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It felt like an extension of my arm.
Next to the weapons table, a guard motioned for the fighters to line up.
The first match was about to begin.
I joined the queue, my senses alert, the weight of the upcoming fight pressing on my shoulders.
Each heartbeat, each breath, felt magnified in those final moments.
The pit’s entrance stood before me, the large metal gate slowly beginning to rise.
The faint roar of the spectators reached my ears, a mix of cheers, boos, and the unmistakable sound of anticipation.
The other fighters were mostly larger, bulkier, carrying more conventional weapons, their eyes scanning the opposition, some with confidence, some with fear.
They noticed my Votar Whip, some snickering, thinking I was at a disadvantage.
Little did they know.
With the gate almost fully raised, I took a moment to ground myself.
This wasn’t just another fight; it was the key to our freedom.
Violet’s face flashed in my mind, a beacon of hope and love.
As the light from the pit flooded in, and the cries of the audience grew louder, I took one last deep breath, gripping the whip tightly.
I was ready.
The gate lifted completely, revealing the vast pit arena.
Without hesitation, I stepped forward into the chaos.
* * *
My vision blurred at the edges as I staggered out of the pit.
Every inch of my body throbbed, echoing the blows I had received in my previous matches.
My right arm hung limply by my side, fresh blood trickling from a deep gash.
I had narrowly survived the last bout, and the subsequent bouts had been progressively grueling.
My once bright hopes had dimmed as I realized the magnitude of the challenge.
Clamor from the eager audience intensified as I leaned against a cold metal pillar, catching my breath.
The anticipation for the final fight was palpable, almost suffocating.
I clenched my fists, feeling the pain as the wounds on my knuckles reopened, staining the floor with fresh drops of my blood.
A medic approached hurriedly, his tools and syringes clinking softly in his bag.
His cold blue eyes examined me, an unreadable expression on his face.
“You’re not in good shape,” he remarked, his voice a detached monotone.
I grunted in response, pain flaring as she prodded my wounded arm.
