A thunderous roar shook the air, the cries of hundreds—no, thousands—echoing through the Maw, the gladiatorial arena carved deep into the heart of Korr’s Maw. The structure loomed like the ribcage of a great beast, its jagged walls towering over the pit where countless warriors had fought, bled, and died. The arena’s floor, a mixture of compacted dirt and ancient bloodstains, felt almost alive beneath Joran’s boots, pulsing with the memories of slaughter.

  He strode forward with Vermillion Fang in hand, the weight of the enchanted blade grounding him against the overwhelming noise. The heat of countless torches bathed the stands in flickering orange light, illuminating the jeering faces of warriors, mercenaries, and slavers, their laughter cruel and hungry. The scent of sweat, ale, and roasted meat hung thick in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of rusted iron and old blood.

  Joran’s gaze swept across the stands, taking in the grotesque spectacle that surrounded him. Warriors leaned against the railings, exchanging bets on whether the prince would last longer than the last poor soul thrown into the pit. Slavers lounged with their ‘property’—mythic men and women forced to kneel by their sides, their faces hollow with resignation. Some still carried the spark of rebellion in their eyes, while others had long since been broken.

  A particularly loud cheer erupted from the crowd, drawing Joran’s attention to the grand viewing box, an elevated platform overlooking the carnage.

  There, seated upon a great throne of dark iron and monstrous bones, was Varkul, the tyrant of Korr’s Maw. The warlord lounged lazily, exuding an air of unshakable dominance, as if he had already decided the outcome of this match before it had even begun.

  At his feet, his personal harem of enslaved mythics knelt in humiliating positions, their barely concealed bodies pressed against the stone, their faces blank masks of obedience. A feline beastkin, a Felari, coiled her tail around his leg, forced into affection she clearly did not feel. An elven woman poured more dark wine into his goblet, her hands trembling as she tried not to spill a single drop. A siren sat stiffly beside him, her voice silenced save for when Varkul willed it.

  But it wasn’t his presence that made Joran’s stomach churn with rage—it was the thing he was eating. Varkul tore into a hunk of roasted meat, his teeth sinking into it with an almost animalistic glee. The juices ran down his chin, staining his beard red as he ripped away another chunk.

  And then Joran saw it.

  A bone jutted out from the cooked flesh, unnaturally long for animal meat. A sickening realization crashed over Joran like a tidal wave of ice. The charred flesh, the grotesque shape—it was a leg. A human leg.

  No—not just human.

  The elf.

  The very woman he had killed in the throne room. The innocent elf Varkul had so casually crushed in his grasp now lay upon his plate, her body desecrated and devoured as if she were nothing more than livestock.

  Joran’s breath hitched. His vision narrowed, rage flaring inside him like a wildfire as his grip on Vermillion Fang tightened. The leather of the hilt creaked under the force of his hold, his knuckles turning white. A burning heat coiled in his chest, crawling up his throat like bile.

  That bastard. That fucking monster.

  The warlord, as if sensing Joran’s revelation, looked directly at him and grinned. His sharp, predatory teeth gleamed in the torchlight, his expression one of pure amusement. He knew. He wanted Joran to realize it. He wanted him to suffer in the knowledge of it.

  Joran’s pulse thundered in his ears. His magic flared instinctively, sending faint golden embers flickering along the blade’s surface. The world around him faded, leaving only Varkul in his sights, the monstrous warlord reveling in his own cruelty.

  Just as the pressure in Joran’s chest reached its peak, a voice boomed across the arena, cutting through the tension like a blade.

  The announcer had arrived.

  The booming voice of the announcer exploded through the arena, ringing out with an almost unnatural strength, as if woven with magic to be heard in every corner of the Maw. The crowd roared in response, a chaotic symphony of cheers, jeers, and drunken howls, their voices colliding in an overwhelming maelstrom of excitement and bloodlust.

  “WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO THE MAW!”

  Joran winced slightly, though he made sure his expression remained neutral. He couldn't see the announcer, which meant the voice was being projected from some unseen balcony or magical device. He scanned the arena, but his instincts told him that his true concern lay beyond the announcer’s voice.

