[William]
The guards stationed at the entrance of his new home appeared startled when William was handed to them. Still, they kept their mouths shut. One of them stepped up to guide him through the gates and into a dimly lit structure that was more like a dungeon than a dwelling, bare of any furnishing save for tattered mats.
Unlike a dungeon, however, its residents moved around freely, looking comfortable in its dingy corners. William’s arrival seemed to have disturbed the status quo; their gazes fixated on him, following him until he settled on his own mat. It didn’t take much to learn the reason why.
Compared to the residents, the Champions, William was the youngest.
“What’s that bastard up to now?” came a voice from his side.
William turned to find that it was a man his father’s age or older, his features twisted in a scowl. Taking a seat, the man introduced himself, “Name’s Goran. I took on the thankless job of explaining things to fresh blood.”
“William,” he returned, and then asked, “Why?”
“Some of the boys here get riled up quickly, and asking them questions could end up in a brawl. It’s annoying.”
That seemed reasonable enough.
Through Goran’s patient explanations, William came to learn many details about his situation the nobleman didn’t bother elaborating on. The first of which being the nobleman’s name, Julian Sateal.
“What’s with this dull reaction? You don’t know the Sateal family?”
“Should I?” William’s life prior to this day didn’t have much to do with learning about nobility and their linages.
“The Sateals have common lineage with the Royal Family!”
So even individuals with such prestigious ancestry would dirty their hands with the Champions’ Games. “I see.”
William continued listening as Goran told him more about the Games than what the public knew.
Many Champions shared a single Organizer, a member of the nobility in charge of arranging the matches between different sides. Some of the Organizers were in it for the thrill of victory, some for the profits, and some, like Julian Sateal, were in it for the spectacle, relishing in witnessing human desperation in its purest form.
As an Organizer, Julian Sateal was incredibly selective, his scouting criteria endless. When compared to other Organizers, his collection of Champions was smaller. His house ranked first in the Games despite of it.
He was the one other noblemen aspired to beat–wagered their wealth and reputations to bring down to no avail.
Goran paused from his explanations to remark, casting him a puzzled look, “But you don’t fit the sort of fighter he looks for.”
William didn’t know why Julian Sateal decided upon making him into a Champion as a way to settle his father’s debts. What he knew was that he had to make it to the very top of the ranks. The amount Julian Sateal demanded from his father would render a wealthy man destitute.
“What the hell did you do to land yourself here?” Goran prodded.
William didn’t respond, and that had Goran regarding him with clear frustration… and pity.
With a heavy sigh, Goran let that line of questioning go. “Here’s hoping that madman won’t arrange a match for you anytime soon.”
William woke up to the loud echoes of pained groans. He got up to follow the sound, slowly navigating his dark surroundings, until he reached a small gathering around a heavily wounded Champion.
One of those observing the scene was Goran, a sorrowful tilt to his voice as he said, “Can’t believe you’re witnessing this on your first night.”
“Was it from a match?”
Goran nodded. “I fear he’s not going to make it.”
It was a common occurrence, Goran told him, this sort of ending for a Champion. Rare were the times where a Champion redeemed his debts, walking away from the arena with head held high. Instead, it was this–regrets in tears and loved ones’ names on tongue.
True to Goran’s prediction, the Champion succumbed to his wounds soon after, breathing out his last. One of the Champions tending to him closed his eyes, and another arranged him in a more dignified form.
“Let me give you a piece of advice, lad,” Goran started, pulling William’s attention away from the scene, “if you’re injured after a match, wait until you’ve recovered completely before taking on the next one. Decline matches if you have to. Sure, it might set your debts back a little, but at least you’ll be alive.”
He looked back at the deceased Champion now carried by the others to bury. “It might be tempting to press on, especially when you’re close to the target, but it’ll end in grief.”
“How close was he?”
“Halfway.”
Most Champions perished before reaching that mark. To be set back would probably feel unbearable.
“I’ll remember that.”
Three days later, William was informed of his selection for the day’s matches.
Goran cursed aloud. He hid William behind his bulky frame when the guards arrived to escort him out. But in the end, he had to step aside and let William go.
William found Julian waiting for him along a small entourage at the dwelling’s gates, horses and fancy carriages crowding the space further.
Julian reached out a hand to pat his shoulder. “I invited everyone on such short notice to witness your performance. Do not disappoint my expectations.”
William only looked at him, unresponsive. That insolent action of his appeared to have irritated a few members of Julian’s entourage, but Julian raised a hand before any of them approached him. They stopped in their tracks like well-trained dogs.
The journey to the Coliseum was long, the pace of the carriage he was guided to ride slow. From the window, William took note of the path, the change in landscapes from the rural to the urban. He was blindfolded on his first journey to the Champions’ dwelling, but now his sights were allowed to wander freely. What did it mean?
William only ever saw a Coliseum from the outside.
His father’s disdain for the Champions’ Games prevented him from entering one, and it wasn’t like they had the luxury of time and safety to spend wasting on attending.
