The heavy iron gates of the Colosseum closed behind Arthur with a loud, ringing clank.
The sound echoed through the giant stone hallway like thunder. Arthur stopped walking and took a deep breath. The air inside the Colosseum smelled of dry sand, old stone, and the faint metallic scent of ancient battles.
He looked around. He was standing in a dark, circular tunnel carved from massive blocks of black granite. Torches filled with blue magical fire burned in iron brackets along the walls, casting flickering blue shadows across his face. At the end of the tunnel, bright sunlight poured through a wide archway, lighting up a massive circular arena floor covered in fine yellow sand.
From beyond the archway came a loud, roaring wall of sound. Thousands of voices—merchants, travelers, elves, dwarves, and novice lords—were cheering, shouting, and betting on the match.
"Step forward, Lord Arthur," a deep, mechanical voice echoed from above.
Arthur looked up. Perched on a high stone balcony overlooking the tunnel was a small mechanical owl with glowing golden eyes. It was a watcher construct of the bazaar.
"The rules of the Trial by Combat are simple," the mechanical owl announced, its voice clear and sharp. "Both lords enter the arena with whatever gear they carry. No outside help is allowed. The fight ends only when one lord yields, loses consciousness, or is incapacitated. The winner takes all rights to the loser’s territory resources and bazaar access. Do you understand?"
Arthur placed his hand on his belt, his fingers wrapping firmly around the handle of his dented metal dagger.
"I understand," Arthur said clearly.
"Very well," the owl hooted. "Enter the arena."
Arthur didn’t hesitate. He put one foot in front of the other and walked out of the dark tunnel into the glaring sunlight of the Colosseum floor.
As he stepped out onto the yellow sand, a massive roar erupted from the stands surrounding the arena. The Colosseum was gigantic—a huge bowl of white and black stone seats rising up twenty tiers high, packed to the brim with thousands of spectators. Banners of different merchant guilds fluttered in the wind along the upper edge of the wall.
On the opposite side of the arena, walking out from another dark tunnel, was Lord Marcus of the Crimson Empire.
Marcus looked completely different than he had in the market square. He had changed his clothes. He now wore a suit of shining crimson armor that covered his chest, shoulders, and arms, glittering with magical runes that pulsed with a faint red light. In his right hand, he carried a broadsword made of dark red steel that radiated a subtle wave of heat. Two heavy iron greaves protected his legs, and a silver circlet rested proudly on his blonde hair.
He looked like a true young prince going off to conquer a kingdom.
As Marcus stepped onto the sand, he raised his crimson broadsword high into the air. The crowd on his side of the arena cheered wildly, chanting his name.
Marcus lowered his sword and pointed the tip straight at Arthur. A cruel, arrogant smile spread across his face.
"Look at you, you pathetic orphan," Marcus yelled across the sandy expanse, his voice carrying clearly over the roar of the crowd. "No armor, no magical sword, just a patched shirt and a dented knife! My armor alone cost more than your entire life! Today, I am going to crush your little thirty-step rock into dust, and everyone here is going to watch you crawl!"
Arthur didn’t shout back. He didn’t boast. He just kept his face calm and steady. He walked slowly toward the center of the arena, his boots sinking slightly into the warm yellow sand.
He knew Marcus had better gear. He knew Marcus had expensive crimson armor and a magical sword that could probably cut through a normal tree in a single swing. But Arthur also remembered how heavy and slow Marcus’s guards were back in the market. Arrogance made people sloppy. Anger made people blind.
Clang!
In the center of the arena, a large bronze gong hanging from a stone tripod was struck by an automated hammer.
The match had begun.
Marcus didn’t wait a single second. With a furious roar, he charged across the sand like a wild bull. Every step he took kicked up small clouds of yellow dust. His crimson armor glowed brighter, and the red steel sword in his hand hissed as it cut through the air, gathering heat.
"Die, rat!" Marcus screamed, swinging his heavy broadsword in a vicious horizontal arc aimed straight at Arthur’s neck.
The crowd gasped. Several spectators in the front rows stood up, covering their mouths.
Arthur didn’t try to block the blow. He knew that if he met that glowing red sword head-on, his little metal dagger would shatter into a hundred pieces, and his head would go flying with it.
Instead, Arthur dropped flat onto the sand at the exact right second.
Whoosh!
The razor-sharp edge of the crimson broadsword passed right over Arthur’s hair, so hot that it singed a few strands and filled the air with the smell of smoke.
