The pit had changed.

  Not in its stone, not in its torches, not in the familiar scent of blood baking into the sand beneath the relentless heat of the sun. The walls were the same, the great iron gates had not shifted from their place, and the seats of the high lords, gamblers, and flesh-merchants remained as they always had—watching, waiting, judging.

  But something was different.

  Marion felt it before he saw it, before the gates groaned open and let his Red Blade onto the sands. It was in the way the crowd had gathered, in the hushed voices, in the way men—men who had spent years screaming themselves hoarse in this arena—now spoke in whispers, their words clipped and cautious, as though to speak too loudly was to invite death itself.

  They had seen slaughter before.

  But never like this.

  Never so absolute, so clinical, so swift that there was no moment of struggle, no chance for hope, no fight worth remembering.

  And now, five men had entered the pit, and the outcome was already decided.

  Marion exhaled slowly, fingers clasped before him as he reclined in his seat above the bloodstained sands. The high balcony of the pit masters gave him an unblemished view of what was about to unfold, the golden glow of torchlight painting the scene below like something captured in an artist’s hand.

  Five warriors.

  Not slaves plucked from the dregs of dying villages, not debtors thrown to the sand to amuse the masses. These were hardened killers, men who had earned their reputations in war, in rebellion, in campaigns where survival was a rare and precious thing.

  And yet, they had been reduced to five animals thrown into a cage with a wolf.

  They knew it.

  The crowd knew it.

  And most of all, Marion knew it.

  They attacked all at once.

  There was no posturing, no testing of waters, no single man hoping to claim the victory for himself. They moved together, like an execution squad, blades flashing in unison.

  A spearman lunged, his reach keeping the Red Blade at a distance while the others flanked from both sides, a swordsman and a brute with an axe forcing him to move, to react, to step into the killing ground.

  The last two—**a knife-fighter and a scarred veteran with a curved blade—**closed in from behind, attempting to take him in the flurry of steel.

  Marion almost felt pity for them.

  Almost.

  Because they didn’t understand.

  They had spent their lives fighting men.

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  But Korrak was not just a man.

  He was the pit made flesh, the cold calculation of violence stripped of all excess.

  And they had already lost.

  It began in an instant.

  The spear struck first—but the Red Blade was already moving, stepping inside the arc, one hand catching the shaft mid-strike while the other twisted his sword.

  The spearman stumbled.

  A fatal mistake.

  Korrak shoved forward, forcing the spear back into the man’s own stomach, the iron tip burying itself in his flesh with a sickening, wet crunch.

  A ragged gasp.

  Blood bubbling from the mouth.

  And then he was gone.

  The first corpse fell to the sand.

  Marion barely had time to blink before the axe came next, an overhead strike meant to carve Korrak from shoulder to hip.

  Korrak did not retreat.

  He sidestepped—just barely, enough that the axe missed flesh but still kissed the edge of his tunic, splitting fabric.

  In the same motion, Korrak caught the brute’s wrist, twisted sharply, and the weapon was wrenched free.

  The swordsman lunged—and found his ally’s axe buried in his ribs.

  Marion saw the moment it happened, the moment the realization dawned on the swordsman’s face, the flicker of understanding that this was already over.

  A horrible, choking sound escaped his lips as blood poured in thick rivers, drenching the sand beneath him.

  He staggered once.

  Twice.

  And then he fell.

  Three remained.

  The knife-fighter was quick.

  Not strong, but quick.

  He moved in a blur of motion, his twin blades darting toward the Red Blade’s exposed side—but Korrak caught one of his wrists mid-strike, twisted it violently, and there was a snap of bone.

  A shriek, high and pained.

  Korrak ripped the knife free, did not hesitate, did not waste time on mercy.

  The blade went up through the jaw, through the skull, piercing clean through to the other side.

  By the time Korrak pulled it free, the man was already dead.

  The body twitched once.

  And then—only two remained.

  The scarred veteran did not run.

  He did not beg.

  He attacked, his curved blade sweeping in a precise arc, striking like a viper, fast and controlled.

  But Korrak was faster.

  A pivot.

  A feint.

  A sudden reversal—his sword carving across the veteran’s stomach, cutting deep, deep enough that the man fell before he even realized what had happened.

  Marion exhaled through his nose, watching as the last fighter—**a brute, the strongest of them all—**took one step back.

  Then another.

  Then, his grip faltered.

  Then, he ran.

  The guards moved before he could reach the gates, their hands grabbing his arms, dragging him back.

  The brute fought against them.

  Not to kill.

  Not to attack.

  Not to win.

  Only to escape.

  Marion heard the whispering now.

  It rippled through the stands, a low and uneasy murmur, not the thrill of victory, not the excitement of a spectacle, but something else entirely.

  Something more dangerous.

  Because the crowd had stopped watching a fight.

  They had stopped watching sport.

  Now, they were watching something else.

  Something unnatural.

  Something unstoppable.

  Korrak stepped forward, raising his sword.

  The brute collapsed to his knees.

  He bowed his head.

  And Korrak ended it.

  Quick.

  Clean.

  The blood steamed in the cold air.

  The silence stretched long.

  And then—Marion saw it.

  The other fighters, watching from the shadows of the barracks.

  They had seen how the fight ended.

  They had seen how five men had stepped onto the sand, and none had truly fought.

  They had seen what had happened to men who had been made to face Korrak.

  And they understood what would happen to them next.

  Marion leaned forward, resting his chin against his knuckles.

  The moment had come.

  The pit was breaking.

  It would not happen today.

  It might not happen tomorrow.

  But the pit had rules, and now, those rules had been shattered.

  Marion exhaled.

  “It’s happening.”

  Loric watched the pit, his expression unreadable.

  “Aye,” he murmured.

  “It is.”

  Korrak sees your admiration.

  And he hates it.

  He is not a hero. Not a legend. Not some specter that walks between myth and reality, meant to be whispered about in awe. He does not care for the songs, the stories, the drunken retellings of his deeds that twist and swell with each passing tongue.

  If you had stood before him, clutching your reverence like a fool clutching a dull blade, he would have only stared. And then he would have walked past you.

  Because to Korrak, it was never about glory.

  It was about the hunt.

  And if he still lives, it is only because there is always another chase.