The fight with Calian was a brutal test. Every punch sent pain through Mato's exhausted muscles. He barely dodged in time, his breath growing more ragged with each passing second, but Calian continued to advance, giving no time to catch his breath. The crowd roared, demanding blood, their cries merging into deafening cacophony that rang in his ears. Or was that from the last hit? Mato could no longer tell. His right eye began to swell, turning the arena into a blur of pain and movement.

Mato tried to counterattack, but another attack broke through his defense, a fist slammed into his already injured ribs, forcing him to bend in pain. Calian seized the moment, delivering a relentless series of precise, merciless blows. The sand of the arena absorbed drops of blood flowing from Mato's cut eyebrow. Another hit sent him to his knees, and then he was on the ground, looking up at Calian's raised fist, poised for the final blow.

His gaze flickered toward tribune, already knowing what he would see. The silhouette of the chief's wife, bending over her husband. A familiar scene, one he hated with all his heart. Her pity suffocated him more than any blow in the arena. He knew that she considered herself his savior, his guardian angel or some other bullshit, but he didn't care. She was always there, sitting in her high place beside Adriel, watching men kill each other for fun. Flawless in her silk dress, so pure and untouchable in this sea of dirt and blood. The tattoos on her body said a lot. Over the years, she had become a real chief's wife, embracing the cruelty that came with the title.

He saw her whisper something quickly to Adriel, and something new flashed across the chieftain's face, irritation or confusion? Their quiet conversation seemed to have turned into an endless argument. Calian, still looming over Mato, noticed it too, and now he, like the others, watched the unusual scene on the tribune. For a brief moment, Mato thought that maybe, finally, she wouldn't be able to save him. He wanted it to end in such way, and then— Adriel raised his hand, announcing his decision. Mercy. That damn mercy again.

A disappointed groan rippled through the crowd. They had come for blood, for death, for a spectacle—and instead, they got another so-called act of kindness. Calian lowered his hand and extended his palm, helping Mato to his feet. "Good fight," he said with genuine respect. His face covered in sweat and splattered with both his own blood and Mato's.

Mato spat blood onto the sand. "Would've been more interesting if you'd finished me off. Heard this was your last one? Adriel likes you, promised you a reward."

"Yeah, something like that. I don't mind the fights or the gold, but the wife..." Calian smirked, eyes still gleaming with the thrill of combat. "At least some variety in this shithole, right?"

"Good luck with that. I'll be at your wedding as soon as Takoda patches me up," Mato muttered, limping toward the exit.

He had nearly made it out, inhaling the crisp scent of bamboo from the archway, when two figures blocked his path. Tall, sun-bronzed men, their muscular bodies covered in the intricate tattoos of the tribe. Adriel's guards.

"We have orders. Chief. You come." Their broken English was like a death sentence. They grabbed Mato's arms, and for the first time all day he felt real fear. Not the usual pre-battle anxiety, but a cold, piercing dread of the unknown.