The air reeked of blood and death.

  Nigel stood in the eye of a massacre, surrounded by the mangled remains of dozens of Sentinels—bodies he didn’t remember killing.

  His right hand twitched. His fingers were drenched in blood that wasn’t his.

  The gun barrels clicked around him, their polished muzzles gleaming like judgment.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  But it had.

  And now, all that remained was a metal ticket—a tiny, cold escape from all the killing he had unleashed.

  He looked at it, gripped it tighter.

  The Chaos Tournament.

  An unknown hell.

  But maybe there… he could finally stop running.

  With a shaky breath, he placed the device on his chest.

  As the teleportation sequence triggered, memories flooded in—of Tom, of Elyra, of his bad decision.

  This wasn't just escape.

  It was punishment.

  The Eleventh Ring paid in credits and silence. Nigel never cared for either.

  Down in the mines, men dug to survive. He did to keep his mind busy, to keep the memories locked away as much as possible.

  The dull clang of a pickaxe striking rock echoed through the coal mine. Dust hung thick in the air, settling into the creases of worn-out uniforms and the deep lines of exhausted workers.

  Nigel stood near the back of the cavern; his breath steady as he drove his pickaxe into the stone. The impact sent a sharp crack through the tunnel walls, and chunks of coal tumbled down into the cart beside him. With practiced efficiency, he scooped up the stray pieces, tossing them in until the cart was filled to the brim.

  A small digital display flickered on the side of the cart, tallying the weight. A thousand and three kilograms. A full ton.

  Nigel barely glanced at it. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then gripped the cart’s handle and pushed.

  The heavy steel wheels groaned in protest, grinding against the worn tracks, but the cart rolled forward with ease. Nigel’s movements were fluid, unstrained, as if he were pushing nothing more than an empty crate.

  A low whistle came from behind him.

  Tom Meyer, a broad-shouldered man with silver-streaked hair and coal-stained skin, leaned against his pickaxe, watching with raised eyebrows. “You’re something else, kid,” he muttered. “A full ton, and you’re moving it like it’s nothing.”

  Nigel didn’t stop. “Doesn’t feel like much,” he said simply.

  Tom shook his head, falling into step beside him. “That’s what I’m saying. You shouldn’t be here, boy. Someone like you? You could be a soldier, a bodyguard, hell, even one of those professional fighters up in the higher Rings. Why waste yourself in this hole?”

  Nigel exhaled through his nose, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Because it’s peaceful.”

  Tom let out a dry laugh. “Peaceful?” He gestured to the walls around them. The dim lighting, the endless dust, the distant coughing of sick miners. “Is this peace to you? The Eleventh Ring was the latest to be unlocked, and the fastest to be forgotten. Not even those damned Sentinels come here.”

  Nigel gave the cart one final push, locking it into place on the track system that would carry it up to the surface. “It is to me.”

  Tom sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked like he wanted to say more but held back. He’d known Nigel long enough to recognize when the conversation was over.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  And Nigel, as always, wasn’t one for long explanations.

  They made their way toward the mine’s exit, boots crunching over loose gravel.

  “Hey, the offer to have dinner with me and Lilly is still up if you want,” Tom said.

  Nigel paused for a second, considering. “No, thanks. I think I’ll just skip dinner tonight.”

  Tom gave him a knowing look, a mix of pity and frustration. He had offered time and time again, but Nigel always refused. They both knew why—Nigel saw himself as a burden, an extra mouth to feed in a household that, while stable, wasn’t exactly wealthy. No matter how many times Tom insisted otherwise, Nigel wouldn’t change his mind.

  The conversation ended there, as it always did.

  Once outside, a sleek, luxurious car sat waiting for them near the entrance. Standing beside it was a man dressed in an elegant suit, his dark hair neatly slicked back.

  Quention. One of the mine’s owners.

  “Hello, gentlemen. I see today was quite productive,” he said, eyeing the coal-filled cart. “Looks like I have no choice but to pay you a handsome bonus. We were expecting about three hundred kilograms today, and yet here we are, with nearly two tons.”

  Tom chuckled, patting Nigel’s back. “Yeah, this kid did almost all of it himself. Just hand him the whole bonus.”

  Nigel shook his head. “Give it to him. I don’t need it.”

  Tom turned toward him, frowning, but before he could argue, Quention had already pulled out his phone.

