The night was thick with the stench of sweat and iron, the distant roar of the colosseum crowd seeping through the dungeon's cracked stone walls. "FINISH HIM!" "SPILL HIS GUTS!" Their voices slithered through the bars like serpents, hungry for blood.

  In the corner of his frigid cell, Breeze sat slumped against the wall, his breath shallow, each exhale a misty puff in the damp air. The flicker of a dying torch cast jagged shadows across his face, etching exhaustion into his sharp features.

  Drip! Drip! Drip!

  Water leaked from somewhere unseen, a steady rhythm counting down the moments until his next fight. Then—Hssssscrrrk—the dungeon door groaned open, its rusted hinges screeching like a wounded beast.

  A guard stomped inside, his boots splashing with a wet slosh in a shallow puddle. "Hey! Breeze, come out! It's your turn to dance!"

  Breeze rose slowly, muscles protesting with a dull crack from his joints. His body was a canvas of wounds and bruises, purple and yellow marks painting his torso. He dragged himself forward, each step sending a dull throb through his ribs. The tunnel ahead was a throat of darkness, lined with torches that spat and crackled—pop, hiss—their flames licking the moss-covered walls. Shadows twisted like living things—elongated claws, gaping maws—as if the very corridor led to the belly of a dragon.

  The guard grabbed his shoulder, fingers digging in like talons, no effect whatsoever could be noticed on Breeze’s side his muscles were too hard for a mere guard. "Listen, you little rat. You lose tonight. Give them a show, take the fall, or the manager will peel the flesh from your bones. Understood?" Hot breath reeking of sour wine assaulted Breeze's nostrils.

  Breeze's lips curled. "Heh." A dry, humorless sound that scraped against his parched throat. "Since when has he ever needed an excuse?"

  "What was that, you bastard?" The guard's fist clenched with a leather creak from his glove, but Breeze kept moving, ignoring the idiot who was talking. However, he couldn't ignore the fact that he was tired and hurt, with one hand pressed to his aching ribs, the other trailing along the rough stone wall for support, fingertips catching on jagged edges.

  Freedom in the colosseum was a fickle thing. Day fights were tame—controlled, bloodless farces that dragged on for years. But the night? The night was a slaughterhouse. The copper tang of death hung in the air like a fog. A series of brutal victories could buy a man's liberty... if he lived long enough to claim it.

  And now they wanted him to throw it all away

  They all knew Breeze always won, so they always bet on him. This caused the Colosseum's manager to lose a lot of money, so he later made Breeze participate in many fights, hoping he would lose and the manager could win his money back.

  .

  As Breeze stepped into the arena, the torches were in every corner clearing the vision, the crowd erupted—"KILL! KILL! KILL!"—their chants a thunderous drumbeat, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, shaking the sand beneath his feet. The stench of old blood and sweat clung to the air, mingling with the aroma of spiced wine and roasted meat from the spectators' refreshments.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice boomed, echoing off the towering marble walls streaked with ancient bloodstains. "The undefeated gladiator—the man who ends battles in a single strike—THE ONE TOUCH, BREEZE!"

  Breeze's jaw tightened with an audible click. "Tsk. Bunch of lunatics, no gentleness could be seen through them," he disgustedly spat on the ground with a wet ptui."WILL HE MAKE IT ANOTHER INSTANT VICTORY?! LET'S FIND OUT!"

  Across the arena, the opposing gate clanked open with a deafening CRASH, metal grinding against stone.

  Out stomped a man of the same size as Breeze—Drako the Butcher, his armor stained crimson, a gladius bouncing between his hands. The ground trembled with each step as the crowd howled. Drako pointed at Breeze with his index finger, then with his thumb made a gesture across his throat, drawing wild cheers from the bloodthirsty audience.

  Breeze exhaled, rolling his stiff shoulders with a series of small pops.

  'Tonight, someone dies.'

  "THE BATTLE THAT WE ALL WERE WAITING FOR! THE FIGHT BETWEEN THE TWO UNDEFEATED GLADIATORS! WHO WILL WIN AND WHO WILL DIE? LET'S GOOOOO!"

  The air crackled with tension as Drako lunged forward, his gladius slicing through the wind with a deadly whoosh! The brutal horizontal slash aimed to cleave Breeze in half—but the nimble fighter ducked low, feeling the blade whistle just inches above his scalp, stirring his sweat-drenched hair. Without hesitation, Breeze countered, driving a sharp thud! of his fist into Drako's ribs, the impact vibrating up his arm.

