Chapter 53: Arena Calls
Alex’s eyes snapped open, his body instantly rigid with the hypervigilance that never truly left him. The scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a sound that was somehow worse: silence.
Around the arena, the other prisoners had awakened as well. But as Alex’s vision adjusted to the dim light, his Adept Eyes activated automatically as he studied his fellow captives:
[Shadeborn]
[Rank: S-Class]
[Primary Ability: Mirror Flesh - UNAVAILABLE]
The first creature was tall and elongated, with pale, translucent skin that shimmered with an otherworldly quality. Its solid black eyes tracked movement with predatory intelligence, and despite the essence suppression, it moved with fluid precision that suggested natural resistance to the draining effects.
[Shadeborn]
[Rank: A-Class]
[Primary Ability: Mirror Flesh - UNAVAILABLE]
The second was similar to the first but smaller, its movements less coordinated. Still dangerous, but clearly younger or less experienced than its S-ranked companion.
[Chitinous Behemoth]
[Rank: A-Class]
The third was something else entirely: a hulking mass of chitinous armor and too many joints, with sensory organs that tracked movement through the bars with predatory interest. Its shell gleamed dully in the arena’s dim light, and Alex could see gouges and scars that spoke of countless battles.
Alex was the only human in this place. Completely, utterly alone among creatures that might not even understand what humanity was, let alone care about his survival.
He checked his status window, noting that his HP had dropped to 61/100 overnight. The constant essence drain was accelerating, and his hands were trembling with more than just trauma now—his body was beginning to fail under the systematic weakening.
’How long before I’m too weak to fight back at all?’
Heavy footsteps announced the Arena Warden’s approach, but this time it wasn’t alone. Three smaller creatures flanked it, each carrying chains that writhed with malevolent energy—the same dark sigils that covered the cell bars, but concentrated into portable suppression devices.
The Warden stopped in front of the S-ranked Shadeborn’s cell first, its burning gaze studying the creature with calculating interest. It spoke in those harsh syllables that had become familiar.
"Kresh-vel thurvani. Mori-zhel keth nakul vorth."
[Translation: "First warrior. Time for your judgement."]
Two of the Warden’s minions approached the cell, and Alex’s Adept Eyes studied them more carefully
[Ironhide ]
[Rank: A-Class]
[Ironhide ]
[Rank: A-Class ]
Alex’s blood ran cold. Even the minions were A-ranked. Whatever this "Master" was, it commanded power that dwarfed anything he’d encountered.
The minions approached the cell, and Alex watched as they wrapped the writhing chain around the Shadeborn’s elongated form. The creature’s shimmer immediately began to fade, but it didn’t resist—moving with the resigned efficiency of something that had been through this process before.
The S-ranked prisoner was led away through a different corridor, disappearing into the depths of the complex. Alex strained to hear what followed, and what reached him made his blood run cold.
The roar of a crowd—not just a few observers, but hundreds, maybe thousands of voices raised in bloodthirsty anticipation. The sound echoed through stone corridors, growing louder as battle commenced somewhere below.*****
For what felt like hours, the arena trembled with the sounds of combat. Inhuman shrieks, the crash of weapons against armor, and through it all, that constant roar of spectators baying for blood.
When the Shadeborn finally returned, Alex felt his breath catch. The creature was alive, but barely. Deep gashes carved through its translucent flesh, one arm hanging at an unnatural angle, and its movements spoke of internal injuries that would take time to heal. But it had survived.
The guards deposited the wounded fighter back in its cell with casual indifference, and the Arena Warden’s burning gaze fixed on Alex.
"Kresh-thuul Nakul-Vorth," the creature rumbled, and Alex felt his blood turn to ice as the translation appeared.
[Translation: "Next: Shadow-Death survivor."]
The cell door began to grind open, and Alex forced himself to stand on shaking legs. As the chain was wrapped around his form, the crushing suppression intensified beyond anything he’d experienced. The writhing metal links didn’t just drain his essence—they actively attacked it, sending waves of agony through his soul core that made him gasp and nearly collapse.
The suppression was so complete that even his enhanced vision flickered and dimmed. Every step toward the arena felt like walking through thick mud, his body heavy and unresponsive. The chain seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, each throb sending fresh spikes of weakness through his system.
