Sam had already accepted his fate.

  Death didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. Not when there was nothing left to hold on to. No family, no home, no future. What was there to fight for?

  For a brief moment, a face surfaced in his mind—Sir Erynd. The stoic yet kind young man who had taught him the basics of magic. If things had been different, if life had been kinder, maybe Sir Erynd could’ve been someone he called "father”. Maybe he could’ve had a normal childhood, living in a proper home, somewhere safe and warm, with both his parents by his side.

  Maybe, just maybe, he could have enrolled in the Wizard Academy, wearing those pristine robes, walking through grand halls filled with books and knowledge. Learning magic not to survive but to grow, to dream.

  But that was just a fantasy. A cruel, fleeting illusion.

  The truth was much harsher.

  Reality was here, now—his battered body, the blood dripping from his wounds, the jeering crowd hungry for entertainment. And soon, his life would come to an end, swallowed by the pit like countless others before him.

  All he could do was close his eyes and wait for the inevitable.

  One second passed.

  Then two.

  Then three.

  The expected pain never came. But he could hear the sound of the knife slicing through the air. Again. And again. And again.

  Something was off.

  Sam’s pain dulled slightly. His body felt… lighter. He opened his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat.

  The elf was still standing in front of him, his blade raised—but he wasn’t moving. His arms trembled, his breathing ragged.

  Memories of Sir Erynd’s lessons flashed through Sam’s mind. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright and clenched his fist. This time, he didn’t waste his energy on a massive Fireball.

  He condensed it.

  A small but intensely hot sphere of fire formed in his palm. With his last ounce of strength, he thrust it forward, aiming straight for the elf’s chest.

  BOOM!

  The impact sent The Manslayer flying, his body rolling across the pit floor. His tunic was charred, his chest burned raw. He let out a guttural scream, writhing in agony. The crowd's uproar turned into a deafening silence.

  Then, finally, the elf stopped moving.

  Sam swayed on his feet, his vision swimming. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the ground. Whether it was from exhaustion or shock, he wasn’t sure.

  He had won.

  But for the first time, he realized what victory truly meant.

  He had killed someone.

  ***

  The moment the announcer declared the winner, a wave of anger and disappointment surged through the crowd. Furious shouts echoed around the arena, but suddenly, a commotion broke out near the front row, close to the battleground.

  “Guards! This druid is acting suspiciously!” a scrawny man yelled, pointing an accusing finger.

  “Yes! He must have helped the boy! I saw it with my own eyes!” another man added, his voice laced with conviction. “Look at that staff he's holding—he must be doing something with it!”

  The accusation spread like wildfire. Within moments, a group of guards stormed in, their heavy boots pounding against the stone floor. Before I could react, rough hands grabbed me, yanking my arms behind my back. I didn’t resist as they dragged me through the corridors of the arena, deeper into its twisted heart.

  To my surprise, the place they took me was vastly different from the grim, bloodstained arena. The room I was shoved into exuded luxury, a stark contrast to the filth outside. A plush crimson carpet stretched across the floor, muffling footsteps. The walls were adorned with intricate golden decorations, and a grand wooden table with gold trimmings sat at the far end of the chamber. Behind it lounged a grotesquely fat, bald man with a thick mustache, shoveling food into his mouth with greasy fingers.

  One of the guards stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Master Borvan, this man disrupted the match. We suspect he interfered and helped The Flamestrider win.”

  Borvan—if that was his name—paused mid-bite, licking his fingers before laughing heartily. “MUAHAHAHA! So that’s why the elf’s blade kept missing in the final moments!” He smirked, leaning back in his massive chair. “I was waiting for that boy’s screams, you know. But I must admit, thanks to you, the match was far more entertaining.” His beady eyes gleamed with amusement. “And more entertainment means more stone in my pockets.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He let the moment hang, savoring my silence before his grin turned sinister. “But that doesn’t mean you get away scot-free.” His fingers drummed against the armrest. “You cost me a valuable fighter. The Manslayer was one of my best. And from the looks of you… you’re not from the Eastern District, are you?”

  I remained silent, meeting his gaze with an icy stare.

  “Fine,” he said with a mocking sigh. “I’ll be generous. Pay me 10,000 Mana Stones, and I’ll consider letting this slide.” His smirk widened. “Of course, if you can’t pay… there are other ways to settle your debt.” He chuckled, and his lackeys joined in, their laughter thick with malice.

  I exhaled slowly, then spoke, my voice calm yet firm. “I have a counteroffer.”

  Borvan’s grin faltered slightly. “Oh? Do tell.”

  “I want to make a bet with you.” I straightened my posture, making sure to project confidence. “If I lose, I’ll pay you five times what you asked—50,000 Mana Stones.”

  A murmur rippled through the guards. Even Borvan raised a bushy eyebrow. “Fifty thousand, you say?”

  I nodded. “But if I win… you release the boy and pay me ten thousand.”

  Borvan tapped his chin, pretending to consider. “And what exactly are you wagering?”