  Drako grunted, but the brute didn't stagger. Instead, his knee shot up like a battering ram—CRACK!—or at least, it should have shattered Breeze's face. But the young warrior was faster. His hands snapped out, grabbing Drako's knee mid-strike with a slap, shoving it aside while twisting his body away. The gladius came slashing down—SHING!—but Breeze was already gone, rolling back across the sand with a swish to regain distance, his chest heaving, sweat flying from his brow.

  Breeze fought barehanded, relying only on his bracers and reflexes. Drako, sensing weakness, pressed forward with relentless stabs—thrust-thrust-THWACK!—each strike forcing Breeze backward, his feet kicking up clouds of fine sand. The rhythm was set: Drako attacking, Breeze retreating. But the young gladiator wasn't just evading—his sharp eyes studied the pattern, the timing, the flow of Drako's assault.

  Then—the opening came.

  As Drako extended his arm for another piercing strike, Breeze leaned back, his leg snapping up in a lightning-fast backflip kick—BAM!—his heel smashed into Drako's wrist. The gladius clanged as it spiraled into the air with a whirr, glinting under the arena lights.

  But pain flared in Breeze's ribs—a deep, burning agony from past battles. He gritted his teeth, his body trembling as sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Drako's eyes widened in shock—his sword was gone. But then he saw Breeze clutching his side, face twisted in pain. A vicious grin split Drako's face, revealing yellowed teeth. He pounced, fists hammering down like falling stones—POW! CRUNCH! WHAM!—left, right, uppercut! Blood sprayed from Breeze's lips as the barrage sent him reeling, feet stumbling in the churned-up sand.

  Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.

  Breeze's vision blurred, specks of light dancing before his eyes. His knees buckled with a soft thump against the sand. The world spun, the roar of the crowd becoming distant, like the rush of water in his ears.

  "I'm so tired... Maybe I should just... sleep..."

  No.

  His eyes snapped open with renewed clarity. That wasn't him. That wasn't his will.

  And then—he saw it.

  Drako, sprinting toward him with thundering footsteps—thud-thud-thud—gladius reclaimed, eyes wild with bloodlust. The blade gleamed in the afternoon sun, hungry for a killing strike.

  Time slowed.

  Breeze's mind ignited. Instinct took over, his muscles coiling like springs.

  As Drako leaped, sword plunging down—SHINK!—Breeze's left arm jerked up, bracer deflecting the blade in a shower of sparks that scattered like fireflies. The gladius screeched against metal—scraaape—before thunking into the dirt with a dull chunk.

  No hesitation.

  Breeze's right hand shot forward—fingers rigid, muscles coiled—CRUNCH! His hardened fingers pierced Drako's throat like a spear, breaking through skin and muscle with a wet, sickening sound.

  Blood erupted with a gush.

  A gurgling gahk escaped Drako as his eyes bulged, veins popping beneath his skin. Crimson rained down on Breeze, hot and thick, spattering across his face and chest. With a final, merciless shove, Breeze wrenched his hand free with a squelching schlick, sending Drako collapsing to the sand with a heavy thump.

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  The crowd exploded, their roars shaking the very foundations of the colosseum.

  "WHAT A BRUTAL FINISH! WHAT INCREDIBLE REFLEXES!" the announcer bellowed, voice cracking with excitement. "BREEZE STANDS UNDEFEATED—35 WINS, 0 LOSSES! THE KING OF THE COLOSSEUM!"

  Breeze rose, chest heaving, blood dripping from his fingers and pattering on the sand—plip, plip, plip. His gaze locked onto Drako, who twitched, choking on his own lifeblood, heels drumming weakly against the ground.

  "Sigh... You brought this upon yourself," Breeze muttered, his voice barely audible above the crowd's frenzy. "But I won't let you suffer, even though you are a piece of trash."

  In one swift motion, he snatched the fallen gladius—SWISH!—the blade cleaved through Drako's neck, silencing his struggles forever. The head rolled a short distance with a soft tumble.

  The arena roared in frenzy, a wave of sound crashing against the walls.

  Breeze lifted the severed head high by its matted hair, blood still dripping with a steady pattern, not in triumph, but as a warning.

  "This is the fate of those who challenge me."

