**The clang of iron** woke Min-jun before dawn.
A different guard—this one with a face like pounded meat and a missing nose—kicked the bars. "Up, outsider. You fight at high sun."
Liao was already awake, crouched in his corner like a spider. His fingers worked at something hidden in the straw. "Remember," he whispered as Min-jun stood. "First rule of the pits—"
"Fight or die," Min-jun finished, rolling his shoulders. The brand on his chest pulsed dully, a constant reminder of the leash around his power.
The guard snorted. "Second rule." He threw a rusted knife at Min-jun's feet. "No weapons unless you steal them."
---
**The arena sand** burned hotter today.
Min-jun squinted against the glare, the knife a cold weight in his palm. Across from him stood not a beast, but a man—tall, with the corded muscles of a seasoned fighter. Tribal scars marked his dark skin, and his eyes held the same hollow look Min-jun had seen in warzone survivors.
The crowd roared as the announcer's voice boomed:
"A battle of outsiders! The savage from the southern jungles versus our wolf-slayer!"
The scarred man didn't wait for a signal. He charged, a curved blade appearing in his hand as if conjured from air.
Steel rang against steel as Min-jun barely parried. His military training screamed at the difference—this wasn't the crisp efficiency of modern combat, but something wilder, more fluid. The man fought like a storm given flesh.
A slash opened Min-jun's thigh. Another grazed his ribs. He could feel the brand heating up, as if something inside him strained against its bonds.
The crowd's chant changed:
*"Kill! Kill! Kill!"*
The scarred man lunged for a finishing strike—
—and Min-jun *remembered*.
A desert operation gone wrong. Three hostiles. A knife buried to the hilt in his side. The way his body had moved before his mind could think.
He pivoted on his bleeding leg, letting the curved blade pass so close it parted his hair. His own knife found home between the third and fourth ribs.
The man gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. As he collapsed, his free hand shot up in a strange gesture—fingers curled like claws, pinky extended.
A sign.
A message.
Then the light left his eyes.
---
**Back in the cell**, Liao was waiting.
"You live." He tossed Min-jun a crust of bread stolen from gods knew where. "The brand glowed during your fight. Interesting."
Min-jun touched his chest. The mark felt tender, almost... expectant. "The man I killed. He made a sign before he died."
Liao went very still. "Show me."
When Min-jun mimicked the gesture, the old man's breath hissed through his teeth. "Iron Viper clan. They were wiped out by the sects ten winters past." His good eye gleamed. "Which means your opponent was no ordinary prisoner."
A distant horn sounded—three long notes that made Liao tense.
"They're coming," he whispered.
"Who?"
"The ones who hunt world-walkers." Liao scrambled to the cell door, pressing his ear against the iron. "Your brand isn't just a leash, boy. It's bait."
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Heavy. Purposeful. Not the slouching gait of the regular guards.
Liao turned, his face grim. "When they take you, remember—the first real rule of the pits isn't fight or die." He pressed something cold and sharp into Min-jun's palm—a shard of obsidian hidden in the straw.
"It's this: *Every cage has a key.*"
The footsteps stopped outside their cell.
**TO BE CONTINUED...**