They will be Calling me

In the cold, damp cell, the reality of tomorrow's battle weighs heavily on my mind. The walls feel like they're closing in, the silence only broken by the distant sounds of the village at night. No one has explained anything to me, no one has brought me food. Though small, the silver-haired woman's muffin was a fleeting comfort, barely holding back the gnawing hunger in my stomach.

The night guard is a grim figure, hardly speaking a word. He only interacts with a hooded visitor who slips in silently, the brown cloak hiding their features. I strain to see their face, but the hood is drawn low, obscuring everything but the faint glint of their eyes in the dim light.

They approach my cell with a purposeful stride. The hooded figure questions me about the stolen medicine. I repeat the same plea I gave the white-haired woman earlier. I told them I didn't take anything; I wouldn't even know what it looked like. They listen, their eyes sharp and unyielding.

"Are you sure you don't remember anything else?" the figure asks, their voice muffled by the hood.

"I don't," I insist, my voice breaking with frustration and fear. "I don't know anything about it. Please, let me go."

They shake their head slowly. "We can't let you go. The only way to win your freedom is to fight in the Colosseum tomorrow. That's your only chance."

As they speak, I feel a shiver of dread. The Colosseum—the very name sounds like a tombstone, the final resting place for many who've dared to step into its brutal embrace. They leave me a meat pie on the cold stone floor. "Sorry, this is the longest we could delay your fate. Enjoy your last night," they say, their tone heavy with regret.

The door clangs shut behind them, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Though cold and unappetizing, the pie is the only thing I have. I pick at it, the taste a bitter reminder of my grim reality. The small cell, with its damp walls and the faint stench of mildew, feels more like a prison of my thoughts than a place of confinement.

I can't shake the image of the hooded visitor, their cryptic questions, and the cold determination in their eyes. The silver-haired woman's face lingers in my mind, her distaste and the brief flicker of pity she showed. And Lady Morgana's chilling words still echo in my ears, promising pain and torture if I don't reveal the potion's whereabouts.

I curl up on the rough straw mattress, the cold seeping into my bones. The fear of the Colosseum gnaws at me, but so does the gnawing hunger and the pain in my chest. Tomorrow, it seems, is not just a fight for survival; it's a battle for my very soul.

As the night deepens, the darkness around me grows heavier. I close my eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on me.

The trip by carriage to the Colosseum was rough. I was taken from my cell early in the morning before sunrise and stuffed into a small jail carriage drawn by horses. The road was bumpy, each jolt rattling my bones and adding to my growing dread. The darkness of the pre-dawn hours seeped into my soul, making everything feel even more ominous.

We arrived at the Colosseum and were brought to the inner chambers. Our group was divided and mixed with other prisoners. I found myself among the Gladiator class. I was not in good health—my black hair was unkempt, and my sunken eyes stood out among the group. Many of them looked like seasoned warriors, their bodies strong and prepared for the fight ahead.

As we waited, the same hooded person from before approached me. They leaned in close, their voice a low whisper. "If you are to run, now is your chance." They handed me a key to my shackles and locks, beckoning me to follow. "My lady does not wish to see you harmed. She believes you."

I took the key, my heart pounding. "Wait, so Lady Morgana believes I am innocent?" I asked in a raspy voice as we walked.

"No, but my Lady does," the hooded figure replied, handing me a warm meat pie. "Therefore, we have arranged for your opponent to take what we call a dramatic fall and allow you to win. You will plead for your freedom and be granted it. You will leave the southern region and consider a life debt paid."

I did not fully understand, but the hooded man's face, now slightly more visible, seemed familiar though unrecognizable. He led me to a Colosseum guard who took me the rest of the way, saying nothing more to me. As we walked, I could only think about why someone who sounded disgusted with me would be helping me, and who their lady was.

I was placed in a dank cell, the sound of a roaring crowd above me. Other inmates laughed and taunted me and each other, the air thick with fear and anticipation. I prayed everything would work out, clutching the key tightly in my hand.

"Cai... I could use you, buddy. Where are you?" I whispered into the void, but all there was, was silence.

The minutes felt like hours as I waited, the noise of the crowd growing louder and more frenzied. The cold stone walls of the cell pressed in on me, the dank smell of sweat and fear filling my nostrils. I tried to eat the meat pie, but my stomach churned with anxiety, making it hard to swallow.

Finally, the cell door creaked open, and the guard beckoned me forward. "It's time," he said gruffly.

I followed him down a dimly lit corridor, my heart in my throat. The sounds of the Colosseum grew louder with each step, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave of noise. As we neared the entrance, the hooded man appeared again, just out of sight of the guards. He gave me a final nod, his eyes filled with a strange mix of hope and resignation.

"Remember," he whispered. "Plead for your freedom and be granted it. Your life depends on it."

I nodded, unable to find my voice, and stepped into the blinding light of the arena. The crowd's roar was a living thing, surrounding me. I squinted, trying to adjust to the brightness, my heart pounding in my chest.

The center of the arena was a vast, open space, surrounded by towering stands filled with cheering and jeering spectators. The ground was a mix of dirt and sand, stained with the blood of countless battles. The sun beat down from above, adding to the oppressive heat and tension of the moment.

