"Huh? Now that I think about it, I forgot to ask for directions to the Octagonal Arena!"
Gravel paused, halted his steps, and turned back to ask the fishing shop owner for the way to the Trea Caravan's Octagonal Arena. Only then could he continue toward the bustling heart of the Grand Market, where the exotic scents of food and the sound of music filled the air.
Adjusting the bag with his fishing rod slung over his shoulder, Gravel waded through the wave-like crowd of merchants and customers from various races, moving busily like the ebb and flow of the tide. The dazzling sunlight beat down on him, unobstructed by the haphazardly draped cloths that had previously lined the sides of the street.
And there, silhouetted against the intense sunlight, a massive structure loomed into Gravel's view.
"Whoa! What in the world..."
Even at a glance, it was clear the enormous wagon before him was between 10 cubits (5 meters) and 15 cubits (7.5 meters) tall. The sheer size of the wagon's massive wheels was the only clue that it was, in fact, a wagon—without them, no one could have imagined it as anything but a fortress on wheels. Gravel stopped in his tracks, standing still as he took in the sight.
A contraption using pulleys to hoist crates and barrels up to the wagon's upper levels, a turtle-like beastman shouting orders from the ground to a colleague operating the lift at the top, and slanted ladders and wooden planks haphazardly attached to the wagon swayed with the movement of beastmen crossing them. The wagon's mismatched wooden materials, patched and repaired over countless years, bore the marks of time.
"First time seeing the Trea Caravan's wagon, eh? Heh heh heh."
A large, round yellow eye. Sharp, serrated teeth. Slick, glossy skin. Webbed fingers connecting thin digits.
A fish-like anthro, whom Gravel had seen wandering the Grand Market, had approached him unnoticed and struck up a conversation.
"Yes. It's my first time at the Grand Market." Gravel replied.
"Ho ho? Then let me explain. There are eight wagons of that size, see? The outer layers are lined with shops on every level, and inside lies the pride of the Trea Caravan—the Octagonal Arena."
The fish-like beastman, with a slouched posture as if craning his neck forward, pointed at the massive wagon with the webbed tip of a small, pointed claw.
"An arena... If it's a famous attraction, I've got to check it out."
"I was just headed there myself. Why don't we go together? Oh, right. I'm Karot, of the Loathan."
"Uh... I'm Gravel, of the human...?"
"Ha ha ha! What a delightful Dranke(human)!"
Gravel shook Karot's outstretched hand, stumbling through his awkward self-introduction. The two began walking toward the Octagonal Arena.
Karot found Gravel's self-identification as part of the "human" endearing. Most humans didn't bother mentioning their race when introducing themselves. Given that humans made up a significant portion of the continent's population, it might seem natural to omit it, but the difference between arrogance and humility often lay in small gestures and words. Gravel's clumsy introduction left a good impression on Karot.
As the two approached the massive Octagonal Arena wagon, they saw a large wooden signboard surrounded by a crowd of people and beastmen. The sign read:
-Second Round Match Lineup-
-Screecher vs. 30 Prisoners-
-Duvalan vs. The Seven Gladiators-
-Nia vs. Doaju-
"Oho... The matches I was looking forward to are all in the second round. Duvalan's fight and even the little Droko kid... This is gonna be a good show," Karot muttered as he scanned the lineup.
Gravel and Karot passed the signboard and headed toward the wagon's entrance.
Handing five silver coins as the entrance fee to the Trea Caravan's gatekeeper, who wore a hood pulled low over their face, they stepped onto creaking wooden planks. They navigated a narrow corridor where Gravel's shoulders barely avoided brushing the walls. Dust rained down from the wooden ceiling above, and the roar of cheers and excitement echoed through the air.
"Ho ho ho! Sounds like a big crowd today! This is gonna be exciting!" Karot said, brushing off the dust that had settled on his clothes as he began climbing a staircase. At the top, they walked through another narrow corridor inside the wagon.
Soon, they emerged into a brightly lit exit, where the crowd's cheers rang even clearer in their ears.
"Woooaah!"
"Raaargh!"
"Don't let him escape!"
"Hahaha, look at that guy! He's too scared to even move!"
"Freshly grilled jerky! Five coppers a piece! Sweet and savory jerky for five coppers!"
"That Screecher is that terrifying?"
"When's Duvalan coming out?!"
Countless voices cheered toward the center of the Octagonal Arena, filling the air with energy. The arena buzzed with life as people and beastmen of various races, dressed in diverse outfits, sat and shouted while watching the matches.
