"Time's up!"
The soldier's voice snapped everyone's attention forward.
"Form a line with your pair. Those who step out of line…" the soldier lifted his sword, "...die."
Prisoners rushed to form a line, some grinning, satisfied with their pairs, while others trembled, doubt creeping into their minds, questioning whether they should've picked someone else.
Of course, it was nothing compared to Damon's situation.
He didn't have a choice.
He was left behind, forced to form a pair with a girl who looked like she could die to a gust of wind, let alone survive a battle royale.
Suddenly, chaos erupted behind Damon.
"F-Fuck this!" one of the prisoners shouted, creating a ruckus that made other prisoners take his lead.
They rushed out of line, heading straight at the soldiers, but they barely made it two steps before a sudden wave of fire struck them.
Damon's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat.
One of the soldiers had his arm casually raised, and from his palm, waves of fire rushed forward like water from a broken dam. The flames engulfed those who stepped out of line, their screams cut short as their bodies collapsed into charred husks.
Six prisoners were burned to death in almost an instant.
Damon's mind raced, not with horror, but with cold analysis.
'He... He shot fire from his palm. No torch, no flint... it simply appeared out of thin air'
The logical part of his brain rejected it, yet the evidence was right there, smoking corpses on the stone floor. He waited for the fear to come, the panic, but instead found only a gnawing curiosity and an eerie calm.
'What kind of world is this? Where the hell am I?'
He had his name, fragments of sensations, the weight of a book in his hands, the taste of coffee, the sound of rain on windows, he could remember the notions of all these things, but nothing that explained this. Nothing that made soldiers wielding fire from their bare hands seem reasonable.
His eyes scanned the other prisoners, searching for answers in their faces.
But none of them looked surprised. Horrified, yes. Terrified, certainly. But none looked even slightly surprised.
'This type of thing... isn't unsual?'
The realization settled over him like a heavy cloak. Wherever he was, whatever this world was, what he just witnessed was normal.
He tried to calm himself down with few steady breaths, nodding in raw understanding of what was happening.
"Tsk, fools…" the commanding soldier shook his head, disgust dripping from his voice. "Those of you who wish to see another day, follow me. The rest…" he glanced at the burnt corpses, "you can meet your fate in this chamber."
There was no more rebellion amongst the prisoners, none dared to move against the commander's command. One by one, they followed in line, Damon among them.
'Fifty prisoners. Now forty-four. Twenty-two pairs. They said last pair standing. That's forty-two deaths minimum. Unless there's more prisoners we're not even aware of.'
The group left the large chamber and entered another room, slightly smaller, but instead of vast empty space, it was filled with racks upon racks of weapons.
Swords, knives, spears, bows, and glaives lined the walls in organized rows.
Damon's eyes swept across the armory, noting the variety, the placement, the condition of each weapon type.
'They're not scared to give prisoners weapons?'
The thought barely finished before the answer came to him. He thought back to that fire-wielding soldier, the casual way he'd raised his hand, and its devastating result.
'It probably wouldn't make a difference. Even if all forty-four of us were armed and attacked at once, that one soldier could probably burn us all to ash before we got close.'
The power disparity was absolute. The weapons weren't a risk, not against those whom they call sorcerers.
"Listen up!" the soldier spoke up, his voice cutting through the nervous murmurs. "Fighting between participants before the battle royale begins is prohibited. Changing pairs is prohibited. Trying to escape… Guess what? Prohibited. Punishment means death. There are no second chances for filth like you. You have an hour before the battle royale begins. Pick your weapons, say your goodbyes… cry if you wish, but keep it down. If I have to come down here before an hour passes…"
He gestured toward the soldier who was playing with fire between his fingers, small flames dancing across his knuckles like trained pets.
The prisoners gulped at the sight.
The soldiers didn't waste another moment, turning and shutting the door behind them with a resounding boom that echoed through the chamber.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then the panic started.
"Seriously?! An hour?! How about give us some damn food!" one prisoner began shouting at the closed door.
"Should've told them when they were here, you fool!"
"How about we pick up these weapons, and the moment they return, we kill them all?" another joined in, already hefting a large battle axe from the rack.
"Did you not see what they did?! Do you wanna get burned alive?!"
The arguments dissolved into white noise as Damon tuned them out. Shouting wouldn't change anything. These people were panicking, and panic in this situation meant death.
He needed to think.
'One hour. Then a battle royale where the last pair standing survives. They mentioned something about awakening as sorcerers... they probably meant something like that fire wielding soldier. That must be the incentive. The reason we're not all just executed.'
His eyes drifted across the other pairs, analyzing them with a detached, almost clinical focus.
