Chapter 9: Ordeal

I swung my cutlass in a straight motion, trying to cut the dummy head. It landed nicely and had some impact, but unfortunately the dummy head was still intact, as it seems everything in the training room was made from special material that (according to an urban legend here) could even withstand a catastrophic attack.

I took a breath for a few seconds before resuming my attack. Assuming the dummy in front of me was real person, I should concentrate on making a small number of shallow wounds rather than a few severe deep wounds.

My cutlass, despite having the properties of the finest steel, could not handle the acidity of blood, and striking a hard object like a human bone will significantly reduce its quality by a lot. Inflicting minor wounds was the best thing I could do right now, and I'm planning to use this cutlass for the whole match.

This reminds me of a time, not so long ago, when I was this tired from training, laying down on soft green grass, and drinking cold lemonade. Oh, I should have punished myself for being such an unappreciative jerk to Dorothy. If I knew things were this bad, I should have delayed my arrival at this Colosseum.

My body was lying down, and all I could feel was the uncomfortably rough surface of the cold stone floor. There was no cold lemonade; instead, what greeted me was plain water of questionable quality. After all, we were nothing more than slaves in this Colosseum, so whoever was in charge of our drink had to have cut many corners. I bravely drank the water; I could feel saliva and disgusting dirt in my throat.

I sighed, accepting my current situation. At this point, it did not appear that I have the ability to do anything; instead, I should be patient. I would never made any trouble until the right moment came to me.

I stood up and walked up to the "Dining Hall" room, despite my limping body. This room, unlike the training room, was entirely made of metal, from the hard grey ceiling to the floor. Not only that, this room was also designed with a particular mindset that was meant to make anyone feel uncomfortable and out of place. And whoever the architect was, this room really did serve its purpose. The cramped space and colorless wall not only made this room feel claustrophobic but also intimidated whoever came here, sort of like how the jail chose to not have any color to make the prisoner rethink their life decision. Not exactly the same experience, but this must be how the man in the iron mask felt—an urban legend that I thought was merely a childish story, but now I understand. I understand the horror of it, the horror of isolation in open space. The feeling of helplessness as you realize that anyone in authority could put an end to your life at any moment... Now that I thought about it that could be an exaggeration on my part.

The dining hall room, as the name suggests, was the room used by all fighters to eat their food in peace. While this room did exactly as the name suggests, this room was also used for other things. Not only for dining in but also for breakfast and for filling your waterskin by turning the water valve in the right corner of the room. A water valve with no filter other than whatever fabric you could find nearby; fortunately, unlike some fighters, that choose to came here half naked, I was wearing my full safari uniform, so there was some part of my cloth that could be cut and used as a filter.

The Chef was there. He was the big buggane I saw back then, and looking at him closely right now, I'm glad I chose to provoke the calm-minded Hook instead of this hulking monster.

He brought a wood container along with himself. Inside, rather than food, would be more appropriate to be called "ration." A bread that was harder than mason, a few wild peas, and some assorted half-root vegetables to topped it all of. It would be generous to describe the food here as disgusting; at least, while it may look or smell unsightly, your stomach could be filled after eating disgusting food, I shudder at the prospect of gaining some illness from eating the rotting food here.

The food here was horrible, but it was still better than nothing. Fighters fight by definition, some for grand purposes such as saving money for their family, and others for insignificant reasons such as testing their skill, some even don't have a purpose. Nevertheless, there was only one thing the same about them, and that was their limit. No matter how much they enjoy fighting, one day they'll be tired and exhausted from all the fighting, defense, and beating down. When that time comes, anything that could satisfy their hunger will be eaten, including someone's food portion; this is why the big buggane was assigned as a chef: to keep such fighters from doing stupid things and to ensure that everything was fair.

I've been trapped in this Colosseum for about a month now. Exactly as Ventra suggests, the fight order in this Colosseum was decided by bidding between benefactors. In a nutshell, it was no more than a popularity contest. A fighter who was popular could fight early and leave this godforsaken place, while a fighter who was not popular will stay in this place, working like a slave, until they are called to fight.

By all means, my assumption should not be wrong. From all the data I gathered from doing interviews with each fighter, on average a fighter needs to wait a maximum of two weeks before they are called to fight. After waiting for one month and a bit of a week, my assumption was that I was one of the unpopular ones who did not get chosen by the bid winner, but that was wrong.

"Listen, Trevor, as an envoy, the neutral party of this colosseum, I choose to get rid of any bias I may have brought with me in telling this news," Bjorj, who occasionally came to check on the fighter's mental state, said to me. "Your benefactor, Don Westel of Astarte family has won the bid but he chooses to place you not in the first fight but at the very last. It would be presumptuous of me to say it, but it looks like he wants to wear you down before giving you a fight against the strongest beast in this Colosseum." I could see the worry in Bjorj's face. I assured him that it was all part of my calculation to lessen his worry. Still, that was somewhat unexpected. Not only of weapon mastery but now endurance, I swear on the name of my god that Don Westel and his associate would experience hell once I get out of here.