But William was familiar with the parades arranged to accompany the Champions’ advancement towards the Coliseums. Few he witnessed from afar, and one he witnessed unfolding within reach.
“Prisoners, Will. Prisoners.”
And now William was the one being escorted through the crowds, through their chants and cheers–although none of those belonged to him, instead distributed to the other Champions fighting today. One of them took the lion’s share of the attention.
A Champion who redeemed his debts, William learned from the other Champions’ whispers. A Champion who took on the Games as a career path, chasing after rewards that would solely belong to him.
That Champion seemed to revel in the excitement, enticing the crowds with well-directed smiles and waves, catching stray flowers to wink at the blushing young maidens who threw them.
It was a display of the glamor his father warned him not to be fooled by.
Once he entered, William was momentarily struck by the Coliseum’s size, its massive tiered stands that held the many spectators.
To think of the number of gazes he would be under, their owners gathered to witness a primal struggle for survival…
He was the second to fight for the day and so relegated to watch the first match from the sidelines: the popular Champion against a Champion riddled with burn scars.
It didn’t take long for the match to intensify. It didn’t take long afterwards for the popular Champion to fall dead.
William watched as blank-faced guards took the popular Champion's corpse, clearing space for the next match. A bell rang along a booming announcement of the winner, and the crowds broke into cheers.
The blood on the stony floor of the arena had yet to dry.
Another ring from the bell, and William was ushered to stand against his opponent, an impossibly burly man. He was shirtless, the smallest movement pronouncing the massive contours of his muscles. Compared to him, William was the wooden beam of a broom.
The burly Champion broke into laughter at the sight of him. “Are they serious? You look like you haven’t weaned from your mother’s milk!”
William didn’t respond, and that had the Champion sneering, dragging the weight of his broad sword on the floor, metal sparking against stone, before resting its flat surface on his shoulder. It was the sort of blade that would break bone before boring into flesh. “Don’t think I’ll hold back. Your age means nothing to me.”
A few members of the audience cheered at the Champion’s display, their voices heard over the silent, bored majority. Of course. To them, this match seemed like a foregone conclusion from its inception. How could William ever hope to win?
Didn’t matter what they thought. William had to win.
The bell rang. The match began.
The Champion wasted no time lunging towards him, the swing of his blade wide and effortless. William made the mistake of holding his ground and blocking the strike with his own sword, only to falter under the sheer weight of the onslaught. His blade fell, and his right wrist pulsed with agony.
The Champion grinned, preparing for another swing. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll make it painless.”
William knew his options were limited. He couldn’t afford to linger and pick up his sword. If the Champion landed another strike on him, it would spell his demise. He was too close. He needed distance.
Leaving his sword behind, William ran, blindsiding the Champion.
“No use running away!”
He had a plan in mind, but William needed time and fortune to execute it.
Using his smaller frame to his advantage, William evaded the Champion’s strike once he caught up to him across the arena. Then he pulled him to follow his pace, from one corner to the other. It frustrated the Champion immensely.
“Hold still, brat!”
William didn’t.
As the time passed, William’s efforts began to affect his body. He began to tire, but so did the Champion.
Wielding that heavy sword combined with his heavier frame took its toll on the Champion. His movement turned sluggish, and the breaks between his attacks increased in number.
Finally, William went for the corner he left his sword in, diving to swiftly retrieve it.
The Champion let out a laugh upon seeing his action. “Think your sword will help you?”
He dashed towards William in yet another strike, and for the first time since this match started, William did the same.
William caught the look of surprise in the Champion’s eyes before he ducked from the swing of the broad sword, causing the Champion to momentarily stagger, freeze in his spot while giving William his back.
That moment was all William needed to direct a slash at the back of one of the Champion’s knees and then the other, pulling a sharp scream out of his throat.
He stepped back and watched as the Champion tried to get up and failed, body trembling with both pain and fury.
The most important rule in the Champion’s Games was also the simplest: if you fell to your enemy and couldn’t stand before the judge rang the bell, you would lose.
A breath. Another…
The Champion remained rooted to the floor, and the bell rang.
William won.
Silence engulfed the Coliseum for a single moment before the faint sound of a clap interrupted it. William traced the source to see that it was Julian, smiling brightly from his perch with the other noblemen.
It was that sound that broke the crowds from their stunned stupor, breaking into feverish uproar.
William didn’t notice it until it was too late.
The Champion, powered by fury at the loss, managed to stand up and then come at him with one last strike.
William reacted on instinct, and it took a few heartbeats to realize he had thrust his sword, plunging it into the Champion’s chest.
This time, the Champion’s fall was final.
The crowds’ cheers intensified, but William was deaf to the noise, his blood-splattered hands trembling, his thoughts racing, thinking…
Taking a life shouldn’t be so easy.
“That was perfect, Will.”
