by Meg Xuemei X
He wouldn’t make it, and he knew it. So, he didn’t say farewell to me, not wanting to break my heart.
“Stop!” I snarled. I stepped forward and cut in between my brother and the demon guard.
“What are you doing, Calamity?” Sebastian growled, trying to reach me to drag me back, but he no longer had the strength. He had never been sick like this, burned by high fever.
It hurt me to see him hurt, but I didn’t rush to help him. Instead, I watched him stumble and fall to his knees. “Bring my brother back—” he pleaded to his friends.
I planted myself firmly before Sebastian, but far enough to be out of his grab. Anyone would have to go through me to get to my brother.
“Don’t take him,” I said, steel in my voice, though my gaze was fixed on the crest on the guard’s armor instead of staring at his face, which would be perceived as a transgression and would get me beaten or even killed. “Please. I’ll go in his place. Let me go instead. The rules say that a volunteer is allowed. I’m useless in the tunnel anyway. I always do the lightest chores while my brother carries the heaviest tasks for all of you. He’ll recover soon, and the tunnel needs him. You’ll need him, but none of you will even notice when I’m gone.”
All of the heads turned to me, silent shock rippling across the crowd in the swamp’s clearing. No one had ever volunteered to go to the arena, and I didn’t look like I would make the cut.
“No, Calamity!” Sebastian bellowed in rage. That roaring of his used the last ounce of his strength. He tried to rise to his feet but failed as a series of violent coughs overtook him.
Seamus sneered in glee. He loved to see my brother suffer, so he allowed me to take Sebastian’s place, for he knew my death would break my brother.
The Sváva guard halted in front of my brother, a disgusted expression crossing his inhuman face at Sebastian’s coughing. They said the Sváva race represented beauty, perfection, and power before the angelic beings fell to the Underworld, and some slaves even worshipped the demons. To me, they were just monsters. If I could, I would spit on his face when he looked at my brother with such cruel contempt.
“I won’t let you do this.” Sebastian struggled to force out his next string of words amid fits of coughing. “You can’t. You’re a g—” He stopped at my death glare, realizing that if he revealed my true gender, it’d only be worse.
We’d both be made an example of. He’d still be dragged to the arena to die, and I’d be tossed into the whorehouse in a fortified castle before the demon guards beat me within an inch of my life and probably gang raped me.
“Don’t do this, Calamity,” pleaded my brother. “They’ll kill you. I can’t bear it.”
He coughed again, yet I couldn’t go to him to pat his back, to ease his pain, for fear my enemy would focus on him and take him away.
I planted my feet firmly on the ground, my hands balling into fists. I wouldn’t let anyone take my brother today. I’d defend him. I’d rather die with him here than watch him be hurled into the arena to be cut down.
“You’ve been taking care of me for years,” I said. “You’re the best brother I could ever hope for. It’s my turn to take care of you for once.”
I took one more step toward the guard and pressed my wrists together for him to manacle.
Diego cried, “Sebastian!”
I turned and saw my brother cough a stream of blood onto the muddy ground.
My heart turned to ice, but still, I didn’t go to him, for fear the demon would take my brother.
“I’m ready to go with you to the arena, my lord,” I told the guard meekly.
He was no lord, but I bet he liked to be called one.
“No!” my brother cried, his trembling fingers reaching for me in order to stop me, but then he swayed and blacked out. Brooklyn caught him before he dropped face down.
“You aren’t much, Sebastian’s little brother, but you’ll do,” Seamus said with an implacable smile, betting on me never coming back. “Your brother can join you when the Reaper returns next time.”
The guard shackled me with iron chains and shoved me forward. I turned to give my unconscious brother one last glance over my shoulder.
“Brooklyn,” I said. “Tell Bas I’ll return for him and I’ll bring medicines.”
The demon hissed, his whip lashing over my back, and burning pain shot through me. I didn’t fight back. Not yet.
Seamus giggled behind me. “I’ll make sure to truthfully inform your brother of the whipping you received if he ever wakes up.”
I swallowed my pride and hatred. They’d all pay. I didn’t know how or when, but deep in my psyche, I’d held on to a belief that I’d burn down the Underworld.
Right now, despite the pain throbbing across my back from the merciless whipping, I was thankful that Sebastian didn’t see it. He wouldn’t allow anyone to whip me, not even the Sváva, and I didn’t want him to lose his life over that.
I stared at the desolate sky behind the jagged, blackened hills as I stumbled ahead, wondering if there was indeed an Upper Realm that had blue sky spilling with sunlight.
Even if there were such things as sunshine and starlight, I would never see them.
No. I shook my head. I refused to believe I wouldn’t make it back to my brother. I couldn’t just abandon my only family.
But first, I’d have to figure out how to stay alive in the arena.
CHAPTER 3
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Bloodthirsty roars from the spectators outside the gate pounded my eardrums, so overwhelming that I could no longer hear the frightened fluttering of my heart.
I’d been brought directly to the coliseum instead of the prison cells that held slave gladiators.
“Why such a rush?” the demon guard who had flown me all the way here asked one of the three coliseum guards.