An arena host, a flamboyant figure in bright, flowing robes, stepped forward, his voice booming across the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to today's grand spectacle! On the right, we have the son of Big Mountain, a true giant among men—Little MOUNTAIN!"

The crowd roared in approval as Little Mountain stepped forward. He was enormous, his body encased in leather-strapped armor. His head was adorned with a leather helm, and animal fur draped over his shoulders. The sight of him sent a wave of horror through me. Was this my opponent? What the hell?

"And to the left," the host continued, his voice dripping with disdain, "we have the thief called Hiro!" The crowd booed loudly, and I felt their hatred wash over me. The host detailed crimes I had not committed, but still, shame weighed heavily on my shoulders.

I felt small and insignificant in the center of the massive arena, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. Across from me, Little Mountain stood, a towering figure. He met my gaze, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition and understanding in his eyes.

The signal was given, and the fight began. Little Mountain moved forward, his steps slow and deliberate. I held my ground, the key hidden in my hand, praying that everything would go as planned. The hooded man's words echoed in my mind, and I clung to them like a lifeline.

As the fight progressed, it became clear that Little Mountain was holding back, making his movements sluggish and exaggerated. The crowd roared in approval, unaware of the charade. I fought as best I could, my body weak and untrained, but my opponent made sure I looked competent.

At one point, I threw a punch with all my might, but even I was shocked at how weak it felt. Little Mountain's eyes widened in surprise, and the crowd's cheers faltered. The charade was on the verge of breaking.

Thinking quickly, Little Mountain called out, "Uhhh... DELAYED PUNCH!" The words sounded ridiculous, and the crowd's reaction was one of confusion and disgust. Even Little Mountain looked embarrassed, but he sold the attack with impressive theatrics, launching himself backward as if my punch had great force.

The crowd hesitated, unsure how to react, but then began to cheer as Little Mountain stumbled dramatically, clutching his side as if mortally wounded. With a dramatic flourish, he fell to the ground, writhing in apparent agony.

The crowd booed at my victory, their anger palpable. Cries of outrage filled the air, accusations of the system being rigged echoing through the stands. My heart pounded as I noticed a group of well-dressed individuals near the judges, their silence standing in stark contrast to the chaos around them. Among them, the judge of the contest, a well-dressed man sitting next to a large individual wearing a crown, rose to his feet.

"It's been brought to my attention that this match has been treated with unfair bias," the judge announced, his voice carrying across the arena.

Horror washed over me. They were on to us. Panic gripped me, and even Little Mountain, who was trying his best to play injured, looked horrified. The judge's next words confirmed our worst fears.

"This ruins the integrity of our games. We know many of you placed bets on Little Mountain to win, and we are aware of the betting ratios," the judge continued. He turned his gaze to Little Mountain. "Little Mountain, stand to your feet."

Little Mountain remained motionless, his eyes wide with fear.

"Little Mountain, do not test my patience. Your sister is no more than a mere pebble compared to you and will break much easier."

The threat was clear, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Little Mountain's face twisted in horror, and he immediately stood to his feet, the crowd's boos growing louder. His shame was evident, and my panic only intensified.

The judge looked down on us with a disdainful expression. It was then I noticed who was sitting next to him—Lucan. Amongst the well-dressed individuals were Lady Morgana and her entourage, their faces stern and unforgiving. More people joined the silent assembly, their presence ominous.

"There is only one punishment for the crime that these two failures, who dare call themselves gladiators, have to meet," the judge declared, his voice cold and final.

"Death!" Lucan called out, his voice ringing through the arena.

The crowd erupted into chants of death, their bloodlust overwhelming. I felt the world closing in around me, the walls of the Colosseum seemingly shrinking. My heart raced, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. Little Mountain stood there, his massive frame trembling with fear and shame.

At that moment, everything seemed lost. The hooded man's words, the plan, the hope of freedom—it all crumbled into dust. The crowd's chants grew louder, their calls for our deaths a deafening roar.

The judge raised his hand, signaling for silence. The crowd quieted, their eyes fixed on him.

"We will break the back of the mountain, but the life of the thief shall become our entertainment," the judge declared, his voice cold and merciless. "Sir Lucan will see to it personally."

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, their bloodlust palpable. I looked around in horror and despair, my heart sinking further with every cheer. This was it—there was no escape, no more hope. I couldn't do this anymore.

Little Mountain was dragged away, his fate sealed. My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground, my body trembling. The world around me seemed to spin, the noise of the crowd blending into a chaotic roar.

From the other side of the arena, Lucan stepped forward. He was well-armed, with a gleaming sword in one hand and a sadistic grin on his face. His eyes were fixed on me, filled with a cruel anticipation.

"This is your end, thief," he taunted, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. "Prepare yourself."

As he approached, the weight of the moment pressed down on me like never before. Fear and desperation clawed at my mind, but there was no way out. Lucan raised his sword, the blade catching the sunlight, and I could see the glee in his eyes.

The crowd's chants of "Death! Death! Death!" echoed in my ears, a relentless, terrifying chorus. I felt my strength draining away, the resolve I had tried to muster crumbling to dust.

Lucan's grin widened as he closed the distance between us, his steps deliberate and confident. The sword in his hand gleamed menacingly, a symbol of the end that awaited me. My heart pounded, my breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

This was it. My final stand.