Blood.

Kleist could smell it, clearly, but she didn't really care. She just sat up and covered her belly on the hard bed covered with animal skins.

The pain was everywhere, and the bruise had left her three days ago still not fully healed.

The slave owners had already treated her, and they threw her into a device, and when she came out, the bloody wound on her lower abdomen was gone, leaving only an ugly scar. But that doesn't mean she doesn't hurt.

Who doesn't hurt?

The question was born, and a giant covered in blood flashed before her eyes.

He probably would, too.

"Can't sleep?" A man asked under a burning torch.

Kleist recognized him as the man who fought with two short knives.

He was naked, with five more ugly scratches on his chest, the scars were so thick that they writhed under his skin like some kind of flesh-colored worm and raised a terrible outline. He was scraping his forearm with a short knife.

"What's your name?" Kleist asked.

The man laughed - among the gladiators, asking each other for names was a sign of respect. Most people die within two or three battles, so exchanging names becomes an unnecessary move.

"Karelian." He said. "From the Sands of Noir."

"Sand? I'm from the forest. I'm Kleist." Kleist said. "But I don't know what the forest is called, I was captured by the slave team."

"It's okay if you don't know." Karelian shook his head. "Sooner or later, we'll all forget, the sandpits in the Colosseum will bury everything."

"It can't bury me."

"Perhaps." Carrelian replied, softly, with a hint of indifference. Silence ensued, neither of them spoke, and Kleist knew that many people had woken up and were waiting on their beds with their eyes open.

The stone wall was quiet, not trembling, it was already late at night, they had no battle to fight, and the dignitaries had already left the gladiatorial arena......

Be quiet.

But it wasn't so quiet—because, in the deepest part of the rock face, everyone could hear a roar that spread.

"The Undefeated." Karelian spoke softly, with a sense of certainty in his voice. "It's him, you can't be wrong."

"Do you know him well?" Kleist asked.

"I've seen him five times, six times if you count the one three days ago." Karelian shook his head, turned, and stretched himself on the rock wall under the torches, showing off the rope of triumph he wrapped around his waist.

It's not long, but it's mostly red and only six are black.

Staring at it, Kleist fell silent.

The Rope of Triumph – a tradition of gladiators, is a scar that spreads from the spine of the waist and along the waist.

Before each gladiatorial fight, they make a small incision along the previous scar, and if they win, then it will naturally grow and turn red. If they lose, they sprinkle some dirt in the scar, so that after the scarring, that node will turn black.

Karelian's Rope of Triumph proves that he failed six times, but he didn't die, suggesting that he was lucky enough – or unlucky enough.

The gladiators who escaped death again and again were also favored by slave owners in the gladiatorial arena, and those who were favored by them would not end well.

"Six failures?" Kleist asked.

"Six failures." Karelian turned and nodded, his expression calm.

There was still that terrible roar from the depths of the rock wall, and he leaned against the rock wall, his fingers tapping softly against the roaring sound, as if to accompany the angry man. Looking at his movements, Kleist suddenly had an urge that came from nowhere.

She jumped out of bed, found some leftovers from the long table beside her, and picked out the ones that were still edible. She poured them into a crockpot and staggered into the darkness

Middle.

The gladiators lived in underground caverns dug out of the area, and each person had his own bed and room, but only one person had a separate room.

"Are you going to go to him?" Karelian's voice came from under the torches.

"Yes." Kleist replied briefly.

"Then, I'll go with you."

......

......

After some time, they arrived at their destination.

Kleist didn't know how much time had passed, she only felt that her eyes were going blind when she stared in the darkness to find her way, and everything became a blurred outline in the darkness,

Even the Karelian is the same. Fortunately, he was much calmer, and along the way, he didn't say a word, but he was always able to hold Kleist when she was about to fall.

And now...... They stood at the entrance to a cavern, with two torches burning silently on the rock wall, also bringing the only light. Still, the darkness inside the cave is deep.

"Angelonius?" She called. "I brought you food."

There was no answer in the darkness, only some kind of low, slow gasp, as terrifying as if a man was about to drown in his own blood.

"Angelonius?" Kleist continued to call, but still did not receive an answer.

Karelian, who was standing beside her, shook his head, "That's not his name."

"What?"

"That's not his name." Karelian repeated, then reached for the crockpot containing the food and took over her job.