  “Well, alright then,” the mine owner muttered, tapping at the screen. “I’ve just transferred the corresponding amounts to both of you. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”

  Tom didn’t even have time to reject the extra pay.

  Nigel gave him a small nod and started walking away before Tom could push the subject.

  Tom sighed. “You never take the easy route, do you, kid?”

  Nigel didn’t turn back. “See you tomorrow, old man.”

  They parted ways.

  Nigel’s home sat on the outskirts of the ruined city, past collapsed buildings and rusted-out vehicles long abandoned. It was a small wooden hut, barely large enough for one person. The walls were worn, the roof patched together in places, but it was livable.

  Yet, despite the decaying structure, the garden in front of it was beautiful. Vibrant, well-kept flowers bloomed in careful arrangements, bushes were neatly trimmed, and vines crept up the sides of the hut, giving it an almost peaceful, untouched feel.

  It had been his mother’s garden.

  She had planted the first seeds when he was a child, tending to them with quiet dedication. Even after she was gone, Nigel had kept it alive. It was one of the few things left of her—one of the few things he hadn’t let wither away.

  He crouched near a row of deep purple flowers, plucking a few stray weeds from the soil. His hands moved automatically, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Nazli Lowell had been many things. Strong. Unyielding. Fearless.

  A mother, yes—but also a soldier.

  She had pushed him harder than anyone else ever could, training him relentlessly from the time he could stand. She had introduced him to the Wardens, forced him to learn things no child should ever have to. At the time, he had hated her for it.

  Maybe he still did, in some ways.

  But he had loved her more than anything, too.

  His fingers froze over the dirt, his chest tightening. He never let himself think about her too long. It always led back to the past—to things he didn’t want to remember.

  Nigel clenched his jaw and stood up, shaking the thoughts away.

  Enough of that.

  The day was over, and tomorrow would come, just like always.

  He turned toward the hut, stepping inside, shutting the door behind him.

  Nigel’s nights were always the same.

  After setting his boots by the door, he moved through his small home, tidying up where he could. There wasn’t much to clean—just a worn-out cot, a wooden table with a single chair, and a rusted shelf lined with a few essentials. Still, he put everything in its place, more out of habit than necessity.

  Once satisfied, he grabbed a bucket of stored water and stepped outside. The night air was cool against his skin as he bathed quickly, pouring the water over himself in sharp, practiced motions. The cold barely registered.

  Back inside, he dried off, pulled on fresh clothes, and dropped onto his cot. His body ached from the day’s work, but it was the kind of exhaustion he welcomed.

  Before sleep, he reached for the old radio sitting on the edge of the shelf.

  It was a relic from another time, something he had found buried in the ruins years ago. Most people wouldn’t bother with such junk, but Nigel had taken the time to pry it open, clean out the rusted parts, and piece it back together. Somehow, it still worked.

  Inside, he had discovered a cassette—or maybe a memory card, he wasn’t sure. What mattered was that it held music unlike anything made in the Rings today. Soft, unfamiliar melodies, voices singing in a language he didn’t recognize.

  Whatever this was, it had been left behind by a world long gone.

  And yet, here it was—still playing, staying alive.

  The melodies were strange but soothing. The words, sung in a language long forgotten, felt like echoes from a distant past.

  Nigel didn’t know where the music came from.

  And honestly, he didn’t care.

  He let the gentle hum of an old song fill the quiet space as his eyes grew heavy. Within minutes, sleep took him.

  The next morning, Nigel woke before sunrise, as always.

  The air was crisp when he stepped outside, his breath visible in the dim light. He stretched, rolled his shoulders, then started his walk to the mines.

  The streets of the Eleventh Ring were quiet at this hour, save for a few early risers moving like shadows between half-collapsed buildings. The scent of damp earth and old metal lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the city's slow decay.

  Nigel walked with his usual pace—steady, unhurried. Routine. Familiar. Predictable.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Up ahead, something felt off.

  A man stood at the mouth of an alley, his back partially turned. His posture was rigid, calculated. Even from a distance, Nigel could tell he wasn’t an ordinary citizen.

  His uniform gave him away immediately—pristine white with gold accents, a series of polished badges gleaming on his chest.

  A Sentinel High Official.

  His instinct told him. Something bad was about to happen.