First he saw two large men, both broad-shouldered and scarred. Former soldiers, maybe, or laborers. They looked comfortable holding their weapons, testing the weight with practiced ease.
Dangerous.
Next he saw a wiry man paired with a woman who carried herself with rigid posture. Her eyes were sharp, constantly scanning. Some kind of training, perhaps.
Also dangerous.
Then he saw—
"I…I'm Elise, by the way."
The soft voice from beside him shattered his focus. He'd almost forgotten she was there.
Damon turned to look at his "partner." She was even more frail up close, her arms thin as branches, her cheeks hollow, sunken beyond reason. The magenta eyes that had unsettled him earlier now seemed to avoid his gaze, darting nervously between him and the ground.
But there was something else. Something in the way she held herself—shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together, head tilted down just so. It was almost as if she was trying to appear timid.
'Is she really this weak, or is this a character she's playing?'
He couldn't tell. And that uncertainty bothered him more than he cared to admit. After all, the girl was supposed to be his pair in all this.
"I'm Damon," he replied, keeping his tone neutral.
"Do you know how to use any of these?" Elise asked, gesturing toward the weapons. Around them, prisoners were already emptying the racks, swinging swords and spears with varying degrees of incompetence.
"Not sure," Damon answered honestly. He didn't have memories of any combat training, but that didn't mean he couldn't learn, especially when faced with death.
"Do you?"
"Oh, well… I guess a knife." She paused, wringing her hands together. "I used to cook."
Damon raised a brow.
'Cook?'
His first instinct was to write her off entirely. A cook's knife skills wouldn't translate to combat. But then again…
'As long as she knows how to cut... that will have to be good enough'
And more importantly, it was the first piece of concrete information she'd volunteered about herself.
"Better than nothing," Damon said, surprising himself with the encouragement. "A knife is easier to handle than a sword anyway. More control."
Elise blinked, her magenta eyes widening slightly, as if she hadn't expected him to respond positively.
For just a moment, something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or calculation—before the timid mask settled back into place.
"R-really? You think so?"
"Yeah." Damon replied as he started walking toward the nearest weapon rack. Elise followed, staying close like a shadow, her shoulder occasionally brushing against his. "We should focus on what we can actually use. No point picking up a battle axe if we can't swing it."
He scanned the available weapons, his mind working through possibilities.
'I need something versatile. Not too heavy. Something I can learn quickly.'
His hand closed around a straight, double-edged short sword. Not the longest blade available, but a one that looked balanced and simple in design. He lifted it, testing the weight.
'Heavier than I expected, but manageable.'
He gave it a few experimental swings, feeling the way it moved through the air. It was clumsy, definitely untrained but it didn't feel impossible either.
Beside him, Elise was examining the daggers. She reached for a large combat dagger but couldn't quite lift it with one hand. Her face flushed with embarrassment as she set it back down.
Damon watched her struggle for a moment, then reached past her and picked up a smaller blade, a stiletto with a narrow profile and decent enough reach.
"Try this," he said, offering it to her handle-first.
Elise took it carefully, her fingers wrapped around the grip with surprising familiarity. She tested its weight, gave it a small twirl, and for just a heartbeat, her grip looked almost confident, as if instincts took over intentions.
Then she fumbled, nearly dropping it, and let out a nervous laugh.
"S-sorry! I'm so clumsy!"
Damon didn't reply at first, his eyes lingering on the girl's hands.
'Was that fumble on purpose?'
He let the question hang in his mind for a moment but then after taking another look at the girl physique he shook the thought away.
'Perhaps I'm overthinking it'
"Grab a second one," He finally suggested, nodding toward a matching stiletto. "If you're using knives, two are better than one. And pick up a throwing knife or two if you can carry them. Having options is always good."
He wasn't sure how he knew any of it, but it didn't matter. He had no time to waste thinking about how he knows things, right now he had to put all he did know to use.
Elise nodded quickly, gathering the additional blades with shaking hands.
"What's your plan?" She asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Damon glanced at her, then back at the other pairs spread throughout the armory.
"We need to survive the start," he said simply. "I'm not sure how big the arena is but Im almost certain that the start will be the craziest. After that we can find a place to hide and wait out as many people as possible"
It wasn't much of a plan. But in a situation where he had no memories, no combat training, and a partner who was weak beyond reason, it was the only plan that made sense.
Observe and wait. No haste actions.
"Okay," Elise whispered, clutching her knives close to her chest. "I'll… I'll do my best."
Damon nodded, turning his attention back to the other pairs.
Forty-four prisoners. Twenty-two pairs. Only one would survive.
'Forty-two deaths... Unless there is more prisoners than what we can see...'
He tightened his grip on the short sword.
'Either way... We won't be among them.'