Death Arena

"Lieutenant, what is the art of taking a hit?" a timid black youth inquired.

Lieutenant Ronan nodded and explained, "Good question. Taking a hit is also a science. In battle, getting hurt is inevitable. How to minimize the damage requires a thorough understanding of the situation and your own body. Only then will you understand what it means to take the lesser blow. Let me give you a simple example..."

He approached an iron bed stained with blood. A girl lay naked and motionless on it, her left ear and cheek marred by fresh whip marks. She had been whipped to death by an instructor, and Ronan callously dragged her body to the floor, turning her head to the side to point at the ear area, "You see, this is what happens when you don't know how to protect yourself. Compared to the head or ears, her arm could have taken much more damage. If only she had known to protect her head with her arms, the worst she would have suffered was an arm injury, not the loss of her life!"

"And speaking of the arm," Ronan continued as he gestured to an instructor, who handed him a dagger. With a swift motion, he sliced into the corpse's shoulder, "Look, the muscles and fat here are thicker. A cut here would just break the skin, bleed a little. But if you're cut here..." 

The dagger flashed again, this time cutting into the wrist's artery. The recently deceased body, its blood not yet fully coagulated, spurted out like an arrow, splattering Ronan's face and head. Unfazed, he wiped his face and sneered, "See clearly now? You little shits, if you want to survive, you must start by understanding yourselves. That way, you'll know which part can take a hit to survive and which is likely to be fatal when under attack."

Ronan then used the girl's body as a teaching tool, giving the youths a vivid anatomy lesson with the dagger. By the time the lesson was over, the girl's body was mutilated, her organs even extracted. The barrack reeked of blood; the instructors were expressionless, but nine out of ten children were vomiting their guts out.

Asher didn't vomit; he had seen far bloodier scenes. But his face was pale, disturbed by Ronan's callousness in treating the girl's body like nothing, especially since she had been alive just minutes before.

Ronan looked satisfied at the children's reactions and had the instructors note the numbers of those who hadn't vomited. He noticed Asher and approached, "You did well, kid. I've got my eye on you. You're more agile and alert than the others. Tell me, what's your name?"

"Asher."

"Alright, Asher. Let me guess, was your father a hunter?"

"No, I have no father. My mother died when I was five," Asher replied.

Even Ronan seemed surprised. If the skills this white-haired kid had weren't taught by his parents, then it was likely he had figured them out on his own. That meant he had been living in the wild for a long time. With this thought, Ronan's interest in him intensified.

"I like you, Asher. So you see, try to survive until the end," he said, patting Asher's shoulder so hard it nearly shattered.

After Lieutenant Ronan left the barrack, he returned to his office and had an instructor bring Asher's file. Matching the number in the file, Ronan chuckled, "It seems someone's trying to pull a fast one right under my nose."

According to the file, number 666 should have been a boy named Bess, not the current Asher. Moreover, this Bess had a father who ran a mine, which was very different from Asher's circumstances. Ronan called an instructor and tossed the file at him, "Who brought this brat here?"

"It was Lewin, lieutenant," the instructor quickly replied.

"Good, bring Lewin to me."

Back in the barrack, two soldiers brought some ointment for the children to treat their wounds. After applying the ointment, Asher took out the manual he had been given earlier. Before he was five, Loretta had taught him many things, the most important of which was reading. In this barrack, most of the children couldn't understand what was written in the manual, but Asher could grasp the gist of it.

The Death Arena was a product of the post-Dawn Battle era. The federal government, established on the ruins, organized this competition to remind future generations of the great war and the importance of survival. Initially, the Death Arena was only held on the floating islands. Later, as the population surged and countless people were driven to the surface, and as tensions between the floating islands and the surface grew, the eligibility for the Death Arena was extended to the surface. Every two years, the system randomly selects federal citizens from 22 surface districts. They are mostly youths aged ten to fifteen who, after training and elimination, leave only one person per district to compete, making a total of 22 contestants fighting for their lives in a designated area on Babylon, the floating island.

