Episode 4: Cruel Games (Part 2)
With Montecorato gone and only three left, Prince Mercar took a step toward Karon.
Numerous fresh abrasions marked his cheeks and body, his stomach sunken from days without proper nourishment.
"What's your name?"
Karon remained silent. Curly brown hair partially concealed eyes that still held an empty gaze.
"How dare you ignore His Highness's question—"
As Eugenia moved to intervene, Prince Mercar raised a hand to stop her. His golden eyes calmly observed Karon's unfocused stare.
"You don’t have to speak. I’m Mercar."
The prince introduced himself with composed dignity. Slowly, focus returned to Karon’s eyes as he lifted his head to meet Mercar’s gaze.
Their eyes locked.
In that instant, both felt an inexplicable flutter in their chests.
Prince Mercar was inwardly startled, while Karon seemed perplexed. After a brief silence, the prince slowly smiled.
"You carry a truly peculiar aura."
Mercar tossed this cryptic remark over his shoulder at Eugenia. "What if we took him? You could train him as one of your soldiers."
"Certainly possible, Your Highness," Eugenia replied with deference. "But His Majesty will undoubtedly rage if he learns of this. Had Councilor Montecorato been unaware of the boy’s existence, it might have worked—but not now."
Montecorato was deeply trusted by the Emperor, granted full authority over the Colosseum’s operations. No detail escaped his notice.
Taking the boy would alert Montecorato, and by extension, the Emperor.
Prince Mercar, who’d been scowling deeply, set his jaw. "I’ll devise a solution. Prepare accordingly, Eugenia."
"Understood."
Eugenia smiled faintly, as if resigned. "It’s late. We’ll return tomorrow. Remove his shackles and provide food and water—he appears half-starved."
"Understood."
As Prince Mercar turned to leave the dungeon, a rasping voice like scraping metal pierced the air:
"Karon."
The prince whirled. The mouth that had never opened now spoke. What had compelled it?
Instinct whispered that Prince Mercar was kin.
The prince nodded. "A pleasure, Karon. We’ll meet again without fail."
With a final brilliant smile, he departed.
Emerging through underground passages, Prince Mercar surveyed the piled corpses and grimaced.
"How long will Father persist in this idiocy?"
His sigh carried the weight of one too young to comprehend the Colosseum’s brutalities. Yet his gaze over the carnage revealed no emotion belying his age.
Perhaps this explained the flicker of pity in Eugenia’s expression. Despite efforts to conceal it, the prince’s callousness occasionally surfaced.
"Your thoughts, Eugenia?"
The prince looked up at his retainer, who bowed deeply. "How could an uneducated soldier like me fathom His Majesty’s designs? They say nothing quenches the Rob Empire’s suppressed desires like the Colosseum."
Mercar’s brow furrowed. "Must we sacrifice so much to appease Rob’s populace? This is inhuman."
"Never underestimate the masses, Your Highness." Eugenia’s tone brooked no argument—a breach of protocol tolerated only due to their unique bond. She’d guarded Mercar since infancy, valuing him above her own children.
The prince, well aware of this, chuckled dryly and quickened his pace. "I know. It’s just stifling. Let’s breathe fresh air."
"Yes, Your Highness."
That night, beneath the silent Colosseum:
Karon writhed in his cage, feverish and drenched in cold sweat. Instinct drove him to seek Anesa’s embrace, but reality forced him to curl like a shrimp.
He jerked upright, scanning for weapons—only dried bloodstains met his eyes.
Boots clattered urgently. "Move out! Now!"
Soldiers yanked open cell doors, herding slaves. Before Karon’s cell stood a toad-like man—Councilor Montecorato.
"Seize him."
Masked brutes pinned Karon’s arms. Though given minimal sustenance, he lacked strength to resist.
"Can’t send you empty-handed." Montecorato advanced, smiling cruelly.
Thud!
A needle-sharp blade pierced Karon’s abdomen. The councilor twisted a tool favored for gladiator sabotage—minimal bleeding, maximum agony, slow death.
"Safe journey to hell, brat."
Karon was dragged through tunnels to waiting prison wagons. Packed tight, the convoy raced south as if pursued.
Karon peeled blood-crusted hands from his wound. Night obscured their location, but his enhanced vision caught blurred shapes. Inside the wagon, slaves trembled.
With no medical aid, he tore rags into a bandage and curled inward, fighting exhaustion. Semi-conscious, he drifted through nightmares—Anesa’s voice ("Survive, special one"), Father’s disappointment.
Yet as he endured, his body began mending—organs knitting, bleeding slowing.
Dawn revealed a scabbed wound. The pain had vanished.
The convoy halted in a southern coastal plain, knee-deep grasses stretching endlessly.
"Let’s see which scum lasts longest!"
Soldiers swaggered to inspect slaves. A black stallion carried their leader—a middle-aged man with a topknot and groomed beard, feigning indifference toward Karon.
"Only dying trash here," a soldier scoffed, then spotted a sturdy youth.
"My pick!"
Teams selected slaves, unchaining them in the open. "Run! Reach the forest beyond the hill and live!"
The slaves exchanged panicked looks before bolting.
Swish-swish! Grass parted under their frantic flight.
At the leader’s signal, archers nocked arrows.
The game began—kill the rival team’s slave first.