“Emperor Cain decided to entertain Lord Elijah, who arrived today in Reaper,” the lead guard answered impatiently. “Commander Azazel ordered all the slaves from the seven sectors to be brought here for the first rounds. The audience wants to see some new blood fight.”
The coliseum guards all had gray wings.
I’d learned that the color of their wings indicated their rankings. Golden wings ranked the highest, then black, then red, then white. Gray wings were next to the bottom, and the mixed colors were the bottom feeders in the demonic Sváva hierarchy.
My heart plunged further at the mention of Lord Elijah. Could he be the one who I’d escaped at the Reaper landing site? If he recognized me, the punishment would be unimaginable, assuming I survived the fight in the arena.
The audience’s jeers from outside increased. They were getting impatient. Those fuckers wanted bloodshed. They wanted to see the careless, comical slaying of the slaves.
I didn’t know if it was customary for the starved slaves to be sent to the arena to fight to the death, but if I asked for water, or a slice of bread, I’d surely receive a few brutal whippings from the demons instead of getting any nutrition.
The narrow, lofty iron gate opened in front of my face, and I stared into the vast stadium. Iron walls and gates surrounded it on all sides, shielding the lower parts of the arena, making it impossible for the fighters to escape. My heart dropped as I spotted the ground of ancient stones tainted with old blood and slick with new. Just that gruesome sight made my insides churn.
I probably would have thrown up on the demon’s shiny shoes if I had anything left in my stomach. Even so, I felt the sudden fullness of my bladder and the urgent need for relief.
Oh, please, don’t let me pee my pants, I prayed to whoever in the higher realm would listen. At least let me have this one last dignity. Yet I couldn’t quell the trembling that shook my organs.
I bit down on my inner cheek, tasting the tang of blood, so my teeth wouldn’t clatter uncontrollably in front of my enemies. Then, slowly, the iron will I knew I had fortified my veins.
“Raise your arms, slave,” the lead demon guard ordered me hars
hly.
I wanted to spit on his face, but I did what he ordered me to do instead, giving him a cold look. The chains rattled in the air as demon number two stepped forward and unlocked the iron manacles from my wrists with a key he selected from amid dozens of other keys on a ring. He pried the shackles off me roughly, not caring how his claws scratched my wrist.
I kept my face a blank mask, but I darted a quick glance at the maze of corridors behind me, calculating my chances of escape. I decided not to risk it. This place was full of demon guards, and I wouldn’t get far before they caught me.
Even if I escaped, where would I go?
“This one doesn’t shake like a leaf,” demon number three said. “Maybe it has something to do with the black stripes he painted on his filthy face. Some slave clans belong to some ancient cult.”
Idiot! I was only trying to make myself unrecognizable. I could never afford to let anyone see my true face.
“It won’t help him,” demon number one said. “Judging from his build, he won’t last until the second round. Half of the slaves shit their pants before the fighting even starts. It’s disgusting.” He turned to demon number two. “Who did you bet on, Donovan?”
“I bet on the slave from Sector Two,” Donovan said. “That slave is beefier than the others. He’s probably been taking food from others in his sector to grow those muscles.” He graced me with a calculating glance and chuckled. “I should have bet on this one. This slave boy seems to have some courage, and that should be rewarded.”
A horn blew from the arena, indicating the entry of the first fighters.
“Shut up and send him out,” the lead demon guard snarled, baring his jagged fangs.
Donovan handed me a rusty dagger—they obviously didn’t think a slave like me deserved to have a good blade—and shoved me like a dog onto the edge of the arena.
I felt the eyes of the spectators falling on me, yet none of them regarded me as a person.
Their impatient shouts for the bloody sport died down. The arena was now filled with the noises of their chatting, flirting, and laughing. Evidently, they didn’t take the slave battles seriously. We were the appetizer, our demise only serving to whet their appetites before the professional gladiators offered them the main course.
The heavy gate on the opposite side of the arena swung open, and a slave in scruffy clothes stumbled out, holding a spear with a blunt, rusty spearhead, which would guarantee a great deal of pain and a slow death for the person impaled by that weapon.
He was a couple of inches taller than me, about five foot ten, but he was thinner, due to lack of nutrition. His light brown eyes were huge in his thin face, which didn’t have the stripes like mine.
I wondered which sector he came from. The slave brand of double shackles on his left temple didn’t tell me his origin; nor did mine. I swallowed the bile rising in the back of my throat. It didn’t matter which region we came from. It wasn’t our home. And it was better not to know too much about my opponent; it’d make it easier for me to spill his blood.
Only one of us would get out of the arena and live for another day to face another battle. It was better me than him. And I didn’t want to think about whether he had someone he wanted to return to.
His terrified gaze found me as he staggered toward the center of the arena. He hadn’t stopped shaking since a demon guard tossed him in.
I, however, felt cold clarity running through me as soon as I stepped into the arena, as if I’d been born to do this—a destined fighter.
Fear left me, leaving only hatred and cold rage coursing in my veins like an icy storm.
My opponent relaxed a little, noticing that he had an advantage over me, at least in height. He shrieked, raised his spear over his head, and charged me.
That was what we were supposed to do in this fucking arena—fight to the death.