  The crowd screamed, chanted, demanded more, their stomping feet creating a rhythmic boom-boom-boom that shook dust from the ancient stones.

  But Breeze only felt disgust, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth.

  Tossing the head aside with a soft thud

  "... You twisted monster..." he whispered.

  The blood-soaked sand drank it all in with a greedy hiss.

  ***

  "Hey Ivar, do you recall what you told me about gladiators?" Jasper asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after a hearty meal, the rich scent of spiced meat still lingering in the air.

  "Yes, I do," Ivar replied, raising an eyebrow as if he were expecting Jasper's next words. His fingers traced the rim of his empty wooden cup, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

  "Do you want to visit the Colosseum?"

  "Now?" Ivar answered with a question, his tone revealing his disagreement with the idea. His shoulders tensed visibly beneath his clothes.

  "When, then?"

  "I mean, we can't leave Mina and Lysandra alone, master. They are women, and this place is a bit scary for them to be alone." Ivar's eyes darted toward the window, where the dimness of the moonless night stretches its shadows across the cobblestone streets.

  "You don't need to worry about them. This building is well-built and fortified. It's not easy for well-trained knights to get in here, let alone a bunch of useless criminals." Jasper gestured confidently at the thick oak door and sturdy stone walls surrounding them.

  Lysandra, who had been listening from her seat by the hearth, kept looking at Ivar with a knowing smirk, her dark eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "No need to worry about Mina sleeping alone tonight; we will sleep together." Her fingers casually brushed against Mina's arm.

  "Ahem, that's not the issue here..." Ivar tried to find another excuse yet got interrupted by Lysandra.

  "Yeah, that's not the issue here. The ISSUE is that you will be the one to sleep alone tonight. Heh heh heh." Lysandra's laughter hung in the warm air of the room, making Ivar's cheeks flush crimson.

  Mina kept sipping her tea, the fragrant steam rising before her face, trying not to involve herself in an embarrassing situation. Even Ivar's visual signals for help—wide eyes and subtle head tilts—couldn't penetrate her carefully constructed walls of indifference. Truthfully, she was about to die of embarrassment.

  "Okay, we're done here. Let's go, Ivar. I hope we can find someone of use for us there." Jasper rose from his seat, the wooden chair scraping against the stone floor.

  With tears falling like cascades from his eyes, Ivar went alongside Jasper to the Colosseum on Thunder's wagon—one of the two horses that Azm had bought. The powerful steed was quite fast, his hooves striking the packed earth with rhythmic precision, reaching their destination in no time. The evening air rushed past them, carrying the scent of the city—smoke, sweat, and excitement.

  There, they joined the general citizen group seats, or they would have to split up—making Jasper go with the rich group and Ivar with the slaves' group—so he decided to stay together with Ivar in the medium group. The stone tiers were smooth yet uncomfortable because of the cold stones; still, they offered a clear view of the arena below.

  After a cup of tea's time, runners—who were members of the Colosseum—stopped at every seat to collect the bets, halting in front of Jasper. A man with a slim stature extended his hand, his fingernails dirty, his palms calloused.

  Jasper kept looking at him in confusion. "What do you want?"

  The runner stared in bewilderment, his brow furrowing. "Your bet?"

  "Who's fighting?"

  "Are you really asking? You seem new here." The runner rolled his eyes, drops of sweat beading on his forehead in the humid air. "It's between The One Touch, Breeze, and The Butcher, Drako. Now, who are you going to bet on?" His hand remained outstretched, fingers twitching impatiently.

  "Thanks, but I'm not going to bet." Jasper's voice was firm.

  "Huh? What?" The runner's face contorted with disbelief, as if Jasper had spoken in a foreign tongue.

  “Don’t come here if you are not going to bet, you fool,” he said with a disgusted tone and gaze as he continued his way.

  "These people seem to hate anyone who doesn't bet," Ivar got close and whispered in Jasper's ear, his breath warm against Jasper's skin, the problem was the onion's scent of the dinner still lingering.

  "Who cares about them? Gambling is your fastest way toward poverty." Jasper shrugged fanning with his hand to push away the scent, settling more comfortably on the hard stone.

  As the gladiators entered and the shouts of the crowd grew louder with all the horrific, murderous vocabulary, they all cried in one go, making Jasper flinch. The sound washed over the arena like a physical wave. "What are those lunatics yelling for?" covering his ears.