  I met his gaze unwaveringly. “Your best fighter. I’ll face them in the arena.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then Borvan burst into laughter, his belly shaking violently. His lackeys followed suit, their laughter filling the lavish room.

  “A druid! A druid wants to fight in The Pit? HAH! This is too good!” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Alright, alright, I’ll play along.” His expression darkened. “But let’s make it more interesting.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Two versus two,” he declared with a wicked grin. “That’s my condition. Take it, or cough up the 10,000 now.”

  I clenched my jaw. It was a dirty trick, but I expected nothing less.

  “Fine,” I agreed. “But we’ll need time to rest. We fight tomorrow.”

  Borvan’s laughter boomed once again. “Hahaha! And here I thought you were confident! No, no, druid—midnight. That’s when your fight happens.” He licked his lips, his voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t worry, I’ll even give you a meal beforehand. Consider it your last supper.”

  The room erupted into laughter once more, but I didn’t flinch.

  “Take him and the boy to a holding chamber,” Borvan commanded, waving his hand dismissively. “Make sure he gets his meal.”

  The guards wasted no time in hauling me away, their grip tight, their smirks mocking. The fight was set. The odds were against me.

  But they had no idea what I was truly capable of.

  ***

  "Sir Erynd! I knew you’d come!"

  The moment Sam saw me, he rushed forward, throwing his arms around me as his body trembled with uncontrollable sobs. His fingers clutched the fabric of my cloak tightly, as if afraid I would vanish. “Mom… my Mom…” His voice cracked, unable to finish the sentence. Instead, he buried his face in my chest, his small frame shaking violently.

  A sharp pang of sorrow stabbed through me. I held him close, resting a hand on his head as I gently stroked his messy hair. "I know, Sam," I murmured. "But listen to me. Your mother would want you to survive. She would want you to keep going. We need to focus on the next fight." My voice was soft, but firm.

  Sam sniffled, his breath still shaky, but he pulled back and wiped his tear-streaked face with the back of his sleeve. His eyes, though still red and swollen, now held a flicker of determination. "Okay, Sir. I'll be strong—for her."

  I nodded approvingly. "Good."

  With a wave of my hand, a faint green glow surrounded his battered body as I cast Rejuvenation, sealing his wounds and easing his pain.

  The meal they brought us was cold, tasteless, and barely edible, but we forced ourselves to eat. We needed every ounce of strength for what was coming next. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable—rather, it was the kind that preceded a storm, the calm before the chaos.

  Then, the moment arrived.

  A loud clang shattered the silence as the heavy iron door swung open violently. A towering, muscular man with a shaved head stomped inside, his scarred face devoid of emotion. Without a word, he knelt and unlocked the chains around our ankles, the metal clinking as they fell away.

  "Move." His voice was rough and commanding.

  Sam and I exchanged a glance before standing up. Our bodies were tense, but our steps were steady as we followed the guard down the dimly lit corridor. Each footstep echoed eerily, the weight of what was about to happen pressing down on us.

  Then, we emerged into the arena.

  The Pit stretched before us, a gaping, circular death trap surrounded by towering walls. The floor was uneven and stained with old blood, the very air thick with the stench of sweat, rust, and death. From above, the crowd erupted into wild cheers, their voices a deafening storm of bloodthirsty anticipation.

  I felt Sam stiffen beside me. I didn’t need to ask what he was feeling—I already knew. The overwhelming pressure of thousands of eyes watching. The sheer terror of standing in a place where people died for sport. The knowledge that the enemies standing across from us had every intention of spilling our blood.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Remember what we talked about. Focus."

  He exhaled shakily but nodded. "Right."

  A booming voice tore through the air as the announcer stepped forward, his presence commanding attention.

  "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! THE MAIN EVENT OF THE NIGHT—A SPECIAL TWO-ON-TWO DEATH MATCH!"

  The crowd erupted in cheers, stomping their feet against the stands.

  "ON ONE SIDE, WE HAVE THE CHALLENGERS—THE FLAMESTRIDER AND THE MIGHTY DRUID!"

  A mixture of cheers and jeers followed, though I could tell we weren’t the fan favorites here.

  "AND FACING THEM… THE DEADLIEST WARRIORS OF THE PITS, THE UNDISPUTED CHAMPIONS OF BLOODSHED—THE BUTCHER AND THE GIANT!"

  The Butcher—a dwarf with a grotesquely muscular frame, his skin covered in crude tattoos, and a wicked grin plastered across his scarred face. His massive cleaver rested on his shoulder, already stained with dried blood.

  Beside him stood The Giant, a towering beast of a barbarian, easily twice the height of an average warrior. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, his skin riddled with old battle wounds. He cracked his knuckles, the sound like boulders grinding together.

  Sam swallowed hard. "They look… strong."

  I smiled faintly. "So are we."

  The announcer raised his arms dramatically.

  "LET THE MATCH… BEGIN!"

  A deep drumbeat echoed through the arena.

  And then—they charged.