However, instead of shouting the long and complicated syllable, he shouted a short syllable word.

"Angron." To the darkness, he called out.

And then—the ground began to tremble, and Kleist straightened his back, and suddenly he smelled an extremely thick smell of blood.

She stared at the darkness at the entrance to the cavern, her eyes not blinking for a moment, the pain that had been invaded by sweat had returned, and was even more intense. A few seconds later, a giant smashed through the darkness and appeared in front of them.

His face twitched nervously, Kleist hadn't seen his face three days ago, but she could see it now.

She saw the black iron cables, their barbs piercing deep into the flesh of the giant's head and extending behind it. His eyes were a cloudy light blue, sunken deep in their sockets, and the details beneath them were all drowning in blood.

His nose was bleeding, not dripping, but washing through it like a flood, washing his chin and neck into a scarlet. His expression was a terrifying mixture of threat and hatred, and he bared his teeth like a vicious beast waiting to gnaw at flesh.

Kleist felt a sudden pang of fear, but the giant known as Angeland did not look at her.

"What are you doing?" He asked, rubbing his files against each other. "I told you not to come to me again."

"I'll bring you food."

Carrelian raised the crockpot in his hand—and Kleist began to regret why he hadn't picked a larger vessel, it was big enough for them, but not enough for the giant who was bleeding in the dark.

"I don't need food."

Angron replied stiffly, his face twitching again, and the cables that had sunk deep in his flesh began to glisten, their scarlet hue fleeting. Kleist, on the other hand, was pretty sure she had just seen their twitches, though only for a split second, but she couldn't be mistaken.

"Has it started biting you again?" Karelian asked.

"Knowingly asked." Angron sneered, but, after this brief smile, he let out a low roar and raised his right hand to cover his face.

A low gasp followed, followed by a low, almost shuddering howl. Kleist's legs went limp, and he couldn't help but kneel on the ground

, terrified by the terrible sound.

After a while, Angron let go of his hand, and he grunted, staring thoughtfully at his bright red palm, but did not speak, only remained silent.

After a moment, he looked up, and there was a kind of confusion in his light blue eyes, as if he couldn't quite understand what had just happened. Then, he glanced at Kleist.

"You're scared." He said with a hammer as heavy as a felt sound. "But it's fine."

"Are you alright?" Karelian asked.

Angron smiled, his battered face twisting and twitching, his teeth sticking out of his lips, looking terrifying against the blood, which was the limit of what he could do. He sat down cross-legged and shook his head.

"It's never going to be good." He spoke briefly, raising his hand and pointing at the cables that had spilled into the back of his head. "It's devouring me."

"Don't talk nonsense." Karelian stepped forward and handed him the crockpot to the giant's hideous eyes. "That thing can't beat you, you're undefeated."

Angrand let out a low, cold snort, as if he was mocking, as if he was just making an irrepressible sound because of the pain. He picked up the crockpot and found a bone from the shriveled bread and slimy broth. He put the bone in his mouth and gently crushed it with his teeth.

Click, click, click.

"Let's go." In between chewing, Angrand said. "If you don't want to end up with old Oinomouth."

Karelian sighed, "Oinomouth's death has nothing to do with you."

"Related!" Angron roared lowly, less like a rebuttal than a terrible sentence. "His death will be on my head!"

Karelian shook his head, and he pulled Kleist up, "This is Kleist, the one who offered to bring you food."

Angron stopped eating and looked at her again. At this moment, Kleist felt extremely nervous. She stared into the giant's light blue eyes, afraid that she would see a disdain in them, but she didn't.

She saw only a fleeting complex emotion, like sympathy, or compassion – neither of which she could understand.

However, they only appeared for a short time. Then, there was only bloody anger in those eyes.

He let out a howl as bloodshot climbed onto it, and his upper and lower jaws collided, and the broken bone stubble spurted out between his lips and teeth, and blood trickled out of his nose again. He roared and stood up, and Kleist almost thought he was going to pounce and kill her—but he didn't.

The giant named Angeland simply turned around and walked back into the darkness, and before that he uttered his name: "Angrand!"

"Leave!" Then he roared, with a sound like the loud sound of a gravel hammer hitting the ground, so terrifying that it didn't need to reverberate to cover your ears.

Karelian sighed, didn't say anything more, and pulled Kleist away.