Blood.

She could smell it, it was so clear, so clear that it was even a little unsettling. But the woman only let out a low grunt from her throat and didn't say anything.

She was used to the smell, just like the other seven people around her. However, they actually know more than this.

They knew it as well as they could see the paint and blood on each other's skin, and smell the stench in the air.

The truth can't be changed, especially when you can see it with your own eyes. It is impossible for one to deny oneself.

"When?" A man asked in a low voice, leaning against the blood-smeared rock wall in silence.

He was wearing a piece of leather armor and had two short knives in his hands. Burning torches crackled above his head, and the smell of animal fat was pungent. He leaned against it as if he were leaning against his own coffin.

"Half an hour." The other man replied. "We will fight before the undefeated."

"And what?"

"A beast." Woman — or, Kleist said. "One of the many monsters created by the slave owner, this time it should be a big one."

"Every battle before the Undefeated comes out must be bloody." The man who spoke first said. "It's a rule, and it's a rule, so you can get rid of it, and you're a big guy."

He was silent for a moment.

"But I always felt like we were sacrifices." He said softly. "We—and the beast, are sacrifices to summon him."

His words silenced the crowd, and they began to think back to the giant in unison. Then, one of the crowd spoke. He held a spear with a sharp tip, a new weapon that represented his entry into the bloody arena not long ago.

"Have you seen him?"

"Once." The man said. "I saw him kill a Morella."

There was an exclamation.

Even Kleist is no exception. She clenched her spear tightly and didn't want to speak.

"Really? You're not lying?" The man who questioned him said suspiciously.

"What's the need? You've seen it once and you'll believe it."

The man leaning against the rock wall laughed, his face obscured most of his features with pitch-black grease, and his eyes darkened with it, looking not like a human being but something else.

He then fell silent, as did Kleist. Silence began with them until the bell rang.

The rock wall trembled, and the heavy gate made of fine iron was opened, and the light from the outside pierced in, followed by a hot wave of air and a huge cheer.

Kleist knew where the voices were coming from, and it was coming from above their heads and from all directions. The dignitaries who had come to watch the undefeated fight roared excitedly, and Kleist stepped forward, ready to wait for the next bell.

Three minutes later, it came.

So Kleist came out of the darkness and joined the other seven.

She stepped barefoot on the hot sand, carefully avoiding the places where the bones were buried.

One of her companions crouched down, grabbed a handful of sand, sniffed it a few times, and then concluded in the affirmative: "There were quite a few deaths before us."

"Do you still need to say it?" Someone kicked him, an innocuous joke. "The dark red of the sand has changed again, we can see it."

"Stop talking." A man said softly. "It's coming."

He's right.

The ground trembled, and across from them, a black iron fence was slowly pulled up. With the sound of tooth-aching metal hinges moving, a huge beast burst out.

Its teeth glistened in the sun, and Kleist's eyes were a little stinging, but not from the sweat slipping into her eyes, but from the hanging head on the spikes on the thing's back.

The gladiators—the heads of their companions, their eyes blank and open

eyes, gently shaking on those spikes.

"I'm going to kill this beast." Someone muttered to herself beside her.

Kleist didn't know if he was referring to it, or the people who did it. She had little time left to think, for the beast was already charging towards them.

It was hungry, and it was obvious that the beast would not have come so close to humans if it had not been driven by hunger. The red skin was marked by the whipping, the flesh was open, and the blood was spilling along its motion, leaving more blood in the bunker.

The first to meet it was a woman with a short sword and shield, who roared and rushed towards it, trying to fend off its attacks with her shield and stabbing it in the eye with the short sword in her hand.

Her tactics were obvious, and Kleist could see that she had even figured out how to match her. But she didn't expect that the beast could see it.

It turned sideways, its sturdy tail swept by, screaming, the shield shattered, and the woman fell to the ground, her shield-wielding right hand broken.

What happened next is needless to say.

The first. In the midst of the screams, Kleist thought. Will I be the second?

She didn't have an answer, she just clenched her spear and rushed forward with another man with a spear.

The blood-soaked beast did not respond to their attack, but tore at the flesh and feasted on it, its entrails, flesh, and bones themselves shattering in its chewing until two spears pierced its left forelimb.

The thing roared, and turned around at a speed that Kleist couldn't react to, followed by a violent slap.

She flew out upside down, her perception clearer than ever. It hurt in her abdomen, and she could feel it clearly, but it wasn't the point because she was about to land.

The air was running through her hair and dry skin, the heat was rolling in, the roar in the stands was still palpable, and someone was laughing harshly. A thousandth of a second, or 10,000 years later—she fell to the ground, screaming.

"Climb to the back!" A man passed by her and roared. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a completely dark face, and what happened next was all fragmented memories.

Blood, screams, roars, and some rage. Icy water was thrown at her from the stands, and instead of feeling ashamed, she even wanted to thirst for more.

The cold eased her pain, but she couldn't speak.

What she wanted to pray for—she would shout, "Master! Master! Okay, okay! Give me some water!"

She had learned the cry from a dead gladiator who had a lively personality but refused to tell them his name. They didn't know what to call him until he died.

And now—Kleist was lying on her side on the scorching bunker, the rough touch scratching her skin, and the heat was raging.

She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. Instinctively, she spat out a slight sound between her lips opening and closing with the words the man had taught her. But not to pray for water, but to die.

"Sir... Master... Alright, give me some water." She cried out weakly. "Sir... Master... Okay, okay, give me some water...... Give me some water."

The first time, the second time, the third time...... Her memories became shattered abstract paintings, but the smell of death remained so real. She could smell the increasingly pungent smell of blood, and the screams and frenzied shouts of her brothers and sisters.

The last one was the most violent, even overshadowing it all after a brief pause.

In a trance, she seemed to hear the sound of metal hinges moving again, and the delirious woman looked up and tried to crawl back into their cell, but she didn't see the cell, she saw a giant.

He was breathing.

That was Kleist's first thought.

He's breathing – yes, he's breathing.

She smirked.

The giant looked down and glanced at her. His face twitched in neuroticism, table

The love twisted into some kind of terrible echo. But he didn't kill her, at least not yet. He just bit his lip and let the blood spill.

"Climb to the back, you want to die, they won't give it to you." He said in a deep voice, his voice rubbing against each other. He still twitched his face in between words, as if he was being tortured.

Kleist's sanity returned at this moment, and she groaned in pain and felt dizzy, "Who are you?"

The giant did not answer.

He stepped over her with his leg up, then corpse, corpse, corpse, corpse—he stepped right in the middle of the bunker, between the bones and the dried blood, and raised his weapon.

Then he roared.

"Come here!"

A thunderous sound erupted in the arena, drowning out the voices of all the dignitaries who cheered for his appearance. Their assembly seemed insignificant and weak in front of him.

From Kleist's point of view, she could only see his back, but that didn't stop her from observing him.

Is he human? Kleist thought. She didn't have an answer, but she wanted to know it, so she began to crawl hard, not to get to safety, but to get closer to the battlefield.

The beast paid no attention to the giant who called for it, it was busy eating—it was hungry, otherwise it would not have dared to do so. A tsunami of roars erupted from the stands, which were chaotic at first, but after a few seconds, there was only a common syllable left.

"Angronius! Angronius! Angronius! Angronius!"

They roared in unison, and the sound made Kleist wonder. Her thoughts stopped again, but not for long.

For the giant began to roar again, this time without words, just pure resentment.

And so the thunder returned, and the storm.

"The Undefeated." Kleist whispered.

She knew who he was.