  “Today, we bring you a truly special event! A tale of legend, a moment of history in the making!”

  The crowd's fervor grew, boots stomping against the wooden and stone seating, fists pounding against tables, tankards slamming onto the ledges. Some barked for blood, others screamed for the thrill of a new fight.

  “In the pit today, we have a warrior unlike any other! A child of two worlds! A son of legends!” The announcer’s voice carried an unmistakable mockery, though the audience was too swept up in their excitement to care.

  Joran shifted slightly, his grip tightening on Vermillion Fang. He knew what was coming.

  “That’s right! In our arena, we have the son of the DRAGON KING and the QUEEN OF THE WESTERN DRAGONS themselves!”

  The crowd erupted. The name of the Dragon King still held power and fear, and to hear his bloodline spoken aloud sent a ripple through the spectators. Some cheered wildly, eager to see what the offspring of such a powerful union could do. Others booed, sneered, and spat, calling for his death.

  “But alas! This little hatchling has yet to prove his strength!” the announcer declared with feigned disappointment.

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  Laughter rippled through the stands, cruel and mocking.

  “And he already failed his first challenge! That’s right! He faced our mighty warlord… AND HE LOST!”

  A deafening roar of approval rolled through the arena. Joran clenched his jaw as his gaze instinctively flickered up toward the high balcony, where Varkul lounged upon his throne.

  The warlord, ever the showman, grinned as he set aside his half-eaten meal, rising to his feet with a theatrical motion. He raised his thick, muscular arms into the air, flexing for the crowd, basking in their adoration like a self-crowned god. The moment he did, the cheers doubled in intensity.

  These people really worship him.

  Joran’s stomach twisted with revulsion. Not because they saw him as strong—but because they saw him as justified. A ruler of monsters and murderers, of slavers and killers, and yet… they adored him.

  The announcer, enjoying the crowd’s reaction, let the cheering go on for a few moments longer before raising his voice again.

  “And so, here he is! The fool who challenges the Maw! The prey of the pit! The LASTBORN of the Dragon King!” The announcer took a deep breath, stretching out the final declaration as he shouted, “PRIIIIIIIIIIIIINCE JORAN!!”

  A fresh wave of cheers, jeers, and taunts rang out as Joran forced himself to remain stone-faced. His fingers curled slightly tighter around his blade’s hilt, but he didn’t react beyond that. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  His eyes swept over the crowd, past the cheering slavers and warriors, and onto the others. The ones who weren’t cheering. The ones who weren’t drinking or celebrating.

  The slaves.

  They stood silently behind their masters, some watching with wide, hopeful eyes, others staring at the ground, their expressions deadened, their spirits long since broken. Joran felt a sinking weight settle in his chest.

  If they had once believed in the dream of Lothara, they had lost all hope of it now. Seeing its prince in chains, forced to fight for amusement, proved to them that even the so-called kingdom of freedom was powerless against the cruelty of the Maw.

  He had to change that. He had to find a way out. Not just for himself—but for them.

  The announcer let the noise settle before continuing, his voice dripping with anticipation.

  “But our dear prince is not alone in the pit!”

  Joran’s head snapped toward the opposite gate. A heavy rumbling filled the air as the gate began to grind open, revealing a dark void beyond its threshold. The crowd hushed, as if holding their breath. And then, a lone figure emerged.

  A piercing blue eye gleamed from beneath the shadow of the hood, a stark contrast against the darkness that clung to the figure as he strode forward. His movements were eerily fluid, almost casual, each step unhurried yet deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The moment he entered the pit, the crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch, the energy in the arena shifting from wild anticipation to sheer exhilaration.

  Joran watched him closely, noting the way the stranger carried himself—calm, calculated, completely unshaken. Unlike the bloodthirsty warriors he had encountered in this place, this man exuded no outward aggression. There was no swagger, no arrogance, no posturing. Just an unsettling stillness that sent a chill crawling up Joran’s spine.

