Entering the dimly lit corridor, Steven and Drake took cautious steps into the passage, Steven in the lead while Drake followed at a good distance, just in case an attack was to happen. The spacing gave him enough room to react, dodge, or retreat should something suddenly lunge out from the shadows.
This did not go unnoticed by Steven. He would have done the same himself if he had not received the message from the system earlier. Caution was survival here; trust was a luxury long buried with the dead.
"Hey, brats."
A guard standing ahead waved lazily, catching the attention of the two prisoners. He glowered at them, his face twisted in open disgust as he spoke, "You two. Come with me." He said nothing else, turning away immediately and striding off at a fast pace, as though deliberately wanting them to run just to keep up.
But the two remained calm, maintaining their steady pace, letting the guard wander off ahead on his own. As he began to lose them, a low growl echoed through the corridor, vivid and irritated, and he was forced to slow down himself.
Clearly, his superiors would not be pleased if he mocked their commands and left a pair of rotting, irritating slaves to wander freely through restricted corridors. Even stupidity had limits—especially in a place like this.
As they walked through the passageway, Steven couldn't help but notice that the screams of the audience in the Colosseum had begun once again, louder than before, swelling like a tide of madness crashing against stone walls. For some unknown reason, his chest tightened.
He felt curious, uneasy even, but through the thick metal walls, he could not get any answers. So he forced his focus back onto his own journey. Curiosity got people killed here—slowly, if they were unlucky.
After a short trek, the group reached a set of spiraling stairs that led upward, toward the upper levels of the Colosseum. Two guards stood stationed at the bottom, their weapons resting casually at their sides, eyes dull and bored.
The two guards paid no attention to Steven and Drake as they were escorted by another guard. Soon enough, the climb began.
During the ascent, Drake seemed to grow bored. Out of nowhere, he began to murmur to Steven. His voice was low, and thanks to the vibrant, maddened yells of the audience above, it was difficult to hear clearly.
"—Is this another part of the Realm's trial?"
"—The second condition—"
Steven could only make out those fragments, but he understood the framework of what Drake was trying to say. He had likely seen it too—the system notification.
{Congratulations: You have completed 1/3 conditions to escape the Realm}
Steven wasn't entirely sure if his current actions would trigger the second condition, but he hoped they would. After a brief moment of contemplation, he nodded in response to whatever Drake was still whispering and turned his attention back to the guard, who had now reached the top floor of the Colosseum.
At that moment, Steven's heart plunged. A cold wave washed over his body, crawling beneath his skin like icy fingers tightening around his spine.
It was now or never.
Reaching the top floor, it didn't take long before the two prisoners and the guard arrived at a large door that led out of the inner compartments of the Colosseum.
The guard ushered Steven and Drake forward. As they stepped out, light flooded their vision, blinding for a brief moment, before clearing to reveal their position.
They stood at the upper section of the Colosseum.
Steven had to admit it—standing at the top, the view was a spectacle. From here, the entire arena spread out beneath them, vast and merciless. Beyond the towering walls, he could even see rows of distant houses, half-consumed by an enigmatic, thin fog that clung to the land like a dying breath.
Steven stared at it for a second longer than necessary before the roaring cheers of the crowd snapped him back to reality.
Below them, in the arena they had just left, was the source of the audience's joy.
A gruesome sight unfolded—several prisoners who had been too terrified to choose between fighting or defying were now facing a massive Shadow Eater. Judging by the speed of its movements, it was likely a Dreadling.
At that moment, two were already dead.
One had nothing left of his body but a grotesque smear of minced flesh, scattered like waste across the sand. The other was a twitching, headless corpse, blood oozing uncontrollably as its movements slowed to meaningless spasms.
For humans, they were faring well—remarkably so. But against such odds, it wouldn't last.
It never did. This only reminded Steven of the fragility of human life, the fragility of his own life in this world.
Steven had to avert his eyes from the horrid sight, turning instead toward the only structured area of the upper compartment—the seating section.
Twelve seats split into two equal halves. Six to the left, six to the right. Between them stood the glorious, polished wooden throne of the Sea Deity.
The massive figure of the monstrous being slumped upon it, his bloated form spilling over the sides as though the throne itself struggled under his weight. Occupying the twelve seats were the elders—far fatter, far more obscene than Steven had imagined from a distance. Up close, they looked less like rulers and more like overfed parasites.
Beside the seats stood roughly half a dozen guards, rigid and alert, while more watched from other sections of the upper Colosseum.
Steven's face paled—not because of the slaughter unfolding below. Human lives meant little to him back in the human world, talk less of her in the realm, so why should they matter now?
What made him pale was something else entirely.
It was the audience.
The way they watched.
The way they laughed.
Prisoners were torn apart, sliced in two, mercilessly killed by horrid Shadow Eaters—and the crowd rejoiced. They yelled, clapped, and screamed in ecstatic delight. It was sick. Deliberately so.
The Sea Deity's voice boomed louder than the rest. His massive form shook as he slapped his stomach, bursting into thunderous laughter. The ugly monster turned to the elders, making crude, unruly comments about the massacre playing out below, as if it were nothing more than a comedic performance.
This was sick.
Irritating.
And the longer Steven watched the reactions of the Deity and his elders, the more fury coiled within him.
His gaze drifted back down to the arena.
The last surviving prisoner crawled desperately across the blood-soaked sand, his arms ripped off at the elbows, his legs twisted and broken beyond repair. Still, he crawled. Still, he cried.
His face was pale—deathly so—as tears no longer fell normally. Blood seeped from his eyes instead, stained by the macabre terror of a slow, callous death.
And all Steven heard from above were vile insults, each one more grotesque than the last, hurled with laughter and cheer.
Then, finally, the fight came to an end with the Dreadling tearing off the head of the last prisoner ruthlessly.
The result was absolute massacre.
Steven finally tore his gaze away from the dreadful arena, exhaling slowly as his eyes settled on his hands. His fingers trembled—not with fear, but restrained hatred.
His face hardened into a spiteful glower as he turned toward the Sea Deity, unexpectedly locking eyes with the demonic gaze of Ark'shaRin, who had been watching him for quite some time now.
Steven could read the intent in those eyes.
He knew what it meant.
Because now—
It was their turn to be mocked.