A few days had finally passed, and Steven was now fully healed from his injuries. The moment his body recovered, his plan immediately began to set itself into motion.
The noise of thundering boots echoed through the entire corridor, heavy and deliberate, sending vibrations through the cold obsidian walls. The usual two guards; those tasked with selecting prisoners for battle in the Colosseum came to a halt before Steven's cell.
They weren't there for him.
Not particularly for Steven, at least, but for Scribe, since the frail old man was scheduled to fight today. As they stepped inside and roughly grabbed the cowering elder, dragging him to his feet and toward the cage door, Steven moved.
He stepped forward and placed himself directly in the guards' path, blocking them and momentarily dazing them with his sudden interference.
The first guard furrowed his brows, his hand instinctively falling to the hilt of his blade. His lips twisted into a cruel frown as his gaze bore down on Steven.
"And what might you want… Rat?" the man sneered, deliberately stressing the last word.
But Steven did not budge.
He let his expression remain unreadable—blank, withdrawn, devoid of fear or anger.
"Can I take today's battle?" he asked calmly.
The guards stared at him as though he had spoken complete nonsense. For a moment, silence lingered, and then the first guard burst out laughing. He let go of his weapon entirely, clutching his stomach as his booming laughter echoed through the corridor.
"Hahahaha! What the hell is this joking mouse all about today?" the man roared.
The second guard, however, simply curled his lips into a twisted grin as he stepped forward. His right hand came to rest heavily on Steven's shoulder, fingers digging in as though testing his bones. He leaned closer and winked, his expression warped with amusement.
"You humor me, Rat."
His eyes slowly trailed from Steven's face down to his frail-looking body, lingering there for a moment. The grin on his face widened even further.
"Putting on some weight, are we? This is the first time in… what, a hundred years?"
Before Steven could respond, the guard struck.
His clenched fist slammed into Steven's gut with brutal force.
The impact caused Steven to stagger backward before dropping to his knees, his head bowing instinctively as pain exploded within his abdomen. His insides throbbed violently from the blow, his breath forcibly knocked from his lungs.
He could have blocked the attack.
He could have retaliated.
But Steven knew better. For his plan to work, he had to endure such beatings.
The guard who struck him looked down with a twisted grin plastered across his face.
"Did I hit you too hard, scum?!"
Steven didn't answer.
He struggled to draw in air, gasping quietly as his chest rose and fell. When he finally regained his breath, he forced himself upright. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his head and stared at the two torturous guards, who had already turned away and resumed dragging Scribe toward the exit after finishing their entertainment, the old man screamed in protest to this.
Then Steven spoke.
"What if I make it worth your while?"
The guards paused.
Hearing his words, both men turned back to look at him. In Steven's hand was a chunk of Ark'shaRin—the fragment he had obtained from Scribe.
At the sight of it, a strange and oppressive atmosphere descended upon the corridor.
The guards found it difficult to look away. Their eyes were transfixed, glued to the chunk in Steven's grasp, their breathing subtly changing as desire and hesitation warred within them.
'Just as I thought,' Steven mused inwardly, a sharp grin forming deep within his thoughts.
'These fools are no different from us slaves. Forced to live in this foul stench, fed scraps of existence. Despite not having to fight, their supply of the Deity's body is limited.'
'That's why they aren't as bloated as the high-class pigs.'
'I've got these bastards in my hands now.'
Without hesitation, the two guards stepped forward. Their faces were tense with unease, yet they did not stop themselves. One of them reached out and took the chunk from Steven's hand.
Then, obediently, they guided Steven out of the cell.
Not Scribe.
As they walked, a new notification appeared before Steven's eyes.
---
{First Title Gained}
{Title: Puppeteer}
{This is a borrowed title. No reward will be given for acquiring this title.}
{Description: At first, you commanded the lowly. Now, you manipulate your masters. Just as the Sea Deity Ark'shaRin has puppeted the Fated Colosseum, you have stolen two of his puppets as your own.}
{Note: Since these are borrowed puppets, they can still be seized by the True Owner.}
---
Steven read the notification slowly, his face brightening with a sudden sense of enlightenment.
But there was no time to dwell on it.
Right now, he was being led toward the Colosseum—toward yet another life-threatening battle.
Upon reaching the weapon racks, Steven wasted no time. He selected his usual equipment: a light chest plate, a pair of gauntlets, and a set of dual daggers, which he secured firmly around his waist.
When he was ready, the massive metal door reeled upward, welcoming him into the blinding lights of the Colosseum.
The mighty, reverent cheers of the crowd crashed into Steven's ears with deafening force.
He had grown accustomed to the sound now, barely acknowledging it.
Instead, his gaze swept across the arena, landing on the figures already present within the Colosseum.
Because of the time he had spent creating trouble with the guards, he was the last to arrive. At his entrance, every person in the arena turned to look at him.
'Yes… watch, you bunch of gallant fools,' Steven mocked inwardly.
His eyes scanned his supposed teammates until they settled on a familiar face.
A dashing blond man stood proudly among them.
Drake.
He was dressed in his usual armor, his mighty sword resting confidently at his side, a smug expression on his face—as though he stood above everyone else present.
The glorified fatso.
Steven approached Drake with a smile.
"We finally meet."
Drake furrowed his brows, clearly confused by Steven's enthusiasm. He shifted awkwardly before replying,
"Yes… I guess."
Steven nodded and stepped past Drake by a few feet before speaking again, his tone calm and deliberate.
"Do you trust me?"
Drake grunted, stretching his neck slightly to look back at Steven. His eyes narrowed. At first, it seemed as though he wanted to object—to challenge whatever Steven was implying.
But the longer he remained silent, the more his expression softened, dissolving into something vacant.
Then, almost blindly, he answered,
"Yes."
At that reply, Steven nodded.
His smile faded almost immediately. His throat went dry, and he released a slow sigh as he raised both hands high into the air—high enough for all to see.
It was a signal that made the entire Colosseum fall silent.
The violent roars of the audience vanished, replaced by stunned disbelief at what they were witnessing. It was a rare occurrence, something unseen for decades, yet it unfolded before them now.
The other slaves in the arena stood frozen, fully aware of the bold—no, daring—move being made before their eyes.
Steven frowned slightly at the overwhelming attention his actions brought up on him. Then he opened his mouth and forced out the words that sealed his fate.
"I challenge the Champion!"
//Author's note//
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