The winner receives numerous rewards, including weapons, start-up funds, and official residency rights on the floating island. Some lucky ones are even taken in by noble families, gaining access to more resources and opportunities for advancement.

Most importantly, the victor has the privilege of choosing 5 to 10 direct family members to relocate to the floating island with them. For surface dwellers, this is an enormous temptation.

In short, the Death Arena is a crucial opportunity for surface citizens to change their fate. The condition is, you must survive and be the last one standing!

Just as Asher finished reading the manual, a pig-like scream came from outside. He and the other children crowded at the windows to see what was happening in the square. There, a chubby man was tied up, and Lieutenant Ronan was whipping him mercilessly. Asher recognized the man; he was the military official who conspired with Hern to have him replace Hern's son in the Death Arena.

Then, an instructor entered the barrack, shouting, "Number 666, step forward!"

Asher complied and was led to the square. After Ronan's final lash, the chubby man was covered in blood, his head hanging low, unclear whether he was unconscious or dead. Fresh from whipping someone, Ronan's face was ferocious, his killing intent uncontrolled. Standing before Asher, the boy's complexion turned even paler, but he straightened his back and said nothing.

Ronan's killing aura subsided slightly as he spoke, "I've checked, and this number wasn't supposed to be yours. Lewin, that pig, confessed he took a bribe. I hate it when people challenge my intelligence. That fat pig and Hern's family deserve to die!"

"As for you..." Ronan continued, "You can choose to stay and continue training or leave. I'm feeling generous for once, so you'd better seize the opportunity."

Asher bit his lip and held up the manual, "I want to know if what's written here is true. I mean the rewards."

"It's true," Ronan said, taking a towel from an instructor to wipe his hands, then looking up at the sky, "Although now, the Death Arena has lost its original flavor under the manipulation of those noble lords. But one thing remains unchanged: its rewards are still generous, generous enough to change people's fates."

"Then I choose to stay," Asher said through gritted teeth.

Ronan looked down, narrowing his eyes, "Why? If it were those kids in the barrack, they'd be dying to leave this hell. Believe me, I've been exceptionally lenient today. From now on, your days will only get tougher."

Asher shook his head, his crimson eyes calm and icy, "Because I need to change my fate, so I have the strength to settle some scores with certain people!"

Ronan stared at Asher, who did not avert his gaze. After a moment, the lieutenant nodded, "Alright, if you willingly stay in hell, be prepared to turn yourself into a devil. Otherwise, you're certain not to survive."

After sending Asher back, Ronan told an instructor beside him, "I'm growing quite fond of this kid. He has a goal in his eyes, like a wolf ready to hunt. If he survives to the end, I pity his prey."

The instructor forced a smile, his face slightly uneasy. After all, those familiar with Ronan knew that being liked by him was not a good thing.

At four in the morning, when dreams are sweetest, a sharp and urgent whistle suddenly pierced the silence of the barrack. Asher instantly opened his eyes and leaped from the iron bed, dashing to the nearest window and flipping out. He slept fully clothed, even with his boots on. Many of the other youths, for the sake of comfort, had undressed, and upon hearing the whistle, the more alert ones ran out of the barrack without bothering to dress, while others hesitated whether to put on their clothes.

Within just 10 seconds, Asher was the first to reach the parade ground. Then a dozen or so other youths arrived, dressed neatly in their uniforms, clearly having slept without undressing. The third group to arrive were seven or eight kids in just their trousers, and the slowest ones, only five, managed to make it before the deadline.

As the 15-second mark passed, the ferocious instructors stormed into the barrack, and the sounds of whipping and the screams of the youths followed. The four who hadn't managed to run out in time each received five lashes from the instructors, who showed no mercy, whipping them until they bled before driving them out.

Seeing the four bloodied youths, the others shivered. Ronan spoke calmly, "This was the first mistake, and I gave them five lashes each as a reminder. Their numbers will be noted by the instructors, and if they err again, the punishment will double. It will continue to double until they stop making mistakes or until they're dead."

"Alright, you little shits, start running. Run around the parade ground until I tell you to stop, understood?"

"Understood!"

The youths responded in unison.