Chapter 245: v3- - 6: arena fighters II

Robert’s expression became more serious.

Cassian looked at him.

"What?"

Robert listened.

His eyes moved toward the guards.

"There’s a contract."

Cassian’s attention sharpened.

"What kind?"

"Three years."

Cassian waited.

Robert continued listening.

"If you survive three years, the contract ends."

Cassian stared at him.

"Freedom?"

Robert nodded.

"Freedom."

That was the part that mattered.

The rest was irrelevant.

Robert continued translating.

"And one hundred gold."

Cassian barely reacted.

One hundred gold.

For him, it was hardly worth considering.

The sum was insignificant compared with what he had once possessed.

He wasn’t interested in the money.

He was interested in what came with it.

Freedom.

Cassian looked toward the walls surrounding the compound.

Since the moment he had awakened after the ravine, he had been looking for a way out.

Even when he could barely stand, he had watched the men around him.

He had studied the guards.

The restraints.

The wagons.

The roads whenever he was given a glimpse of them.

He had considered every possibility he could.

But every possibility had led to the same conclusion.

He was injured.

He didn’t know the country.

He didn’t know the language.

He had no idea where the nearest Imperial territory was.

And now he was standing inside a place surrounded by walls, guards, and men who apparently made a living hunting escaped fighters.

He could not simply walk out.

Not now.

Perhaps not for some time.

But the contract offered something different.

A defined way out.

Three years.

Survive them, and he would be free.

Cassian’s gaze remained on the walls.

It was not the life he wanted.

But it was a path he could take.

He would survive.

He would learn.

He would adapt.

And three years from now, he would walk out.

The guard continued speaking.

Robert listened.

"You can earn more."

Cassian glanced at him.

"Through victories."

Robert nodded.

"Yes. Victories. Popularity. Special matches."

Cassian said nothing.

The rewards made sense now.

The Arena gave its fighters reasons to keep fighting.

Better conditions for those who survived.

Money for those who performed well.

Recognition for those who became exceptional.

And for those who attracted the right attention, patrons.

But none of that changed what mattered to Cassian.

He wanted his contract to end.

He wanted to walk out owing nothing to anyone.

The guard continued speaking.

Then his tone changed.

Robert’s expression hardened.

Cassian looked at him.

"What now?"

Robert listened.

Then:

"There’s another rule."

Cassian waited.

"Escape."

Cassian’s attention sharpened.

Robert translated carefully.

"If you leave the grounds without permission, you’re considered escaped."

Cassian looked toward the enormous walls.

"They will hunt you."

"And if you’re caught?"

Robert hesitated.

"They kill you."

Cassian’s expression hardened.

The guard continued speaking.

Robert listened.

Then he looked toward the guards.

"There’s something else."

Cassian turned to him.

"What?"

Robert nodded toward the men waiting nearby.

"They’re going to register us."

Cassian looked at the parchment being carried toward the platform.

The contract.

His expression remained unreadable.

There was no point resisting.

Not here.

Not injured.

Not alone.

He would accept it.

But not as Cassian Ashford.

He would be Carlo.

The only question was what the Arena would make of him after that.

--

The contract was placed before him.

Cassian looked down at the parchment.

The terms were written in the local language.

He couldn’t read them.

Robert stood beside him.

The guard said something.

Robert listened.

"He’s asking for your name."

Cassian already knew what he would say.

"Carlo."

Robert translated.

The guard wrote it down.

Cassian watched the pen move across the page.

One false name.

One false identity.

It was a small thing compared with everything else he had lost.

But it mattered.

If anyone here discovered that Carlo was actually Cassian Ashford, the contract would no longer be his greatest problem.

The guard pushed the parchment toward him.

Robert glanced at it.

The guard pointed toward a small dish of ink.

Then toward Cassian’s hand.

Robert understood.

"Thumbprint."

Cassian looked at the parchment.

There was no need for a written signature.

Perhaps many of the people brought here couldn’t read or write.