  "I heard there were people in the ancient past who would die to see a celebrity. Once they appeared in front of them, they lost their minds and started shouting, losing all sense. I think they are the same." Ivar whispered, covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes surveying the frenzied crowd. "We can also add the fact that these people like seeing blood flowing in the air. So yeah, they are lunatics through and through."

  When the fights started, Jasper was amazed by how skillful Breeze was. His movements were fluid and precise, like water flowing around obstacles. Drako, too, was a good gladiator; however, the skill gap was obvious. The only problem was that Breeze looked tired, his chest heaving with each breath, sweat glistening on his brow under the torchlight. "This fighter, though top-notch, looks abnormally out of condition."

  "Gary, the Colosseum manager, hates Breeze to the bone—though not a lot of people know about that," said a burly man seated beside him, leaning close enough that Jasper could smell the garlic on his breath. "He constantly gives him difficult fights with little time to reset. His last fight was a tough one, and he got hit in the ribs. It looked painful; however, he was still fighting. I really like this guy, but I can't bet on him. Like everyone else, nearly all the bets were against him this time. We all know that he is better than Drako, but we can't risk losing our money on him, knowing that he's on the verge of falling." The man spoke with the practiced confidence of someone feigning deeper knowledge.

  Jasper glanced at the speaker, studying his eager expression, then he asked, "Why did the announcer call him The One Touch, Breeze?"

  "As his name, Breeze—it's not easy to catch him. Technically speaking, the breeze isn't something to catch. It just shows how difficult it is to hit him." The man gestured expansively, warming to his subject. "In the last 34 fights, he only got hit probably once or twice each combat, and it was impossible to dodge the hits. As for The One Touch title—half of his fights ended with only one hit, waiting for the right time to deliver a sure blow."

  As the fight kept going, Jasper felt how good it would be to have such a fighter with him. His mind raced with possibilities, watching Breeze's every calculated move with growing admiration.

  When Breeze's fingers pierced through Drako's throat, the entire Colosseum fell silent. The sudden hush was deafening, as if the very air had been sucked from the arena. A few seconds later, the crowd exploded, their roars shaking the very foundations of the arena, the sound reverberating through Jasper's chest.

  "WHAT A BRUTAL FINISH! WHAT INCREDIBLE REFLEXES!" the announcer bellowed, voice cracking with excitement. "BREEZE STANDS UNDEFEATED—35 WINS, 0 LOSSES! THE KING OF THE COLOSSEUM!"

  Forgetting about their bets, they saw how insane the fight was—not all of them, for sure. Some were crying for losing their money, tears streaming down flushed faces, while the wealthy ones were fascinated in a perverted way, their eyes gleaming with dark pleasure from their cushioned seats.

  The manager grew furious as he saw Breeze win. His face contorted with rage, veins bulging at his temples. He nearly destroyed his surroundings, his fist connecting with a wooden table that splintered under the impact, if not for his subordinate arriving swiftly with good news.

  "Master Gary! Good news!" The subordinate's voice was breathless with excitement.

  Gary's eyes were blood-red, stopping himself with difficulty to hear the news. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his seat.

  "Master, all bets were placed on Drako winning—with either Breeze's death or miserable defeat."

  The same eyes that were red instantly whitened, his expression transforming in an instant. "Yeeeeeeaaaaa! Luck is on my side tonight!" Pausing for a second, his thin lips curled into a cruel smile, then he added, "Give Breeze a merciful gift for his lucky disobedience." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

  "With pleasure, master," an evil smirk drawn on the subordinate's face as he slipped away, his footsteps quick and purposeful on the stone floor.

  …

  "This is the fate of those who challenge me." Breeze's voice carried across the now-hushed arena, his words hanging in the air.

  As Breeze threw the head of Drako aside, the severed head rolling across the blood-soaked sand, a piercing arrow cut through the air and struck him in the chest—a farewell gift from the manager. The impact drove him back a step, his eyes widening with shock and understanding.

  "Gary, you twisted monster..." he whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, unable to finish his words before falling down. His body hit the sand with a finality that silenced even the most raucous spectators. The crimson stain spread across his chest, darkening the already blood-spattered arena floor.

  , please don't expect an everyday chapter. I'm trying to write whenever I find the time. Probably, once a week or twice if I'm able to.