Spring gave way to autumn, and in the blink of an eye, more than a year had elapsed.
Over the course of this past year, the frequency of the gladiatorial combat rituals had steadily intensified.
You’er and his companions had endured more than 140 such events, averaging two per week.
The exact number of those who perished and those who were subsequently replaced had long since blurred in You’er’s memory, his spirit having grown largely numb to the stark reality of witnessing death itself.
Naturally, in this respect, the other three districts mirrored the East District’s experience, albeit with some fundamental differences.
However, the East District diverged fundamentally from the others: it was entirely devoid of the suppression of newcomers or the bullying of the weak.
Under You’er’s meticulous governance, the entire East District blossomed into a picture of harmony, the once pervasive stench of discord having long since vanished.
Yielding to Noelle Noah’s earnest insistence, You’er granted her request to oversee the preparation of three meals a day for everyone.
Consequently, for the better part of the following year, both the prisoners and guards of the East District reveled in Noelle Noah’s truly superb culinary artistry, their days imbued with a profound sense of contentment.
Indeed, the East District had unequivocally transformed into the most coveted sector among both prisoners and guards across all four districts.
Noelle Noah, in turn, was revered as the Death Arena’s most noble and exquisitely beautiful goddess.
Countless individuals would converge, often disrupting the East District’s mess hall, merely for a fleeting glimpse of her stunning visage.
Yet, her profound beauty, and indeed, something far more intimate, blossomed exclusively for a single soul.
You’er’s renown had utterly eclipsed that of Miekin Hogg, the East District Warden.
However, this ascendancy was purely in terms of public recognition; his core identity remained that of a death row prisoner.
Unless some unforeseen event transpired, he would forever be confined within the East District’s formidable gates, his only reprieve being the arena itself.
The contract between You’er and Salakriffin remained binding, thus rendering Miekin Hogg utterly powerless.
No matter how fiercely the warden resented You’er for usurping his authority, he could only glare impotently from afar, his hands tied.
Yet, this very contract had also subjected You’er to an unceasing torrent of hardships.
Reflecting on the past year, he had been thrust into a myriad of grueling gladiatorial combats, pitting him against both humans and beasts.
Each encounter, without exception, shared a singular, relentless purpose: to relentlessly erode his chances of survival and push his very limits to their breaking point.
Considering human adversaries alone, his opponents had escalated dramatically.
From an initial pairing of a high-tier sword apprentice and a low-tier swordsman, he now routinely faced five, seven, or even ten combatants, all of them uniformly of swordsman rank!
He had even, on multiple occasions, found himself battling two high-tier swordsmen simultaneously!
You’er had brushed past the grim reaper countless times.
In one particularly harrowing encounter, he clung to life by a mere thread, yet with an indomitable will, he fought fiercely until the very end, ultimately collapsing unconscious while still upright in the arena’s heart.
Time and again, You’er was compelled to shatter and redefine his own limits!
In the span of a mere year, his prowess had soared from that of a common sword apprentice to the pinnacle of a high-tier swordsman, standing on the precipice of achieving the rank of a great swordsman.
One individual, Heggel Gale from the West District, bore a striking resemblance to You’er.
He, too, had survived a similarly brutal gauntlet of slaughter, now wielding control over nearly half of the West District.
The burgeoning reputations of both men had, by now, transcended the confines of the arena, carried by the clamoring audience far beyond its walls.
The Twin Prodigies of the East and West in the Death Arena!
This formidable moniker drew countless spectators from far and wide, each of their gladiatorial performances proving to be an unforgettable classic.
Their combat rituals were either strategically positioned as the grand opening act or reserved for the climactic finale, their renown within the arena ascending with each passing day.
At this juncture, the ‘newcomers’ who still remained by You’er’s side—no, that term no longer applied; they were now undeniably veterans.
Only a dozen or so individuals, including Keane Coe Harrow and Veron Toth, had survived; the others had, one by one, succumbed to the brutal gladiatorial rituals.
Veron Toth, of course, possessed formidable strength in his own right, having carved a path through countless battles with blades, spears, swords, and halberds to reach this point.
