Nathan swallowed hard. "I've never fought without gloves before. No ring, no ref… It's not a sport here, is it?"
"No," Logan said solemnly. "It's a game. A cruel one. And losing means death."
Nathan felt a chill crawl up his spine. Logan continued, laying out the basics of several fighting techniques—how a shift in balance could topple a larger opponent, how watching the eyes could warn you of the next blow, how to use your environment when your body had nothing left.
They didn't fight that day. Logan said Nathan needed to heal before he could begin. But the next morning, before Logan could even speak, Nathan was already in the corner of the cell, doing push-ups.
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. You're finally hungry for survival."
Nathan, panting, grinned through the pain. "I'm not dying in this place. Not without a fight."
From that day, Logan trained him nonstop. One technique after another. Nathan learned how to move like a fighter, not just punch like one. He was still slow. Still clumsy. But he was better than the scared man who'd first arrived.
Then, a few days later—it happened.
Two Goblin guards barged into the cell, armored and grinning.
"Time's up, human," one of them growled. "You've got a match."
Nathan froze. "Already? I'm not ready!"
His heart pounded so loud he could barely hear himself think.
"I haven't trained enough," he whispered, looking to Logan with wide eyes.
Logan stood up calmly. "You'll never feel ready. That's the secret. But you have to go anyway."
Nathan's lips trembled. "I'll die in there…"
"You might," Logan admitted. "But you also might survive. Trust what you've learned. Trust your instincts. And whatever you do… don't freeze."
Tears stung Nathan's eyes as he nodded and followed the guards through the long, dark hallways. Each step echoed like a drumbeat of fear.
They led him to the arena—a cold, rusted ring made of thick iron bars. No ropes. No soft floor. The ground inside was hard metal, stained with old blood.
The crowd—hundreds of Goblins and a few twisted-looking Elves—cheered loudly from the stands above, waving tickets and throwing bones like coins.
Then, the gate on the other side of the ring opened.
Nathan's breath caught in his throat.
His opponent stepped in—or rather, they did. It was one man… with two bodies. Four arms, four legs, one head perched in the middle where the two torsos met. A grotesque mutation. And from the confidence in his stride, it was clear this wasn't his first match.
The two-bodied man cracked all four knuckles at once and sneered. "Fresh meat," he said in a deep, doubled voice.
Nathan took a trembling step back.
"I… I can't do this," he muttered under his breath.
But before he could think, the two-bodied fighter lunged. A fist flew toward Nathan's face, and he barely dodged, stumbling backward until he nearly stepped out of the ring.
The crowd booed.
"You run like a mouse!" the Goblins jeered.
Nathan tried to regain balance, but the two-bodied man grabbed him and threw him across the ring like a ragdoll. Nathan hit the iron floor with a hard clang, pain exploding in his side.
"No padding," he groaned. "No gloves…"
Everything was raw. Brutal. Real.
Before he could even rise, the man grabbed him again and punched him—once, twice, three times—with terrifying speed. Four fists at once.
Nathan managed to land a kick into one of the torsos, making the man grunt. But the counterattack came instantly. The creature kicked him so hard he was launched into the bars at the side of the ring. He slammed into them with a shout, then crumpled to the ground, gripping his back.
The crowd roared—cheering for the mutant, clapping, stomping.
"They're winning their bets," Nathan realized through a haze of pain.
He wasn't just fighting for survival. He was fighting for amusement—for entertainment.
And yet… Logan's voice echoed in his mind.
Don't freeze. Trust what you've learned. Survive.
As the two-bodied man advanced again, fists raised, Nathan closed his eyes briefly.
Then, trembling, broken, and terrified… he stood up.
The Goblin King's booming laughter echoed through the massive stone chamber like thunder. It made Nathan's skin crawl.
The two-bodied man loomed over him, grabbing Nathan by the arm to pull him up again—ready to finish him off. Nathan's body was shaking, his limbs weak, blood dripping from his mouth. But something inside him refused to give up. Not now. Not like this.