And I changed my mind in that instant.
He wasn’t my enemy. He was just like me. We’d all been forced into this slavery, so I refused to kill him.
To hell with the gladiators’ rules. I wasn’t one of them anyway.
I waited for him to come close. He didn’t slow his charge, his eyes remaining wild and fearful. I stepped aside in a flash, let him pass, and leapt behind him, the hilt of my dagger striking the back of his skull, not too heavy and not too light, just enough to knock him out.
He fell face down, his spear flying from his hand, and I let out a relieved breath that he hadn’t impaled himself by accident.
The spectators cheered. They had probably never seen a slave pull a stunt like I had. I’d immobilized my opponent with one blow.
Shouts broke out, booming, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”
I might be a branded slave, but I was no murderer.
I was definitely no one’s bitch.
I tossed the dagger to the ground with a clang and spat near my feet.
A silence fell over the arena at my defiance. The fuckers had never seen a slave ignore their bloody requests. Then everyone started shouting with glee, many of them cheering me.
They thought it was a new show.
I waited for the next move from the Sváva demons, the ruling class and our oppressors.
It might be kill or be killed in the arena, but not between other slaves and me.
I’d just made up my mind.
CHAPTER 4
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The new slave swaggered toward me, sneering with spite. He was better dressed than any slave I’d seen. He was also a head taller than me, with solid muscles rippling over his bulky body, which he flexed ostentatiously to intimidate me.
A thought clicked in me. This one must be the slave from Sector Two who everyone had bet on. The guards commented that this bully had taken food from other slaves to fatten himself. Maybe I shouldn’t let this kind of person walk out of the arena alive.
Instead of charging me, he stalked me, not wanting to make the mistake my former opponent had made by rushing me. From the way he held his broadsword, I could tell that he had some training. His sword was shinier and sharper than my dagger. The guards wanted him to win and had equipped him with a better weapon.
I didn’t move but waited for him to come to me.
He halted a few feet from me, flashing a nasty grin that showed an iron front tooth.
“Ready to die, slave?” he asked, as if he wasn’t branded as well.
I flashed him the same nasty grin. “Are you, bitch?”
Rage and bloodlust burned in his lemon-yellow eyes. I doubted that any slave had called him bitch before.
“You’ll die slowly, boy,” he snarled. “Very slowly!”
I snickered. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
The bully lunged at me, swinging his broadsword toward my neck at a forty-five degree angle. He wanted to off me with one strike. If I parried with my dagger, the impact would cut my palm. He might look stronger than me, but he didn’t know I was faster than anyone had the right to be.
I was even faster than the Sváva on the ground.
I bent my head back and dodged his sword. Before he had a chance to bring up his sword and swing at me again, I slammed the flat of my blade onto his forearm, forcing him to drop his weapon. He bellowed in pain while he glared at me in shock. I didn’t give him an opening to pick up his sword and swing at me again.
This was going to be a long day in the arena, so I’d better conserve my energy.
My foot shot up and rammed into his branded temple before he had a chance to bend down and retrieve his sword.
He staggered, dropped to his knees, and fell in a heap on the ground, which was coated with dried blood.
It had taken me two moves to knock out my second opponent.
The crowd urged, “Kill him!”
They still demanded I kill, but they expected me to toss down my dagger, as I’d done before, for a good show.
I threw away my rusty dagger. I didn’t spit but displayed utter apathy. This time, I picked up the bully’s sword.
I wouldn’t even kill this vicious piece of shit for them.
I gripped my new sword, flexing my muscles, waiting for the next slave to come and face me. My clear, cold gaze swept over thousands of spectators until it landed on the demon emperor. He wore a golden crown and sat on a golden throne on the most luxurious balcony, right at the front of the stadium.
His black wings arched behind him, draping the broad, golden seat. His black horns shimmered, fading in and out. Because of his high power, he could still maintain his former angelic, icy beauty now and then.
His emerald eyes were like the purest lake, yet he had an evil soul. He was the butcher in the Underworld, and very likely an even worse monster out in the universe before he’d invaded this realm. He stared at me with the look of a shark smelling the first drop of blood.
A chill iced the blood in my veins, and I turned my gaze away.
Three high-ranking Sváva stood behind him, their red wings tucked in tightly. They must be his infamous commanders who ran the emperor’s army, slaves, and whorehouses.
They were the worst monsters roaming the Underworld.
My disgusted gaze left them and trained on the Sváva who I’d met at the Reaper landing site. My heart no longer rammed into my ribcage in fear, but it pounded hard nevertheless. He was the one the demon guards had referred to as Lord Elijah, one of the highest ranking archangels.
His wings were pure gold, like burning flame. Even the emperor cast a few darkly envious glances at Elijah’s wings.
Our gazes clashed again. His remained unreadable, despite how piercing it was.
Even in the center of the arena, standing on the blood-coated ground and inhaling the sulfur-burned air, I still found his scar enticing and felt his masculine beauty pulling me in. But my eyes betrayed no appreciation, only taunting defiance.
“Slave, how dare you!” a commander snarled, his red wings shooting out and arching belligerently, as if he wanted to fly to where I stood and strike me down right away.