Marcus’s momentum carried him forward three steps before he could stop his heavy charge. He spun around instantly, his face twisted in frustration.
"Stop dodging, you coward! Fight like a man!" Marcus roared, raising his sword again for a downward strike.
Arthur scrambled up from the sand, kicking a handful of fine yellow dust straight into the air as he moved.
Puff!
The cloud of dust caught Marcus right in the eyes.
"Ah! My eyes!" Marcus yelled, blinking furiously and stumbling backward, dropping his sword angle for just a fraction of a second.
This was the inciting incident of the battle—the moment Arthur turned a physical disadvantage into an opportunity through pure cleverness.
Arthur didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in a flash, sprinting across the sand. He didn’t aim for Marcus’s chest or head—he knew the crimson breastplate and silver circlet were too strong. Instead, he aimed for the weak spot he had noticed when Marcus was running: the unarmored joint right behind Marcus’s left knee where the crimson greave met the leather strap.
With all his strength, Arthur slid across the sand and swung his dented metal dagger in a sharp, upward slash.
Rip!
The blade cut through the leather strap behind Marcus’s knee, drawing a bright line of red blood.
"Argh!" Marcus screamed in pain and shock. His left leg gave out beneath him, and the heavy crimson armor dragged him down. He fell hard onto his hands and knees in the sand, dropping his red steel sword with a loud clatter.
The entire Colosseum fell completely silent for two seconds. Thousands of spectators stared in absolute disbelief. The rich noble lord, dressed in expensive magical crimson armor, had been knocked to the sand by an orphan with a dented dagger!
"No... this is impossible!" Marcus muttered, his face turning pale with humiliation and rage. He tried to reach for his dropped sword, but before his fingers could touch the handle, Arthur stepped forward.
Arthur didn’t strike him with the dagger. Instead, he brought his boot down firmly on Marcus’s hand, pinning it to the warm sand. Then, he crouched down, placed the tip of his dented dagger right against the side of Marcus’s neck, and held it steady.
Marcus froze. He looked up at Arthur, his eyes wide with fear and absolute hatred. Sweat mixed with dust dripped down his forehead.
"You... you cheated..." Marcus whispered, his voice shaking.
"No," Arthur said quietly, his voice calm and steady, echoing clearly in the quiet arena. "I just didn’t let my armor do the thinking for me."
Up in the royal spectator box, the mechanical owl constructed its wings and hooted loudly, signaling the end of the match.
[ Match Concluded! Winner: Lord Arthur! ]
The crowd erupted into wild cheers and applause. Merchants, dwarves, and elves stood up from their seats, shouting and whistling in pure amazement.
"An incredible upset!" shouted an announcer through a magical speaker. "The beginner lord from the edge of the void has defeated the heir of the Crimson Empire!"
Marcus slumped forward into the sand, completely defeated.
Arthur stood up slowly, taking a deep breath. His chest heaved with exhaustion, and his shoulder throbbed slightly from the previous fights, but a quiet, powerful sense of relief washed over him. He had won. He had proven that an orphan with zero family and zero backing could stand tall against the richest lords in the universe.
Suddenly, right where Marcus lay defeated in the sand, the bronze invitation token in Marcus’s pocket began to glow with a bright, fading red light.
A golden holographic window popped up in the air in front of Arthur, displaying words written in clear, simple letters:
[ Victory Confirmed in Trial by Combat ] [ Transferring Reward: Ownership rights to Lord Marcus’s secondary trading post and fifty crystal units have been unlocked. ] [ Bonus Unlocked: Access to Sector Seven Permanent Trading Stall. ]
Arthur stared at the window, a small, proud smile touching the corners of his mouth. His tiny thirty-step island was about to get a whole lot bigger.
He turned around, ready to walk back through the tunnel to claim his prize and return to his territory.
Just as Arthur reached the entrance of the dark stone tunnel, the blue torchlight flickered and turned pitch black.
A chilling, heavy wind swept through the Colosseum, blowing the sand across the arena floor. The happy cheers of the crowd instantly died away into an eerie, unnatural silence.
From the shadows of the tunnel ceiling, high above Arthur’s head, a pair of cold, glowing violet eyes opened wide, staring down at him with a hunger that was ancient and terrifying.
A low, raspy whisper echoed through the stone walls, freezing Arthur in his tracks:
"You think you won the game, little Lord? The real board has only just begun..."