Fire in the Colosseum

Vampires, ghouls, undead.

Three dangerous species born from the calamity a hundred years ago.

They share a familiar system, binding their kin through blood.

Vampires create both ghouls and undead; those who fail to become ghouls turn into undead instead. Even ghouls are divided into two kinds: perfect ghouls and imperfect ghouls. Perfect ghouls still retain their minds, while imperfect ghouls keep their bodies intact compared to undead, whose flesh often rots away.

On a quiet night, atop a mysterious pavilion somewhere, two pairs of cloaked vampires gazed up at the full moon.

Their appearance was hardly different from humans, except for their red eyes and pale skin—details that could easily be disguised.

The silence broke when one of them, an elder, spoke.

“How are the preparations?”

“Everything is ready. Though… it’s unfortunate we lost two imperfect ghouls created in the capital.”

“They were worthless. However many we lose doesn’t matter.”

“That’s true… but even pawns have value, so long as they can be deployed.”

“Are you arguing with me?” The elder’s sharp glare made his crimson eyes glow faintly in the dark.

“Not at all. Just a trivial remark, nothing more,” the younger replied.

Though their looks differed little—a grown man and a youth—the elder’s poise and aura revealed the weight of experience.

“You’re nothing but a copy. You’ll never match us, the superior ones.”

“We… and yet, you’re the last of your kind, aren’t you?”

“You insolent…” The elder’s heavy voice made the air thicken as a crimson aura seeped from his body.

“Forget it,” the younger cut in. “What matters is that I’ll play my part to perfection. I’ll only reveal myself once victory is assured, so worry not.” With that, he strode out of the chamber.

“Hmph.”

The elder looked up at the full moon, which for a fleeting moment seemed to shine blue, reminding him of a pair of glowing eyes.

“Tonight’s moon rivals the beauty of your eyes, yet… it’s nothing but an illusion.”

His crimson pupils quivered with conviction. “Our reunion draws near, true mother…”

...

Ayato’s steps down the stone road felt heavier than usual. The air southeast of the capital was different—hot, not only from the sun but from the very spirit of the city.

The Colosseum city: Korvath.

From afar, a massive circular structure loomed. Its walls stood firm, adorned with carvings of warriors locked in combat. The roads to the center were crowded with muscular figures, hardened faces, and bodies like sculpted steel.

Gulp. Ayato swallowed. He was used to seeing soldiers in the capital, but here… even ordinary folk looked like gladiators.

“So noisy…” he muttered, glancing around.

The stomp of feet, the clash of metal, and even war cries echoed at every corner. Men and women alike trained in courtyards, swinging wooden swords, spears, or simply fists.

So this is a city that lives for battle…

He wandered into a bustling tavern. The air smelled of malt and sweat, mugs clinked.

“Master, a light beer,” he ordered, just to blend in.

The bald bartender in a leather apron raised a brow. “You’re new here. Haven’t seen your face.”

Ayato gave only a thin smile, saying nothing.

Instead, he listened in on the rowdy voices at the back table.

“Tomorrow, the Colosseum’s gonna explode!”

“Yeah, west team versus north team. They’ve got some new beast of a fighter.”

“Don’t forget last week’s battle royale! Insane! Guys dropping like flies, but nobody died. Hahaha!”

Ayato frowned.

No one… died?

Clink. His drink was set down. He nodded at the bartender and shifted to another seat. From that snippet, he understood—the fights here weren’t just entertainment, but tradition.

Tomorrow… it’s worth to check it out.

...

The next day, the road to the Colosseum overflowed with people. The roar of the crowd thundered even before he stepped inside.

DOOOM! The first gong rang.

A massive circular arena sprawled before him. Golden sand gleamed under sunlight. Spectators packed stone seats, their cheers and stomps shaking the ground.

“Solo fight!” shouted the announcer. Two men squared off, muscle against muscle, sword and shield ready.

Clang! Thwack!

