His knuckles bore torn skin and thick, scabbed-over-red wounds. Pain pulsed through his joints, and his face exhibited the telltale signs of a beating—swollen and broken lip. Yet, despite the physical toll, Bruno felt a sense of contentment. His stomach, finally satiated with delicious food, contributed to his happiness.

Mamadou proved to be an unforgiving yet patient instructor, a wellspring of knowledge ready to be shared. However, one had to endure laps around the sandpit and grueling strength exercises before focusing on technique. The day always culminated in sparring matches with peers of similar skill levels.

For Bruno, it was Javohir who consistently emerged victorious, thanks in part to his superior physical condition. Unlike the young alchemist, Javohir hadn't endured starvation on his journey to Mashek.

Mamadou, recognizing Bruno's unique circumstances, didn't push him as hard as the others. He allowed him to acclimate gradually to the new environment. Despite the harsh conditions Bruno had to endure while living with his father, he was able to utilize his smarts to not work as hard with his muscles—an advantage not afforded to most other children.

The Hole was an entirely different realm, devoid of intellectual prowess. There, physical ability reigned supreme, hindering Bruno's swift adaptation despite his comparative advantages. The wretched state he arrived in only compounded the challenge. Mamadou, aware of this, didn't grant him any respite to recover fully.

As the days passed, the young alchemist slowly unraveled the ruthless hierarchy governing this unforgiving place. Certain individuals were untouchable, to be avoided at all costs. Foremost among them was 'Monster,' a towering local with a black beard and a body sculpted solely from bulging muscles. Another imposing figure was Rahim, significantly heavier and bald, his shoulders adorned with tattooed anchors. Rahim was the only one capable of offering a semblance of resistance against the reigning champion—the dreaded 'Monster.'

Then there was Shamera, a stout woman entrusted with cooking meals for everyone in The Hole. Crossing her path with ill favor could yield dire consequences, as unsuspecting victims discovered unsavory surprises lurking in their bowls. Rumor had it that a man she despised found sharp shards of metal in his soup. Swallowing them resulted in internal lacerations, a few agonizing days, and ultimately death.

Asmon, the champion in a lighter-weight class, relished in metaphorically trampling over others. Fortunately for the young recruits, he showed little interest in tormenting them. Mamadou's watchful gaze deterred anyone from meddling with his charges. Not only was he a formidable trainer, but he also possessed a reputation as a ruthless killer—someone not to be trifled with.

In his prime, he stood as the undisputed champion, but rumors whispered of his past life as an assassin employed by one of the local noble families. Trained from birth, he made the fateful decision to retire and fade into obscurity before they retired him permanently with a blade through his heart.

Bruno soon realized that his trainer’s predicament remained unresolved, his former employer keeping a watchful eye on the skilled fighter, allowing him to live—for now. It could potentially be an avenue of escape, but with the limited information at his disposal, there was no way to ascertain for certain. Yet.

He diligently gathered every fragment of information he could find, knowing that nothing indicated he could leave anytime soon. Simultaneously, he adopted a cautious demeanor, keen on avoiding confrontations that could lead to a severe beating or worse, death.

Seated on a weathered bench within a spacious chamber, bathed in the flickering light of torches mounted on thin iron pillars against the walls, Bruno contemplated while observing the unwashed, sweaty men satiating their hunger. With a piece of bread in hand and a bowl of decent food before him laying on the table, he allowed his thoughts to wander.

"Hey, are you there?" Javohir, seated beside him, inquired.

"Yeah," Bruno replied, quickly donning a smile like a mask. "I was just wondering how long it will take for us to reach the skill level of the others."

A man sitting across from him emitted a snort. His gaunt frame, bulging eyes, and V-shaped chin earned him the moniker Bug, although that clearly wasn't his true name. Bug was a complete opportunist, cunningly avoiding the gladiatorial ring whenever possible.

His connections outside the arena allowed him to smuggle in rare commodities, particularly drugs, and alcohol, both highly coveted and reserved only for victors during momentous celebrations. Mamadou staunchly opposed these vices, fostering favor with the mediocre fighters. However, those capable of securing their own provisions through triumphs and gifts from the audience cared little for Bug's opinion.

Since Bruno hadn't yet had the chance to prove himself in the ring, his understanding of the relationship between gladiators and their patrons remained hazy.

"You'll never reach that level. It's just are not build for this. You, kids, should focus on surviving here instead of harboring impossible dreams," Bug sneered.

Bruno merely rolled his eyes, seeing through the annoying man’s feeble attempts to undermine his younger peers. The extent of Bug's schemes remained a mystery to the alchemist, but it was evident that he lacked the necessary qualities to succeed.

No charisma, no vision—nothing to inspire followers. He exuded pervasive negativity. With no carrot to offer and no effective way to wield a stick, Bruno decided to follow the lead of everyone else and simply ignore him.

"We'll get there, just you wait," Javohir protested, inciting an argument with the older man. Bruno tuned them out, directing his attention back to his bowl, determined to focus on what mattered most.

"Princess, please let me in," Vere pleaded, his voice echoing on the staircase before the door to the room at the pinnacle of the tower. Weary of repeating the same request over and over, he had reached a point of resignation. His frustration had transformed into a sense of boredom, his gaze fixated not on the door before him, but on the small window that allowed slivers of light into the towering structure.

"No! Go away!" she screamed from inside.

"Princess, please. You need to eat," he implored.

"GET OUT!"

Vere's eyebrows arched upward as if her outburst had confirmed his intention to break in. He placed his hand on the door and let out a heavy sigh.

"Please, princess. Must I beg you to open the door? You need to eat. Please, just open up."

There was no response, only a lingering silence. Then, he heard a faint noise from the other side of the door—a gentle touch, or perhaps the princess leaning against the wooden barrier.

"Leave me, Vere. It matters not whether I eat or not. It is preferable to die than to slowly descend into madness, trapped within this place," her voice surprisingly calm, confirming his earlier suspicions.

"You leave me no choice, princess," he said, turning away and descending the staircase.

Unaware of his intentions, she headed straight for the bed, expecting him to force his way in. But he didn't.

Instead, he continued his descent, step by step, until he reached the ground floor. Stepping outside, he made his way to the city, contemplating that it was already too late to salvage her sanity. The confinement of the tower only exacerbated the situation.

He didn't know precisely what to do with her, but there was one man who did—a man who had proposed this entire arrangement in the first place. An old bastard.