Chapter 261: v3 - 22:First duel’s aftermath

Chapter 261: v3 Chapter 22:First duel’s aftermath

The surviving fighters were not taken back to the training yard immediately.

Instead, they were led through a side corridor beneath the Arena.

Cassian walked behind Robert.

325 followed several paces behind them.

He was pale.

His injured arm had been wrapped tightly, the bandages already stained through in places. Two attendants supported him as they walked.

No one spoke.

The roar of the crowd faded behind them.

Soon, the corridors became quiet again.

They were taken to a smaller treatment room.

325 was brought inside first.

The attendants worked quickly.

They cleaned the wound.

Changed the bandages.

Checked his breathing.

Cassian watched from the doorway.

There was no expression on 325’s face.

Only exhaustion.

When the attendants finished, they helped him stand.

He was still shaking.

But he was alive.

That seemed to be enough.

The three surviving fighters were then led toward the quarters.

Robert walked beside Cassian.

After several minutes, he finally spoke.

"What happens to the condemned men?"

Cassian looked at him.

Robert had to ask one of the guards.

The guard answered.

Robert listened carefully.

Then turned back.

"They’re kept separately."

Cassian waited.

"They don’t train with us."

That made sense.

Robert continued.

"They’re condemned prisoners. They only come out when they’re scheduled to fight."

Cassian glanced back toward the corridor.

"And after they survive?"

Robert shrugged.

"They go back."

Cassian was quiet.

"So they just wait."

"Apparently."

"For the next fight."

Robert nodded.

Cassian considered that.

The system was simpler than he had expected.

The condemned men weren’t becoming part of the regular training grounds.

They were kept separately.

Fed.

Treated when necessary.

Kept fit enough to fight.

Then brought out whenever the Arena required them.

But there was more.

Robert had asked the guard another question.

He turned back.

"They’re under contract too."

Cassian looked at him.

"Three years."

Cassian’s expression changed slightly.

"The same?"

Robert nodded.

"Three years."

Cassian looked toward the corridor again.

"And if they survive?"

"They’re free."

Cassian said nothing.

Robert continued.

"But they don’t train."

"No."

"They just fight?"

"That’s what he said."

Cassian absorbed that.

Three years of fighting.

No preparation.

No training yard.

No gradual progression.

They were simply kept alive and sent into the Arena again and again.

If they won, they returned to their quarters.

If they lost—

they died.

And another condemned prisoner would eventually take their place.

Cassian looked down.

So the three men who had won today had taken the places of the three newcomers who had fallen.

The Arena had lost three fighters.

It had already replaced them.

There was something cold about the efficiency of it.

Robert exhaled.

"That’s one hell of a contract."

Cassian didn’t answer.

He was thinking about his own.

His was different.

He had been given three months.

Three months to train.

Three months to learn the Arena’s methods.

Three months to become something worth investing in.

And now that investment had begun paying off.

Or so the Arena believed.

When they reached the quarters, the door opened.

The room was the same as it had been that morning.

Six beds.

Only three were occupied now.

Cassian stopped briefly at the threshold.

He looked at the empty beds.

320. 321. 322.

Their belongings had already been removed.

The Arena had wasted no time.

Robert walked toward his bed and sat down heavily.

325 was helped onto his.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

For several moments, no one spoke.

Then the door opened again.

An attendant entered.

He carried three small wooden boxes.

He placed one beside each surviving fighter.

Robert opened his first.

His expression changed.

Inside were several small coins.

"What is this?"

The attendant answered.

Robert listened.

Then looked at Cassian.

"Payment."

Cassian’s eyes narrowed.

"For the fight?"

Robert nodded.

"And the bets."

Cassian looked down at the coins.

"So we receive a share?"

Robert nodded.

He turned one of the coins between his fingers.

He looked almost amused.

"Looks like we’re finally getting paid."

325 opened his own box.

He stared at the contents.

For the first time since losing part of his arm, something resembling relief crossed his face.

The attendant explained something else.

Robert listened carefully.

Then translated.

"The money belongs to us."

Cassian looked at him.

"All of it?"

"Whatever we don’t spend."

The attendant pointed toward a small ledger on the table.

Robert leaned closer.

"He says the Arena keeps the official record of our earnings."

Cassian understood.

"Until the contract ends."

Robert nodded.

"When we leave, whatever we’ve accumulated is paid to us."

Cassian looked down at the coins again.

Two years and nine months.

That was how long remained on his contract.

He had been here only three months.

Freedom was still impossibly far away.

But the money gave the contract another dimension.

It wasn’t simply time being taken from him.

He could accumulate something during those years.

Something he could take with him when he finally walked out.

If he survived.

Robert leaned back.

"Looks like we might walk out with something more than 100 gold coins."

Cassian looked toward him.

"If we walk out."

Robert’s smile faded.

"Right."

The attendant continued speaking.

Robert listened.

Then his eyebrows rose.

"There’s something else."

Cassian looked at him.

"Because we won today, we’re allowed to request one privilege."

Cassian raised an eyebrow.

"What kind?"

Robert listened.

"Within reason."

He glanced toward the others.

"Better food."

A pause.

"A bath."

Another.

"Clothes."

Cassian stared at him.

Robert shrugged.

"Apparently they want to keep their fighters happy."

Cassian almost smiled.

"How generous."

Robert laughed quietly.

The attendant left.

The door closed.

Cassian looked down at the small box beside him.

The coins were unremarkable.

A few pieces of metal.

Yet he found himself staring at them longer than he expected.

Money.

A contract.

Two years and nine months.

A way out.

Not freedom yet.

But proof that there was an end to this.

He closed the box.

He placed it beneath his bed.

Then leaned back.

His body ached.

His eyes still stung from the sand.

He had killed a man that day.

The first time he had killed for the entertainment of thousands.

And he had been paid for it.

Cassian stared at the ceiling.

The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

But beneath the discomfort was something else.

A grim certainty.

If the Arena intended to make him fight for his freedom, then he would fight.

He would earn what he could.

He would save it.

And he would survive.

Two years and nine months.

It was a long time.

Far too long to think about all at once.

So Cassian closed his eyes.

For now, he would think only of tomorrow.

--

Tbc

AN: now we have established these, we can propel the story forward. Aish! I think this is pretty good but it is also tedious to have men fight over and over. Anyhow, let’s go! Hope you’re still with me here.