I was feeling pretty worn out. Looking around, I could see that the goblin had done a number on the people left. I let the small pings of thrown rocks lull me for a moment. I doubted the people throwing them would feel too pleased knowing I was using their attacks to calm my nerves, but I needed something—anything—to focus on.
If I let my mind drift without a goal, it became more taxing. I'd vaguely felt it this morning, but now—after burning the kobold with my hand—it was pressing harder into my skull. The sensation of souls around me was no longer subtle. I could see the fire of each one, even the dimming light of those who had died.
It was like watching candles smothered under glass cups—slowly losing their light until they were finally snuffed out. The ones who had died at my hands just moments ago were only now beginning to fade.
I glanced down at the flame of the kobold's soul and immediately noticed something odd. It was different from the humans'. The glow was concentrated in its chest.
Curiosity overtook me. I flipped my warhammer around and used the pick side to tear open its flesh, hoping to find the source. Reaching into the wound, my fingers wrapped around something hard—a gem-like object.
As soon as I held it, a memory surged through my mind. I remembered the goblin from my childhood… remembered eating a gem like this from its corpse. I remembered how something inside me had changed after that.
Mark had explained it to me back then—it was a soul core.
And now, finally, everything clicked.
That's what separated monsters from people. Humans could be reborn naturally—but monsters couldn't.
It made sense. Sort of.
But also… didn't. Why only people? Why not monsters? If I asked an expert, maybe I'd get a real answer. But this wasn't the time or place to worry about that.
Also, it made me question my own humanity. I had a soul core—just like the monsters I'd been fighting. I wasn't in the mood to deal with the implications of what that meant for me.
Lifting my sword and holstering my hammer, I looked around. My armor was in rough shape—dented, torn in places—but it still offered enough protection. I wasn't too worried about the unarmed prisoners anymore. What struck me as odd was why they were included in the fight at all. It felt less like a trial and more like an overly elaborate execution.
The Condemned—that would be a fitting name for their group, seeing how it had all played out.
I rolled my shoulders and began striding toward the next opponent. Now was as good a time as any. The goblin looked slower now, probably full from whatever carnage it had indulged in. I could see its breathing, more labored than before. It might just be tired enough to give me an edge.
Dust kicked up beneath my boots as I closed the distance, and I could feel every pair of eyes in the arena shift to me. Their attention pressed against my back like a weight, so I stood taller, widened my steps.
I was nearly in range when the announcer's voice cut through the air—sharp, theatrical, commanding.
I stopped mid-step, frowning.
What now?
What else could they possibly throw into this mess?
I listened to him speak. Most of it was pointless jabber, but the last bit mattered.
"We present to you the First Deva—defeated, bound, and brought back for your entertainment!"
The arena fell silent.
The crowd.
The fighters.
Even the goblin stopped chewing its meal.
No one seemed to know why—but that name, that title, rang warning bells in the minds of everyone still breathing.
And now, the ring was fully surrounded by contractors. They stood in a circle just beneath the spectator stands but above the arena floor, chanting, performing various rituals. Each wore different sigils, each drew on different pacts—but all stank of the same thing.
I felt nausea claw at my gut from the sheer stench of them. So many demon-bound humans in one place... it made my skin crawl.
Looking over at a Condemned standing nearby, he seemed somewhat able, so I figured it might be a good idea to enlist some help. I moved toward him. He sensed my presence and turned to face me, arms raised, ready to fight.
I held up my free hand, palm open, and slowed my pace, bending my knees slightly in a non-threatening stance. I spoke clearly and calmly, offering to work together and promising to let him live.
He didn't understand my words—that much was obvious. He answered in a tongue I couldn't place. But it didn't matter. Something in my tone, my posture, must have gotten through to him. He turned and called over a few of the others nearby.
A ragged gang of survivors was beginning to form. I wasn't sure what good they'd be against whatever was coming—but it was better than nothing.