency of his movements—the way he handled them without a sound—was too refined for a mere drunkard.

  No doubt about it. He had once been someone important. A Royal Knight, perhaps?

  Luther knelt beside the unconscious guards, checking their pulses. Then, just to be sure, he delivered another blow to their heads.

  "That’ll keep them down for a while. Come on, follow me."

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  For nearly an hour, we navigated the tunnels, Luther taking out guard after guard with silent, ruthless efficiency. He made it look effortless, but I knew better—this was a man who had been trained to fight.

  "There." He pointed ahead. A massive door loomed before us, guarded by two men.

  "I’ll handle them. You sneak inside," he instructed.

  I pressed myself against the wall, waiting.

  Luther strolled forward, feigning drunkenness. "Hey, fellas! How about some entertainment?"

  The guards stiffened. "Who the hell are you? This ain’t a place for beggars."

  Before they could react further, more footsteps echoed from the shadows. A group of armed men rushed toward Luther.

  Luther took a small step back, angling his body slightly. Just enough to glance at me.

  "Save the boy," he muttered before taking off, leading the guards away from the entrance.

  I clenched my jaw. Five men swarmed him, surrounding him in an instant. But Luther didn’t hesitate. He dove into the fight, fists flying. He was buying me time.

  Not wasting another second, I slipped into The Pit, disappearing into the shadows.

  ***

  Sam had been trapped in this cramped, suffocating room for hours. His feet were bound in cold iron chains, forcing him to sit on the damp stone floor. Every second that passed felt like an eternity as he waited for his turn. His mind kept replaying the nightmare from earlier—the moment his mom had thrown herself in front of him, shielding him from the men who came to take him away.

  She had fought with everything she had, screaming, clawing, and kicking against their brute strength. He had cried out for help, hoping, praying that someone would intervene. But no one did. The people around them merely turned away, pretending not to hear, not to see.

  It had taken only moments before his mom had been struck down. He still remembered the sound—an awful, sickening crack as her head hit the floor. Blood pooled beneath her motionless body, her unblinking eyes staring at nothing. Sam had screamed, had tried to reach for her, but a heavy slap across his face had sent him reeling into darkness.

  When he awoke, he was here. Alone. Scared. Broken.

  "Someone... please help me..." he whispered, his voice hoarse. But there was no one. No savior, no miracle. Just the suffocating silence of despair.

  Then—

  BANG!

  The door was kicked open, crashing against the wall with a deafening impact. A towering, bald man with cruel eyes and an even crueler smirk stomped inside. Without warning, he grabbed Sam by the arm, yanking him to his feet as the iron shackles around his ankles were undone.

  "Try to put up a fight, kid. Makes it more fun to watch," the man sneered before shoving Sam forward.

  Sam stumbled out of the room and into a cacophony of noise. A massive underground arena sprawled before him, packed with a sea of spectators screaming, jeering, and howling like beasts. Hundreds—no, thousands of them stood around the enormous pit, eagerly awaiting bloodshed.

  Giant magical devices were mounted on the walls, their crystal lenses projecting a magnified view of the pit onto floating screens, ensuring that no one would miss a single second of the carnage.

  A booming voice echoed through the chamber, amplified by magic. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE PITS!"

  A thunderous roar erupted from the crowd, shaking the walls.

  "AND NOW, FOR OUR NEXT MATCH!" the announcer continued, his voice dripping with excitement. "A BRAND NEW CONTENDER—A YOUNG, TALENTED FIGHTER! THE FLAMESTRIDER!"

  Sam’s stomach twisted as he was dragged to the edge of the pit. Across from him, on the opposite side, stood his opponent—a tall, wiry elf with sharp, predatory eyes and a knife twirling between his fingers. The elf's grin was wide and eager, his bloodlust palpable. He was enjoying this.

  The bald man shoved Sam towards a rope ladder leading down into The Pit. "Move it."

  With trembling hands, Sam descended into the pit, his breath quick and shallow. The moment his feet touched the ground, the ladder was yanked away, sealing his fate. The elf leaped down after him, landing gracefully like a cat. He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders before twirling his knife with practiced ease.