The Arena simply needed proof that the contract had been accepted.

Cassian dipped his thumb into the ink.

He pressed it against the designated space.

The dark print remained on the parchment.

The guard took the contract.

Cassian lowered his hand.

The guard stepped away.

Cassian thought it was finished.

Then another guard approached.

He was carrying a small iron instrument.

Cassian’s eyes settled on it.

The metal was dark.

Almost black.

Heat shimmered faintly around its edges.

Cassian’s expression changed.

"What is that?"

Robert looked.

His face fell.

"They mark us."

Cassian stared at the instrument.

"Mark?"

"Every new fighter."

A guard seized the first man’s arm.

The man immediately struggled.

Two others held him down.

The heated iron was pressed against the outside of his upper arm.

The scream that followed echoed through the courtyard.

Cassian’s jaw tightened.

The iron was removed.

A dark insignia had been burned into the man’s skin.

The mark of the Arena.

The man staggered away.

Another was dragged forward.

Cassian watched.

One after another.

The new fighters were branded.

Robert’s face had gone pale.

Cassian stared at the iron.

His turn was coming.

He looked down at his own arm.

The thought of carrying the Arena’s mark permanently made something inside him recoil.

He had already lost his clothes.

His weapons.

His documents.

His title.

His freedom.

Now they intended to put their claim directly onto his body.

The guard called.

"Carlo."

Cassian looked up.

He stepped forward.

A guard took his arm.

Cassian’s muscles tightened.

The heated iron was raised.

For one brief moment, instinct told him to pull away.

Then reason took over.

There were too many guards.

He was still injured.

And fighting now would accomplish nothing.

Cassian held still.

The iron touched his skin.

Pain exploded through his arm.

His jaw clenched.

He did not make a sound.

The iron was removed.

The smell of burned flesh filled the air.

Cassian looked down.

The mark was there.

Permanent.

The Arena had claimed him.

He stepped back into the line.

His arm throbbed.

He said nothing.

Another guard pointed toward the next man.

"Robert."

Robert looked up.

"That’s me."

He stepped forward.

The guard seized his arm.

Robert glanced back at Cassian.

"Wish me luck."

Cassian gave him a flat look.

Robert turned toward the branding officer.

The heated iron was raised.

The moment it touched his skin, Robert’s entire body jerked.

"Fuck!"

His voice echoed across the courtyard.

The iron was removed.

Robert stumbled backward, clutching his arm.

"Shit!"

He stared at the mark.

"That fucking hurts."

Cassian watched him.

Robert looked at him, breathing heavily.

"Don’t."

Cassian raised an eyebrow.

"I can already see the look on your face."

Cassian said nothing.

Robert shook his head.

"I don’t want to hear it."

He flexed his fingers carefully.

Then winced again.

"God."

Cassian’s mouth twitched.

Robert noticed.

"You’re enjoying this."

"No."

"You are."

Cassian looked away.

Robert muttered something under his breath and returned to the line.

After the last of the new fighters had been marked, the guards began moving them toward the corridor.

Robert fell into step beside Cassian.

He glanced at the mark on Cassian’s arm.

Then at his own.

"So that’s what it means."

Cassian looked at him.

Robert lowered his voice.

"The mark identifies us as Arena fighters."

Cassian said nothing.

"If we leave without permission, they know who we belong to."

Cassian’s gaze moved toward the walls.

Robert continued.

"They don’t need our names."

He tapped the fresh brand carefully.

"They see this, and they know."

Cassian looked down at his own arm.

"And if we’re caught?"

Robert’s expression became serious.

"They kill us."

Cassian nodded.

He already understood.

The mark wasn’t simply proof that they belonged to the Arena.

It was a warning.

Even if they managed to cross those walls, they couldn’t simply disappear.

They would be marked men.

And the Arena would hunt them.

Robert looked ahead.

"Well."

He sighed.

"Three years."

Cassian’s eyes remained on the corridor ahead.

"Three years."

And they continued walking.

--

Tbc