He walked out of the pit alone.
The beast's blood still clung to his jaw. The sword they hadn't meant for him to use hung loosely in one hand, tip dragging through the dirt until someone finally barked at him to drop it. He did.
They didn't cheer for him anymore—not the guards, not the handlers, not the ones who used to smirk when he passed. As he moved through the prep hall, they stepped aside. Some turned away. A few stared.
And it filled something in him. Not pride. Not power. But a low, grounded satisfaction that settled in his chest and stayed there.
One of the handlers—the same who had locked his cell earlier—grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the medics' hall. "One dead beast doesn't make you special," the man muttered, low but bitter. "You're still a number. Still meat. Don't forget it."
Azeric didn't answer. He didn't need to. The way the handler avoided his gaze afterward was answer enough.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
He blinked. Once.
Text typed across his vision once more.
[NON-HUMAN TARGET – CORRUPTION INDEX: 7%]
[CELLULAR REGENERATION ACCELERATING — HOST WITHIN STABLE LIMITS]
What did that mean?
As he walked with the guard pulling him as if he was afraid he'd bolt from there, he checked the bruises on his arm. It is fainter now.
The ache in his ribs was gone. The torn skin along his knuckles closed. Muscles that should've burned with strain felt steadier. Like the damage had never been there.
They dragged him toward the medic hall.
The man stationed at the entry blinked when he saw who they were bringing in. "You're joking," the medic said, eyes narrowing. "He walked out of that pit? After that thing?"
The guard grunted. "It was just a low-tier beast. Anyone with a blade could've taken it."
Azeric turned his head slightly. Just enough.
"You want a round with them?" His voice was low, dry. "I'm sure the warden can pencil you in. All you have to do is ask."
The medic barked a laugh. "Shut your mouth, smartass."
The guard shoved him forward. "Bench. Sit."
Azeric sat. Not because he was told—but because he didn't care.
The medic stared at the vitals again, then muttered under his breath, "He's too different."
One of the guards snorted. "He is a dog, if that's what you are asking."
"I'm serious," the medic said, sharper now. "His heart rate—steady. Adrenaline should've dropped, but it's not just that. He's stabilizing too fast. Like his body doesn't know it was hurt."
"You sound crazy."
He looked at Azeric, cautious now. "You feel anything? Pain? Strain?"
Azeric said nothing.
Didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
The medic hesitated. Then stepped back.
He didn't push for an answer.
Because some part of him wasn't sure he wanted one.
He didn't care.
He sat still, wrists bound, blood dried along the curve of his jaw, and eyes fixed forward. The silence in his head was louder than the crowd had been.
High above, behind reinforced glass and layered enchantments, the observation tier stretched across the north wing of the coliseum. Nobles watched from velvet-lined booths, wine in hand, voices sharp with excitement or contempt.
Kestel stood alone at the far end.
He was not just a noble but the warden of the arena. The man who controlled the blood flow beneath the coliseum. Every match, every execution, every scream on the sand passed through his command.
He stood at the edge of the viewing tier, arms behind his back, the scent of blood still lingering faint beneath the stone and incense.
Kestel hadn't expected the gladiator to win.
He let out a low breath, almost a chuckle. "It was meant to be a slaughter. One man, one beast—the crowd loves panic."
But it hadn't been panic. It had been clean. Sharp. Over too quickly.
And yet, the nobles were still talking. Leaning forward in their velvet seats, murmuring behind jeweled goblets.
A gladiator killing too fast should've ruined the tension.
Instead, it sold better.
Kestel smiled, faint and dangerous.
"Interesting."
Later, when the pit was scrubbed and the crowd had thinned, the warden descended.
Azeric felt it before he saw him.
Kestel, the feared warden.
He didn't speak when he reached the cell. Just stood there, outside the reinforced gate, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the man inside.
Azeric didn't look back.
"Is this the one who killed a guard?" Kestel asked at last, voice low, barely louder than the hum of the walls.
"Yes, sir."
Kestel's tone didn't shift. "How many matches has he survived?"
The guards hesitated.
"He's only fought the… the dosed ones, sir," one finally said. "Per your order."
Kestel's eyes narrowed slightly. "Ah. The Stagebloods."
No real amusement in his voice. Just recognition. The kind of fighters dressed to bleed clean, trained to die pretty. Drugged and obedient. Half spectacle, half slave.
The guard cleared his throat. "Yes, sir."
"Prep him for tomorrow," Kestel said, already turning away. "He fights again."