  This isn’t just some thug looking for glory. The warrior stopped a mere twenty feet away from Joran, his presence imposing despite his lack of theatrics. His cloak was long, ragged from years of battle, its black fabric outlined in crimson, giving the illusion of dripping blood against the tattered ends.

  Then, with an almost leisurely motion, the man reached up and pulled back his hood.

  A hush fell over a portion of the crowd—a reverence reserved only for warriors of legend. Others erupted in renewed cheers, laughter, and chants, the mere reveal of this fighter’s face sending the arena into chaos.

  The man beneath the hood was young, his features sharp and well-defined, his expression one of pure boredom. Short black hair, slightly unkempt, framed a face devoid of emotion. His gaze flicked lazily to Joran, studying him the way one might examine a mild inconvenience, a thing to be dealt with rather than an opponent worth acknowledging.

  Joran narrowed his eyes, gripping Vermillion Fang tightly. No weapons. No armor. No clear signs of strength. And yet… the man stood with the confidence of a god.

  What am I missing?

  Then the announcer’s voice thundered through the Maw once more, his excitement reaching its peak.

  “And now, his opponent!”

  The cheers swelled, rising in waves as bets were placed, drinks were raised, and the gamblers of the Maw prepared to profit from what they believed would be an easy match. “Other than the big boss himself, he is the only man to ALWAYS leave a fight unscathed!”

  Joran’s eyes narrowed further. Unscathed?

  “This warrior has claimed FIFTY total victories and ZERO losses! A flawless record!”

  That number alone made Joran’s grip on his sword tighten. There were many strong fighters in the Maw, but fifty consecutive wins? That wasn’t just skill—it was something unnatural.

  This man has never been hurt? Not even once?

  The crowd’s cheers reached an ear-splitting volume as the announcer finally declared the fighter’s name. “HERE HE IS! The WRAITH of the ARENA! The WALKING PARADOX! The DEATHBOUND DUELIST!”

  The air in the arena thickened, the anticipation becoming almost suffocating. The announcer took a deep breath, stretching out the final declaration with dramatic flair:

  “SARRAK THE UNTOUCHABLE!!!”

  Joran exhaled slowly, trying to still his racing thoughts. Now those are titles. He couldn’t help but grumble in his mind, feeling a pang of irritation at his own lackluster introduction.

  The reaction from the audience was telling. These people weren’t just excited—they were betting with absolute certainty. Joran glanced at the stands, his eyes darting between merchants, slavers, and warriors, all wagering obscene amounts of gold on Sarrak. Their confidence in him was unwavering.

  Then there were the slaves. Unlike the gamblers and warriors, they watched in stunned silence. Some of them recognized the name—their expressions shifting from fleeting hope to dread and resignation. They had seen this fight play out before. They had seen newcomers, fighters, warriors, slaves hoping to win their freedom—all face this man.

  And they had seen them fall.

  Joran’s stomach twisted. He was missing something crucial.

  “You really shouldn’t turn your attention away from your opponent.”

  The voice was smooth, low and unimpressed, like someone idly commenting on the weather. Joran snapped his gaze back to Sarrak, startled at how soundlessly he had spoken, how unreadable he remained.

  The magi-human stood perfectly still, his posture relaxed—too relaxed—as if he didn’t care at all about the fight he was about to engage in. No defensive stance. No preparation. No hesitation.

  “And you,” Joran replied carefully, scanning for any subtle movement, any tell, “shouldn’t make yourself so open.” Sarrak didn’t react, his expression remaining as flat and uninterested as before.

  “I am not afraid,” he said simply.

  Then, in a tone so matter-of-fact that it chilled Joran to his core, he added—

  “You can’t harm me anyway.”

  Joran’s muscles tensed. The crowd was already screaming for blood, their excitement spilling over in chants and drunken howls, but Joran barely heard them. What the hell does he mean by that? His instincts screamed that this man was no ordinary opponent.

  Something was wrong. And he needed to figure it out. Fast.