Chapter 70 The Stranger in the Pit

The handlers led Kai down a narrow passage cut into the stone, torchlight flickering against damp walls. The roar of the crowd shook the ceiling, a living thunder that rattled his bones.

“Strip him,” one handler muttered.

Another shoved a rack of weapons toward him—swords, axes, spears, shields gleaming beneath the flame. Kai reached instinctively for a blade, but the handler’s boot slammed against the rack, toppling the steel out of his reach.

“Not for you.”

A wooden shaft clattered at his feet. A simple staff, cracked along the grain.

Kai frowned. “This? Against whatever’s waiting out there?”

The handler smirked. “Real warriors earn their weapons. Prove yourself first.”

Kai bent, fingers brushing the rough wood. It felt…familiar. Not the staff, but the idea of standing at the edge of something impossible, empty-handed. A ripple of déjà vu tightened his chest.

The gate creaked. Hands shoved him forward.

Sand crunched under his boots as he stumbled into the arena.

The cheers swelled until the air itself trembled.

And then it came.

A Cyclops—towering, broad as a fortress wall. One glaring eye burned red above a snarling maw. It dragged a crude iron club, every step shaking the pit.

Kai’s throat tightened. He had seen something like this before. Somewhere. A memory flared—half-formed, a blur of teeth and rage—but vanished as quickly as it came.

The Cyclops roared.

The club swung.

Kai dove aside, sand spraying as the weapon cratered the ground where he’d stood. He rolled, scrambled to his feet, staff raised out of instinct more than skill. Another blow thundered down. He ducked, weaving close, striking the beast’s knee. The wood cracked, barely making the monster stumble.

The Cyclops backhanded him across the pit. Pain flared through his ribs, his vision swimming.

He should have stayed down.

But something in him refused.

As the next strike came, Kai thrust both hands upward—gripping the massive club. Muscles screamed. Sand buckled under his boots. Yet the weapon stopped.

The Cyclops bellowed in confusion.

Kai’s teeth clenched, breath ragged. How am I—?

And then the thought surfaced, wild and unshakable: I must be dreaming.

If it was a dream, then strength was his to command.

He roared, twisting the club aside, staggering the beast. Sand flew as Kai sprinted forward, staff forgotten, both hands clenched together. He leapt—higher than he thought possible—casting his shadow across the Cyclops’ glaring eye.

His fists came down like a hammer.

The impact rang through the pit. The monster reeled, roared once more—and collapsed in a spray of dust and blood.

The arena erupted.

Thousands of voices rose in thunderous cheers.

From the lowest stands, two figures had leapt to their feet.

“KA—!” Revoli’s voice broke with relief and disbelief, but the name was swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

Patrona grabbed her arm. “Don’t shout his name!” But her own breath caught. It was him. Alive. Fighting like a man born of storms.

Below, Kai staggered to one knee, chest heaving. The handlers swarmed in, dragging him up before the dust had settled. They pulled him through the gate, vanishing into the tunnels.

Patrona shoved through the crowd, dragging Revoli behind her. The stands pressed tight, bodies locked shoulder to shoulder, stamping and howling for more blood. Every shove was met with laughter or curses. No one moved aside.

By the time they reached the steps, Kai was gone.

Patrona’s hands curled into fists. Revoli trembled beside her, ears twitching, eyes fixed on the gate where he had vanished.

They had found him. But not soon enough.