One blade hacked into the other’s arm—surely severing it. Ayato’s breath caught.

But—shiiing! A faint light flared from the wounded man’s chest. A shard-like stone popped free, hitting the sand with a clink.

The arm reformed. Whole again, save for a black bruise and shallow cut.

“What… was that?” Ayato stared.

The fighter collapsed unconscious from pain. The victor raised his sword high, stone in hand, and roared: “Rise again next week! Be stronger when you return!”

The crowd erupted. WOOOOO!

No execution?

Ayato froze. In his world, defeat meant death. Here, it seems have a different meaning.

...

Next came team battles. The noise swelled—bam! clang! sparks flew with every strike.

Again and again, gladiators should have died—throats nearly severed, spears through the chest—but each time, light flared, a stone fell, and the body collapsed unconscious, alive.

“…Magic stones?” Ayato whispered. “So that’s how they…”

Yet the audience cheered as though nothing was strange. For them, it was the Colosseum’s rhythm. A promise of return, not an end.

The final round: battle royale. Twenty fighters clashed under the burning dusk. Blades flashed, bodies dropped, stones scattered across the sand. All unconscious, none truly dead.

Ayato stood rigid.

What is this feeling…?

“This… isn’t right,” he muttered. His hands trembled—not from fear, but confusion.

Here, combat wasn’t to kill—it was to ignite fire.

His gaze stayed locked.

“Surprised, kid?” A woman’s voice cut through the din.

Ayato turned. A hooded figure stood close—though her abs were bare, glistening with heat. Her grin wide, her eyes aflame.

Heat pressed against his skin. At first he thought it the crowd. But no—the heat poured from her body. Her aura.

“Hahaha! Fighting’s not just kill-or-be-killed, kid. It’s the clash, the heartbeat, the blood pumping hot. That’s what makes the Colosseum alive—and why I can’t ever get enough!”

Ayato said nothing.

She smirked. “Guess you’re too used to death matches… Hah! Why don’t you try it yourself? Feel it with your own body.”

“…No. I have other matters.”

“Heh. Stiff one, aren’t you?” Her hand tapped his shoulder, searing like ember. “Fine. Let time do its work. The Colosseum never sleeps, kid.”

With that grin, she vanished into the roaring tide of people.

Ayato remained, stiff. Relief, yet… something sparked in his chest. A pull.

Who is she…? And why does her aura burn so?

...

The day ended in fire. Red sunset painted the arena, sweat glistened on warriors. Spectators rose, ready to leave.

TAP! TAP! An announcer strode center, voice booming with magic.

“People of Colosseum! Today is not over!”

WOOOOOO! The crowd shook the sky.

Ayato blinked.

What now?

“Prepare for next week! The ultimate match! And the star—Ragna will shake this arena!”

The name roared through the masses. RAGNA! RAGNA!

From the west gate, a hooded figure stepped forward. She unveiled her face—it was her. The woman from before. Ragna. Her smile widened, aura blazing across half the arena.

Ayato froze.

Ragna… that name…

One of the candidates for the Five Legends: Ragna Valtes, rumored to hold a key to the Sanctuary.

She raised her arm. “Next week, I’ll enter the finals! Whoever dares face me—bring your guts, bring your body!”

The arena shook. BOOOOM!

“The prize for defeating me…” The announcer unveiled a chest. Inside, darkness gleamed.

A black gem. Heavy, alluring, its depth like an abyss.

“Black Orb!”

Ayato staggered.

N-no way… A Black Orb… as a prize?!

The crowd didn’t know its truth, but they howled in frenzy. Other rewards were shouted—fine weapons, lifetime feasts—but Ayato’s eyes clung to one thing.

The Black Orb.

His breath quickened. The roar of thousands dulled, leaving only the echo in his ears.

Ragna… bearer of a Black Orb. If I’m to reach Sanctuary… I must face her.

He looked once more at the arena, then bowed his head.

I have no choice… I must fight in the Colosseum.