On the way back, Julian invited William to take the carriage with him. The moment it prepared for departure, Julian turned to him with praises, features glowing with glee. He spoke about the excitement his match brought, the scales it tipped, and the wagers it reduced to ruin.
William cared none for it, looking sightlessly through the window.
“I’ll reward you for your performance,” Julian said, unperturbed by William’s silence. “How about I take you to him? You must be worried.”
That managed to grab William’s attention. “What do you mean?”
Julian didn’t answer, only led William’s attention to the road. “We’ll be arriving soon.”
It was then that William realized that they were taking a different path than before. Another look, and he saw that they were unaccompanied by Julian’s entourage, only his guards.
True to his word, the carriage soon stopped before a small cottage. William didn’t wait before disembarking, rushing to the cottage’s door and finding it ajar. Upon entering, he smelled something cooking, a woman stirring the contents of a pot by the fireplace. She looked up to greet him with a polite smile, unstartled by his presence.
“You’re here for your father, aren’t you? It’s the room ahead.”
William had many things to ask her, but he moved where she pointed him towards. There, in a room engulfed in sunfall, lay his father—his body wrapped-up in bandages, his face still bruised, his eyes closed, his breathing steady and alive.
“Father…”
For what felt like a lifetime, his father didn’t answer. William started to think he was asleep when he heard him say with a voice gone rough with disuse, “I left you on purpose.”
Stunned, William could only murmur, “You…”
His father opened his eyes then, turned his way, sights shifting from William’s haggard appearance to his swollen wrist and finally to the blood on his hands.
William saw many things flickering through his father’s gaze—shock and then disbelief, anguish and then anger. But all were swallowed up by heartbreak.
“You shouldn’t have followed me that night.”
The clench of his fists aggravated William’s wrist, but the anger his father’s words induced overwrote the pain. “And let you die?”
“It would’ve been a better fate.”
It was the despair in his father’s eyes that turned William’s fury to dying embers, that robbed him of words, that had him looking away and leaving.
He found Julian waiting for him outside, leaning against the carriage. “Done already?”
William didn’t know or care what he answered the man with, his thoughts reeling as he observed the familiar landscapes marking the path to the dwelling.
There was a thought that William clung onto, had him surviving through agreeing to Julian’s deal, listening to Goran’s instructions and warnings, fighting his opponent in the arena, killing him… and then leaving his father’s side.
Escaping.
Julian didn’t bother to have his sights blinded again on their return from the cottage his father was held in, and William took advantage of it, noting every unique mark on the way with hunger, focusing on those that would be visible in the night.
Most of the dwelling’s residents were asleep when he finally made his move, the few awake were too occupied with their injuries to care for him.
Once he reached the gates, he waited. According to what he observed of the guards in his stay, it was close to this time that they went for a late supper, leaving only two standing.
William could manage two.
He knocked down the torches lit behind them, and then shifted in the ensuing darkness to render them unconscious.
His efforts gained him a short delay, but if he ran fast enough, reached the cottage before news of his escape reached Julian, he could make it.
That belief, that hope, fueled him on the long journey. The night darkened and then ebbed to dawn. In the horizon, at the crest of a hill, the rising sun outlined the cottage.
Waiting at its front was a familiar carriage.
“Good morning, Will,” Julian greeted, announcing his presence. He didn’t look like someone woken from sleep. “I’m afraid you won’t find your father here.”
Even if the news reached him, it would be a long while before Julian could ever hope act.
So how? How?
“Ever heard of Elemental message-tunnels, Will? Quite the invention, I’d say. Saved me so much time.” Julian’s amused smile sharpened. “Without them, I wouldn’t have been able to see you off before departure.”
Thoughts blank, William could only repeat, “See me off?”
“Of course you’ll have to leave your dear father behind,” Julian added on, like it was an afterthought. “It was his affairs that had us crossing paths, after all.”
“Where is he?”
Julian let out a laugh. “You seriously don’t think I will answer that, do you?”
“Where is he?” he asked again, this time struggling against the hold of Julian’s guards, stifling his rush to pummel their master’s face into the dirt.
Julian shook his head in mockery of helplessness. He stepped closer until his shadow fell on William. “You can either go and forget about ever seeing your father again, or we can pretend this endeavor of yours never happened. I’m in a good mood, so I’ll leave you the choice.”
“How can I trust your word?” All the cards were in Julian’s hands, free to show and then conceal.
“You can’t,” was Julian’s simple answer. “What you need to know is that your father’s safety is in my hands. If anything were to happen to me, well… I don’t think I need to say it.”
William watched Julian turning away to head back to the carriage, and it was after the carriage took off that the guards let go of him and went to ride their horses. Soon enough, only William was left in the scene.
He entered the cottage, just to make sure, just to have anything to clue on, but it was like no one ever lived there.
When William returned to the dwelling, the guards standing at the gates let him in without a word. He wondered whether they were instructed to do so, or it was out of pity for his failed escape.
It must be so awful, they probably thought, to walk into a cage twice.