With all the strength he could summon, Nathan clenched his fist and punched the man right in the shaft.
The two-bodied man gasped in pain, his entire body tensing up. He staggered.
Nathan didn't wait.
He lifted his foot and kicked him again in the same spot—harder this time.
The crowd gasped. The two-bodied man let out a roar of agony, doubling over slightly.
Nathan's eyes locked on him. Now.
With everything he had, Nathan launched forward. He punched wildly—his fists slamming into the man's face, chest, stomach, knees, and all four arms. He didn't hold back. He couldn't. Each punch was fueled by rage, fear, and desperation.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
The two-bodied man stumbled, his balance lost. Nathan kicked at his legs, and with a grunt, the creature fell hard to the iron floor.
Nathan didn't stop. He climbed onto the man's chest and punched him again and again and again—blood flying with each blow—until the two-bodied man stopped moving.
Panting, shaking, and drenched in sweat, Nathan finally collapsed beside him, gasping for air. His hands were numb. His body felt like it was falling apart.
He glanced around the ring, barely able to see through the sweat and blood in his eyes.
The referee approached the lifeless body of the two-bodied man, checked for movement, and then stood tall.
"He's dead!" the referee declared.
The audience, instead of cheering, fell completely silent.
Not a single clap. Not a single cheer.
Nathan looked around in confusion. They were all… disappointed?
Up above, the Goblin King leaned back on his stone throne and laughed even louder than before.
"They've lost," he chuckled. "No gifts for them tonight."
Nathan didn't understand at first. Then he realized—the crowd must've placed bets on his death. And the King always gave out special prizes when their predictions came true. But now? Nothing. They had lost. And the King didn't have to give anything away.
Nathan had saved the King money by surviving.
The referee raised Nathan's hand, declaring him the winner.
But Nathan could barely feel it.
He collapsed again, his body screaming with pain.
Two guards entered the ring and grabbed him roughly, chaining his wrists and ankles before dragging him out. His legs barely moved. His blood left a trail on the metal floor as they pulled him.
When they threw him back into the dark prison cell, he hit the ground hard.
Prince Logan was already waiting for him, crouching nearby.
He rushed over and caught Nathan before he could fully collapse.
"Congratulations," Logan said softly, pride in his voice. "You did it. I'm proud of you."
Nathan's eyes were half-closed. "Will it always be like this?" he murmured, barely able to speak.
Logan helped him sit down against the wall. "This is just the beginning, Nathan."
Nathan blinked, his body trembling. "Beginning?"
Logan nodded slowly. "Soon, it won't be just one opponent. There will be more. Sometimes two… sometimes three. And after that—" he hesitated "—there are beasts."
Nathan's breath caught in his throat. "What?!"
"Yes," Logan said quietly. "Creatures from the darker pits of this world. Stronger. Faster. Hungrier. They throw them in the ring for sport."
Nathan dropped his head into his hands. "No one can beat a beast."
Logan didn't respond right away.
Nathan's voice cracked. "Damn it!"
Logan placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "You've already done the impossible once, Nathan. Now… prepare yourself for the next battle. It will be harder than anything you've ever known."
Nathan leaned back against the cold prison wall, every inch of his body screaming. His breath was ragged. His back throbbed from being slammed into the iron. His fists ached. But his heart? It still beat.
Two days later, the pain in Nathan's body hadn't eased. Every part of him ached—his ribs, his back, even the soles of his feet. But Prince Logan didn't let up on the training.
Nathan didn't complain. He couldn't.
Every time his body screamed for rest, he forced himself to remember her—his daughter. Her little hands, her bright eyes, her laugh.
"I have to get back to her," he whispered to himself whenever the pain grew too much. "I have to be strong—for her."
Logan noticed the fire in Nathan's eyes and nodded with quiet approval. They trained in silence that morning, focusing on breathing, footwork, and strikes. But before the session could end, a guard appeared, banging a staff against the metal bars.