  "AND NOW, THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! THE FLAMESTRIDER VERSUS THE MANSLAYER! LET THE MATCH BEGIN!"

  A deafening cheer erupted from the audience.

  "Kill him quickly! I bet a fortune on you, filthy elf!" a drunk man hollered.

  "Look at that kid! He's shaking so bad he might piss himself!" someone else cackled, causing an uproar of laughter around them.

  "I'm betting on the Flamestrider! If he wins, I'll be rich!" a burly man with a thick mustache declared.

  "Hah! You idiot, you've already lost your stones!" a hideous woman beside him snorted.

  Amidst the chaos, Sam stood frozen. His mind was blank, his body locked in place. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. Fear consumed him like an unrelenting tide.

  The elf took a step forward, his knife gleaming under the arena lights.

  Sam didn't even flinch

  The elf grinned wickedly, his sharp, narrow eyes gleaming with sadistic delight as he stepped forward. "Hehehe, don't worry. I'll make sure you die slowly. I just love the screams of little brats like you."

  Panic surged through Sam's veins. Without thinking, he hurled a Fireball toward his opponent. The elf sidestepped effortlessly, his movements swift and practiced. Sam barely had time to prepare another spell before the elf was already in front of him.

  A sharp sting seared through his shoulder.

  "Hurts, doesn't it? This is just the beginning," the elf sneered, stepping back and raising his arms theatrically toward the crowd. He twirled once, basking in the cheers and jeers of the spectators, clearly reveling in their excitement.

  Sam gritted his teeth, wincing from the pain, and launched another Fireball. But again, it missed its mark.

  The elf darted forward once more, his blade slashing through the air. This time, the cold steel bit into Sam’s waist. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as blood soaked through his tunic. His trembling fingers clutched at the wound, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding. The pain was unbearable, unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Tears welled up in his eyes, streaming down his face.

  His opponent’s expression twisted with even more delight. The elf chuckled, licking his lips. "Ah, I was hoping to gouge out one of your eyes, but this will do for now."

  Another slash came, narrowly missing Sam’s face but leaving a shallow cut on his arm. He stumbled back, heart pounding. "Cyclone Blast!" he shouted, summoning a fierce burst of wind that sent his attacker tumbling backward. The elf crashed onto the ground, his limbs flailing awkwardly. For the first time, his confident smirk vanished, replaced by wide-eyed shock.

  The crowd erupted in laughter and boos.

  "You son of a bitch!" the elf growled, springing back onto his feet. "You're going to regret that!"

  He lunged again. Sam tried to summon another Cyclone Blast, but the elf was faster. Before he knew it, the assassin was right beside him. Reflexively, Sam turned and ran, his feet pounding against the dirt floor of the pit.

  And then he felt it.

  A strange sensation coursed through his legs, as if an invisible wind was pushing him forward, making him lighter, faster. His breathing steadied, his mind clearing just enough for him to focus. He turned slightly, aiming his palm at his pursuer. His Mana reserves were dangerously low. At best, he had two more attacks left in him.

  He had to make them count.

  BLAAAR!

  A massive Fireball roared to life, surging straight toward the elf.

  For a split second, relief washed over Sam. Finally.

  But then—

  DUAAARR!

  The explosion rocked the pit, flames licking the stone walls. Smoke curled in the air, leaving a blackened scorch mark in its wake. The crowd gasped, some cheering, others cursing their lost bets.

  When the smoke cleared, Sam's heart sank.

  The elf was still standing, completely unharmed.

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk…" The Manslayer shook his head mockingly. "You really thought that would work? How adorable."

  Sam's eyes widened in horror. The moment before impact, his opponent's body had shimmered, like a mirage in the desert. The Fireball had passed right through him, leaving no trace of damage.

  The elf grinned wickedly. "Let's end this, shall we?"

  He charged, his knife gleaming under the arena lights. Sam barely had the strength to lift his arms. His legs felt like lead. His vision blurred. He couldn’t fight anymore.

  This was it.

  A final scream echoed in his mind—his mom's voice. His body tensed, bracing for the fatal blow. He shut his eyes, waiting for the pain, waiting for the darkness to take him.

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