Not everyone, after all, suffered the ill fortune of Vimay Toth, who had the misfortune of encountering an insurmountable powerhouse like Heggel Gale.
Keane Coe Harrow, conversely, was the epitome of pure luck.
Since the very outset, he had only been selected for combat once.
In that solitary instance, his opponent was a disabled man, missing an arm and a leg, who was ultimately kited to death by the fox-like cunning Keane, peppering him with crossbow bolts.
“Boss, here is the information you requested regarding the King’s Combat Festival.”
Keane Coe Harrow, cradling a long scroll of paper, presented it to You’er.
The man truly possessed an uncanny knack for efficiency; You’er’s command had barely left his lips before Keane returned with the results in a matter of minutes.
You’er’s expression remained grim as he accepted the scroll, his eyes meticulously scanning its contents.
A full year steeped in the crucible of bloody warfare had forged within You’er a chilling aura of lethal intent.
He needed no deliberate display; his mere presence was enough to instill profound dread in all who beheld him.
“Boss, what exactly do you intend to do with this?”
Keane Coe Harrow, craning his neck, surreptitiously glanced at the scroll’s contents as he posed his question to You’er.
“I intend to kill!”
You’er’s finger idly traced the scroll’s edge, his voice a chilling monotone, utterly devoid of emotion.
The words sent a visceral shiver down Keane Coe Harrow’s spine, causing him to instinctively duck his head and retreat behind Veron Toth.
Truth be told, anyone who had ever witnessed You’er’s gladiatorial prowess was invariably seized by a profound dread at his frenzied and almost hysterical combat style.
Even Keane Coe Harrow, one of the rare few who enjoyed a measure of proximity to You’er, couldn’t entirely quell the seeds of terror that had taken root within his own heart.
Ahem—
This particular scene, however, elicited a suppressed chuckle from Noelle Noah, her fingertips beginning to trace delicate patterns on the back of You’er’s hand.
“Stop frightening him so, my husband.
Who do you intend to confront? Quia? Or Heggel Gale?”
Noelle Noah seemed capable of peering directly into You’er’s very soul; she had always been the one who understood him most profoundly, instantly articulating his unspoken intentions.
“Both of them must perish!”
You’er gently clasped Noelle Noah’s small hand, a tender curve gracing the corner of his lips, yet the words that escaped them were utterly bereft of warmth.
“But Boss, how exactly do you plan to achieve this?”
Veron Toth regarded You’er with a hesitant gaze, articulating his concerns.
“That Quia fellow has eluded you for an entire year, still remaining vanished without a trace.
Apart from the gladiatorial rituals, he’s nowhere to be found.
And as for Heggel Gale…”
Veron Toth gritted his teeth fiercely as he uttered Heggel Gale’s name before continuing.
“Heggel Gale is now much like yourself, having ascended to the leadership of the West District, his renown even surpassing that of the West District’s warden.
Moreover, both he and you have been singled out for special attention by Lord Salakriffin, rendering any attempt to kill him an even more formidable challenge!”
“Precisely why…”
You’er smiled, holding aloft the scroll in his hand.
“We must leverage this very document.”
The King’s Combat Festival, widely recognized as the most exceptional gladiatorial ritual, stood as the Death Arena’s singular grand event held but once a year.
During this magnificent festival, an array of spectacular and utterly unprecedented spectacles was guaranteed to unfold.
Yet, the precise nature of these events remained an impenetrable mystery, for they were personally conceived, orchestrated, and presided over by none other than Salakriffin, the Master of the Arena himself!
It was precisely this inherent unpredictability and unconventional nature of the festival, however, that held the potential to transform the seemingly impossible into tangible reality!
You’er and his companions had now resided in this place for nearly a year.
In approximately another week, they would face the inaugural round of the King’s Combat Festival, an event in which their participation was mandatory.
Then, on the third night preceding the commencement of the King’s Combat Festival, a most unexpected guest arrived, much to You’er’s considerable surprise.
He was a middle-aged man, characterized by a resolute countenance and light gray hair.
While this description might initially evoke a sense of unfamiliarity, a different introduction would instantly dispel any such notion.
Moses Du, Warden of the Death Arena’s West District.