It wasn’t until they reached the arena’s entrance that one of the Ironhide guards unlocked the chain and pulled it away from his body. The moment the metal left his skin, the crushing weight vanished.
The relief was so sudden and complete that Alex stumbled, his essence surging back to life like a dam bursting. The constant drain on his soul core stopped, and he felt power flowing through him once again—not at full strength due to his previous injuries, but functional.
’They suppress us completely during transport, then release us for the fight. Maximum security, maximum entertainment value.’
The corridor opened into something that took his breath away.
The arena was massive easily five times the size of the Academy’s training grounds. Carved from living rock and expanded with architectural brutality that spoke of centuries of bloodsport. Tiered seating rose in concentric circles around the central fighting pit, and every seat was occupied.
Hundreds of Shadeborn filled the stands, their translucent forms creating a shimmering sea of spectators. Their solid black eyes all turned toward him as he entered, and a murmur ran through the crowd not quite recognition, but interest.
Among the crowd, Alex spotted creatures that matched the Arena Warden’s species—the Ironhide, as his Adept Eyes had labeled them. But they weren’t spectators. They moved through the seating areas carrying refreshments, cleaning debris, maintaining order.
The arena floor itself told stories of countless battles. Sand that had been stained so deeply with blood it had turned permanently dark. Scattered around the edges were the remains of previous combatants—pieces of chitinous shell, metallic fragments, and stains that spoke of creatures dissolved by acids or burned by flames.
Alex recognized some of the shell fragments. They matched the chitinous creature from the holding cells, suggesting his fellow prisoner’s fate was already decided.
A weapons rack stood at the center of the arena, filled with brutal implements designed for maximum carnage. Massive war hammers that would crush bone, serrated blades meant to tear rather than cut cleanly, and spears with barbed tips that would lodge deep in flesh.
Most were too heavy for his current condition, designed for opponents operating at full physical strength. But there, among the more exotic weapons, was something that made his tactical mind spark with possibility.
A sword. Not elegant like Petra’s katana, but functional. Steel blade, leather-wrapped grip, balanced for someone of human proportions rather than the massive Ironhide warriors. It had seen use—the edge was notched in places—but it was sharp and would serve.
Alex lifted the weapon, testing its weight. His hands were still trembling, but the familiar grip of a blade helped center his thoughts. The sword felt alive in his grasp, and with his essences returning, he could feel potential flowing through him once again.
The Shadeborn spectators leaned forward in their seats, their translucent forms creating an eerie shimmer throughout the stands. Some held what looked like betting tokens, exchanging them rapidly as odds shifted with Alex’s appearance.
The Ironhide servants moved between the rows, collecting wagers and distributing refreshments that steamed with unknown vapors. Ancient scorch marks on the arena walls told stories of previous battles—some fights had clearly involved abilities powerful enough to crack stone.
The air itself felt charged with residual energy from countless combat encounters, making Alex’s skin tingle with otherworldly electricity.
The crowd’s murmur grew louder as they processed what they were seeing. Not the first human to fight in this arena, apparently, but rare enough to generate interest. He caught fragments of their alien language, translated by his system:
"Another soft-flesh warrior..."
"They break so easily..."
"But sometimes they surprise us..."
Alex looked up at the tiers of spectators, his pale eyes reflecting the arena’s harsh lighting. Let them underestimate him. Let them think humans were weak, fragile, predictable.
"Let’s see if I can level up in this arena," he murmured, feeling the familiar weight of calculated violence settling over him like a comfortable cloak.
A gate on the opposite side of the arena began to grind open, and Alex felt his pulse quicken as something massive began to emerge from the darkness beyond.
[Chitinous Behemoth]
[Rank: S-Class Beast]
[Primary Ability: Acid Spray]
[Secondary Ability: Armor Plating]
[Status: Ravenous]
The creature that entered the arena was like the one from the holding cells, but larger, more dangerous. Its chitinous shell gleamed with a sickly sheen that spoke of toxic secretions, and its multiple eyes fixed on Alex with predatory hunger.
This was no mere beast—this was a weapon, bred and trained for arena combat.
The crowd’s roar reached deafening levels as the gate slammed shut behind the creature, trapping Alex in the pit with death incarnate.
The Behemoth began its approach, mandibles clicking with anticipation.