As the days passed, Perseo became more and more certain of one thing: the people around him, those who had stopped fighting, seemed empty. They were hollow shells that existed only to fulfill the whims of the demons and the desires of the guards. They no longer fought for anything. Revenge, hope, desires—none of these remained in their hearts. And that made them more dangerous than the very demonic beasts that kept them imprisoned.

  In such a short time, he had already seen men fight each other over a mere scrap of bread. Not even for the food itself—sometimes hunger was just an excuse. Some of them were no longer men, but starving beasts, devoured by desperation and misery.

  "I chose to remain human."

  He remembered the old man's words. Was this what he meant?

  Life in that pce was an endless routine. A cycle of pain, mistreatment, and hunger that never broke. Time held no meaning there, for day and night were nothing but blurred moments. The sves were treated like animals, forced to perform tasks no one else wanted at whatever time their masters pleased.

  Perhaps this was why Mornnosk was known as "The Abyss."

  When they were sent to work in the mines—the deepest ones, where the depths swallowed everything: light, heat, moisture—it was all they could do to remain on their knees when they colpsed from exhaustion.

  Some of the weakest simply dropped dead, dying as they worked, without making a sound, as if they no longer had the strength even for their final breath. Then again, they had already died long ago.

  And the guards… those damned guards.

  They were a constant threat, taking pleasure in beating and punishing without reason. Their ughter echoed through the halls like the voices of cruelty itself. If one of them died, they simply tossed the corpse aside like garbage and repced them with another.

  It was a cruel abyss, one that forced you to question the value of life itself.

  Perseo, however, still stood his ground—though he was beginning to lose the meaning of that phrase.

  What did it even mean to stand firm?

  Even though fatigue overcame him at times, his spirit still burned, like the fme of a candle, fueled by a purpose that the others seemed to have lost. He could not afford to give in. He would not become one of those who fell into the clutches of despair.

  His vengeance against the demons who had destroyed his life, who had burned his home and his people to the ground, was the only thing keeping him standing.

  The weight of the shackles did not just leave red grooves on his skin—it also left a mark on his mind. It was not just the metal that bound him; it was the very essence of despair that kept him from moving freely. Every day in the Coliseum was not measured in hours but in blows, in empty stares, in the slow loss of something he had not even realized he could lose: his will.

  He had once believed pain was his greatest enemy.

  The wounds, the broken bones, the blood running down his skin—those were tangible, and what was tangible could be endured.

  But there was something far worse than pain.

  Something he had not foreseen.

  The slow disappearance of his own reflection.

  He had stopped thinking about escape, about finding routes, about calcuting distances.

  His thoughts no longer spoke of revenge or redemption. They only whispered of enduring one more day. And that terrified him more than any wound.

  He was losing his goal and was beginning to wonder if it even mattered.

  He watched the other sves, those who had been here far longer than him, those who had already been consumed by the darkness of the dungeon. Some muttered nonsense to themselves. Others did not even blink when a fly nded on their unblinking eyes.

  One, in particur, had completely white eyes, as if his soul had left his body a long time ago.

  Was this what the end looked like?

  Was this what it felt like to surrender?

  Panic clutched his chest.

  He did not want to become that.

  He could not.

  He would rather die in the arena with a sword in hand than turn into a hollow shell.

  He clenched his fists, grabbing a handful of dirt from the ground, feeling the sting of his still-healing wounds. A reminder that he was still alive, that his flesh could still feel, that his mind could still think.

  He would not let himself be consumed.

  Not yet.

  Not while his heart was still beating.

  At least... for now.

  When the pain in his muscles reached its peak and his thoughts began to colpse but bothered him less and less, a group of sves was dragged from the dungeon into the center of the Coliseum arena.

  There had been rumors that the demons would sometimes choose the strongest ones to fight in their spectacles.

  He watched with curiosity as he hurriedly devoured the stale bread and rancid meat he had hidden in his ragged clothing. The sves were marked, restrained by several guards, and selected for combat.

  One of the oldest prisoners—the same man who had spoken to him days ago—was among them.

  And now, in the flickering torchlight, Perseo could see it more clearly:

  The scar that ran across the old man's face.

  The countless marks on his skin.

  "Don't get your hopes up," the man said in a hoarse voice. "They choose us when we no longer serve them. But in the end, we're all just cannon fodder. No one survives once they're chosen."

  Perseo stared at the sves being dragged away.

  Many of them did not struggle.

  They did not resist.

  They did not care anymore.

  Would that be him someday?

  Would he also stop caring?

  Would he lose his soul?

  He refused to accept it.

  But he knew that the arena would call him sooner or ter.

  And if he wanted to get out of here, he would have to fight.

  "You see, boy," the old man continued, his voice softer than usual, "this pce... it wears you down. It drains you. But don’t let it crush you. It’s easy to lose yourself here."

  "The worst thing isn't the whips. It's not the ck of food. The worst thing is what they do to your soul. If you don't have something to keep you going, this pce takes everything from you."

  Perseo clenched his jaw. "I already told you—I have something to live for. Vengeance."

  The man nodded slowly. His eyes held pity.

  "I know. And that’s what keeps you standing. But don’t forget, here... vengeance alone is not enough. You need something more, something that will keep you fighting when you have nothing left. Because one day, vengeance won’t be enough anymore.

  This pce knows that.

  And it will make you question whether it was ever worth it."

  Perseo couldn’t answer.

  He didn’t want to.

  Deep down, he knew the Coliseum would not be so easily conquered.

  The man continued, "Listen, boy. Don’t forget what I said. The only thing that can save you is what keeps you yourself. You have to find it and hold on to it.

  If you don’t…

  You’ll end up as just another victim in this sea of shadows."

  As those words echoed in his mind, a guard—one of the ones he hated the most—stormed toward them.

  With rage burning in his eyes, he grabbed the old man, yanking him violently to his feet.

  He had been marked for the arena.

  Perseo watched him, his fists tight.

  "Is this the end for him?"

  The old man still seemed conscious.

  But something deep inside Perseo doubted if he could still resist.

  And then, the Coliseum called his name.

  The abyss had chosen him too.

  And the bloodshed was only just beginning.

  The Coliseum was never satisfied.