Silence settled over the hall.
Valerius’s words, spoken by the commander of the Roman soldiers — or at least those stationed in the Aberrant pits — seemed to be more than enough to get everyone in line. Be it the timid or the fearsome.
Though, if I were being honest, I suspected it had more to do with the crackling whip in his hand. A weapon capable of discharging electricity upon contact with flesh. A few lashes from it would be enough to kill a fully grown man, and even a dormant Awakened would be wise to steer clear of it.
However, I couldn’t care less about any of that right now.
"Someone is targeting me," I muttered under my breath, a deep frown marring my features.
The murderous intent and cold, chilling bloodlust I felt just moments earlier were too focused to have been directed at the crowd.
Or perhaps... I was just being paranoid.
"You need not worry about that." Azrael’s voice broke through my thoughts. How the hell does he even do that?! Facial clue reading...? Mind-reading?! "Most of the time anyway."
"And why’s that?"
But it was impossible for an Awakened to peer into my mind without my awareness.
He shrugged. "Why not? Besides, fighting outside the colosseum is forbidden. Even if you somehow managed to kill your target within the ten seconds it would take the Romans to take you down, you would still be lashed twenty times with those whips.
Eventually, I decided to wave the thought away — not like I could do anything about it anyway.
"So what you’re trying to say is... it simply isn’t worth it?"
The young Terrisman gave a subtle nod before nodding more firmly.
Fair enough.
With that thought, I turned to face the other end of the Butcher’s Room. A long line of starving Awakened stretched across the room, the serving chef situated at the far end — if the young Kushman could even be called that. I frowned. Was it just me, or was there some sort of strange, bizarre order to it all?
Some of the spaces within the line had been deliberately left empty, almost hastily avoided, as though they were reserved for specific people.
People who had yet to make their way into the line.
"Interesting," I muttered under my breath. The thought of order in the pits was certainly fascinating, to say the least.
"It’s based on the Racpurnia Gladiatorial rankings," Azrael said, glancing at me. "And since you killed Damien, you’re now ranked eight."
The next moment, Azrael stepped forward, a cold expression marring his features as he made for the line. I quickly followed behind him. Although the thoughts of the numerous dark secrets he kept, along with the eerie presence he radiated, left me deeply unsettled, I knew I needed him.
I needed the information he could give. And more importantly, beyond the walls of this brutal hell, I had a feeling I would need him as well.
Provided I made it out alive anyway.
A few moments later, we made it to the line. Slipping into my supposed spot, I realized then that the only unoccupied spot was that of...
"..."
It was at that moment that Azrael, still wearing that same lazy expression, stepped into the third spot.
The third-ranked gladiator.
I froze, momentarily stunned. Why didn’t I expect that?
Perhaps his intelligence and resourcefulness had made me forget that one needed to be strong to survive in this hell. But I had never expected him — a Terrisman — to be this... strong.
Still processing what I had witnessed, I watched as the innumerable slaves walked about. One after another, with the Romans’ curses raining down on us, we received our meager meals — if they could even be called that.
The sickening sight stirred memories. Memories of the beautiful days back in Gracia. Days when my family and I dined on the best delicacies the empire had to offer. When I ate to my heart’s content, enjoying the very best that money could buy. Such days were long gone, however.
Perhaps... forever so.
My expression darkened.
’All that remained were these meager meals given to Parshmen — slaves, albeit ones paid wages and salaries. Hell, even Parshmen ate far better than this.’
With a profound sense of dismay, I stepped away with my meal, allowing the next in line to step in. My gaze swept across the room, and I realized then that the top ten on the gladiatorial rankings all seemed to have a separate table reserved for themselves. The others had no choice but to sit on the cold floor, it seemed. Shaking my head, I spotted Azrael waving slightly from a corner. I nodded and walked over to him, taking the seat across from him.
"Didn’t know you were that highly ranked." I broke the silence, taking in a mouthful of porridge.
He waved his hand dismissively, shaking his head. "Just some luck."
I nodded, offering no response.
Silence settled between us as we continued eating.
"AAAAGHH—!"
The anguished wails of those who had their meals taken away from them, the blood-curdling cries of those whose food were squashed beneath boots before they were forced to eat it off the floor, and the sickening crack of skulls striking the stone, again and again, echoed through the Butcher’s Room.
The sight was quickly becoming more than I could stomach. And the longer it continued, the more unbearable it became.
My fingers dug into my palm as I forced myself to remain seated.
Azrael glanced at me, taking note of my clenched hands and smoldering eyes — which mirrored the fire burning in my chest — and shook his head.
He let out a quiet sigh.
"I won’t stop you from intervening, but..." he trailed off, glancing at the ongoing commotion. "You’ll do them no good if you decide to intervene."
My jaws tightened at his words.
"Not only will they suffer even more once you’re gone, or simply not around, even if your fame manages to serve as enough deterrent — with how cruel these pits are, how long do you honestly think that will last?"
"Long enough," I said through gritted teeth.
"Do it and you’ll only create a bunch of leeches who become more and more dependent on you." After a short pause, he added. "And trust me, that’s a sure path toward disaster in this place. In this... hell."
For a while, I said nothing. What could I say? As much as I hated to admit it, Azrael was right. It was cruel — maybe — but in this pit, cruelty was but a constant. Besides, intervening would be no different from hindering their growth. Without experiencing the extreme negative emotions, how could they hope to stand and fight for themselves? How could they hope to reclaim their freedom?
But unfortunately, as I looked at the defeated expressions etched on the faces of the majority of the Awakened, I realized then that most had given up on such hopeful terms.
Glory. Fame. Power. Freedom.
Why fight for something they could never obtain?
However, I also knew there were a select few who’d endure. Few who would see this hell not as an end, but as a reason to grow stronger. They would survive, remain alive... and, more importantly, they’d fight for their freedom.
Provided they lived long enough to see those days. The thought made my stomach churn.
Exhaling slowly, I returned to eating my meal, even though I could barely swallow the porridge. I forced myself to remain indifferent to the chaos swirling around me.
It was for their own good. I told myself again and again, if only to convince myself.