Some spectators called over vendors selling food, munching as they watched, while others, seemingly uninterested in the arena's events, gathered in a corner of the stands, drunkenly clinking glasses and filling each other's cups.
"Over here! Let's watch from these seats!"
Karot called, gesturing to Gravel as he descended a few rows in the stands. The two sat down.
"Looks like we're a bit late. The first match has already started... Oh well, we didn't come for this one anyway, so it doesn't matter." Karot said.
Listening to Karot, Gravel turned his gaze toward the center of the arena.
The arena floor was stained with dark red blood mixed into the dirt. A black monster darted around the arena—a creature with four horse-like legs and a headless human torso. Though it lacked a head, a large mouth on its torso let out grotesque screams. Using its long arms that dragged along the ground, it knocked down fleeing prisoners, crushing them underfoot or squeezing them to death with its massive hands.
"Kehay~ What's the point of throwing prisoners against something like that? It's no fun. Boring matches like this don't even get bets placed on them. Don't you think, Gravel?" Karot asked.
"Haha, yeah, seems like it."
Gravel replied, then turned his attention back to the Screecher's movements.
Each time the Screecher pounced on a prisoner, a massive cheer erupted from the arena. The screams of despair and cries of agony from the prisoners were drowned out by the crowd's roars, unheard by the spectators.
The Screecher chased the fleeing prisoners around the arena like a hunter stalking prey. Corpses littered the ground, and among the scattered weapons, one prisoner, trembling and unable to steady his legs, gripped an old spear. He thrust it toward the Screecher, but the spear fell short. His body was crushed, collapsing limply to the ground.
The few remaining prisoners scattered, some climbing the arena walls, pleading and screaming.
"Please! Pull us up! That monster's gonna kill us all! We're all gonna die! Please! Please!"
Despite the prisoners' tearful pleas, the spectators perched on the walls laughed and pointed behind them.
With a bone-chilling screech from the Screecher, a prisoner's body was slammed against the wall, crushed to a pulp. Blood sprayed, and the cries of the fleeing prisoners echoed through the crowd.
"Looks like it's about to end. Pretty boring, huh? If it's an arena, it should have proper gladiators fighting. But some people are into this kind of thing."
Karot said, leaning his chin on his hand with a tone of dissatisfaction as he shifted in his seat.
"I've never seen a monster like Screecher before. It's been quite a spectacle for me." Gravel replied.
While Gravel and Karot conversed, the Screecher stood among the corpses in the arena, stomping its front legs and roaring. The piercing sound was so loud that nearby spectators covered their ears with both hands.
Amid the monster's cries, the sound of a door opening echoed from one side of the octagonal arena. A massive wooden gate swung open, kicking up clouds of dust. Through the haze stepped a man clad in copper-colored metal armor.
His long, light brown hair was tied up in a bun. His deep-set eyes and chiseled, rugged jawline complemented his towering frame, roughly 2 cubits (2 meters) tall. The weapon slung over his shoulder was too large to be called a spear, yet its handle was too long to be a two-handed sword—a peculiar weapon of unique design.
The man closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and then charged toward the Screecher standing at one end of the arena. A wide grin spread across his face. To ensure the monster noticed him quickly, he let out a loud laugh.
As he'd hoped, the Screecher spotted him, let out another deafening roar, and charged toward him.
"Alright! Time to clean up this useless monster!" the man shouted.
Taking a large step forward, he swung the double-bladed spear from his shoulder in a wide arc. The strike sliced through the Screecher's torso. The blade, which had already cut through the monster once, came down again, plunging into its body.
With two steps and two strikes, the Screecher's body split apart and collapsed to the ground.
"Hahaha! Now that the monster's out of the way, it's time to show the people of Levados Plains a real fight—a gladiator's fight!" Duvalan bellowed, raising his weapon high.
The stands erupted in explosive cheers, like a storm of applause and shouts. Standing in the center of the arena, Duvalan closed his eyes, a gentle smile on his face as he tilted his head upward, basking in the crowd's fervor.
As the applause continued, Duvalan waved to the crowd in acknowledgment. Meanwhile, arena cleaners had already entered, spreading fresh sand and dirt while clearing away the Screecher's mangled corpse and the prisoners' bodies.
As the cheers died down, Duvalan addressed the crowd again.
"Now, let's introduce the seven fools who'll face me today!"
At his shout, a gate on one side of the arena opened, and through it stepped the seven gladiators.