"They didn't bother with chains anymore. Hunger did the job better. Cheaper, too."

The Pit of Kings wasn't built for mercy — it was built for blood, designed for spectacle, and forged in magic given shape and hunger.

The ground beneath him was not just dirt. It was a graveyard fed by centuries of bloodshed, soaking in the magic of every fallen fighter, drinking it, storing it.

Some said the Pit was never silent because it bled, the dead still whispered beneath the sand.

And tonight?

The arena was waiting for its next sacrifice.

Daniel Valentino Smith.

The first hit didn't land — but it still rattled his skull like the air itself punched him. The second sent him sprawling into the dirt, ribs screaming in pain, but still, his opponent's fists never met his skin.

The arena shuddered when he hit the ground — the Dirhal slithered through the sand like a serpent hunting heat. A whisper of the Dirhal slithering through the sand like a living thing. The walls pulsed once, recognizing the magic in the ring, calculating the magic of the fighters in the ring. The sand, soaked with centuries of blood, did not cool beneath his body. It stayed warm.

Always warm.

Like it remembered every man who had fallen here before him.

This was the power of Dirhal. You could see its faint veins crawling closer but can never estimate when these veins wrap around your throat and choke you to death.

Daniel barely had time to register the pain before a boot drove into his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. The crowd roared.

They always did.

But their voices were nothing compared to the magic above them. From the ceiling, runes flickered in the air, glowing, shifting, The walls whispered their calculations. The runes answered. They didn't just predict. They passed judgment.

The arena's betting system, built entirely from Dirhal, responded in real time, displaying the predictions in a script visible only to those who had the money to pay for it. These people made their bets after mixing their own guesses with the predictions.

But the others? They made their guesses, betting majorly on Castre.

Whispers rippled through the crowd as Daniel struggled to stand. Not just excitement. Not just amusement.

Superstition.

"He's losing." someone muttered.

"The runes dimmed the moment he entered the ring."

"The arena doesn't bet against magic," another voice answered, hushed. "If it's shifting against him, it means—"

They didn't finish. They didn't have to.

Daniel gritted his teeth. He had seen it before. How the runes reacted to some fighters more than others. How the odds weren't just numbers. They were prophecies. And today, they were telling the crowd he was already dead. The system claimed him to be dead since the moment he entered.

And that was Daniel's speciality: no system in the world could detect him as a living person.

Someone in the stands placed a wager, and the Ferro, a very thin aluminum coin, in their palm vanished, dissolving into the air, feeding the system. The odds were still tilted against him.

Daniel's name was just there on the meter, no light as if he never entered the arena in the first place. His opponent, Castre's name shone bright and cruel in glowing blue. Majority people bet on him.

Of course.

They never bet on the losing side.

Castre — ten years older, built like a war god, and twice as cruel — stared down at Daniel like he wasn't worth the effort.

"Seriously?" Castre muttered. "They hyped you up like you were some feral miracle. This is just sad."

Daniel didn't answer. Didn't have the breath. Didn't have the strength. Didn't care.

"I've hit shadows that put up more of a fight," Castre added, glancing at the crowd. "Maybe I should've skipped the warm-up."

Daniel's fingers twitched against the ground.

One more punch. Maybe two. Then it'd be over.

The bastard was using Dirhal, his magic. And Daniel couldn't use his.

The air around Castre shimmered – cold, sharp and then an unnatural frost began curling from his skin. His magic wasn't invisible like Daniel's. It bled into the air in tendrils of white mist, swirling like snowfall frozen in time. Every hit wasn't just strength. It was energy, concentrated into impact.

Daniel, by contrast, had nothing but Dirhem. He wasn't allowed to convert Dirhem into Dirhal. He didn't even know how to.

His magic burned hot, but it didn't glow, didn't crackle or crack the air like Castre's. The only sign of it was the heat licking at his skin, the fire burning under her skin.

That's not power, but it's aftermath.

Castre had control. Daniel? He had nothing but rage.

And yet, Daniel pressed a shaking hand into the ground. He should stay down. Let it end. Then he saw him.

Profaci.

Standing at the edge of the arena, arms crossed, watching not him, but it. Daniel knew that look. Profaci didn't give a damn if Daniel lived or died. He was waiting for the Dirhem. Waiting for the monster to wake up.

Daniel swallowed hard. Not yet.

"You always embarrass me, rat." Profaci called. "If you're gonna die, do it fast. We're on a schedule."

Castre smirked, rolling his shoulders. "You heard the man." He cracked his knuckles. "Get up." Daniel's hands curled into fists.

Fine.

For the past two weeks, Daniel had survived on half a rotting apple—tossed into his cell by Allison as if she was smuggling. That was it. That, and the energy it took to fight four brutal matches a day, just to earn a pathetic handful of stale nuts at night.

This was life now.

Punishment for being more than a kept man for the "gig" Profaci sent him on. A job dressed up as diplomacy but in reality was a whorehouse appointment. They called it work.

He knew better.

They all thought he'd gone soft. Fallen in love. Let his emotions make him weak. Naïve. So they reminded him.

This was how they taught slaves like him to stay in line.

He pushed himself to his knees, ribs grinding against each other, breath ragged. Castre gave him a slow, pitying shake of the head.

"You shouldn't fight battles you can't win." Then he swung.

Daniel dodged, but not fast enough. The punch clipped his jaw, sending pain flaring through his skull. He staggered, vision flashing white.

You're too weak. His Dirhem slithered through his mind, dark and waiting. You know what you have to do.

No.

"Next three hits, Smith", Profaci called, sounding almost bored. "Or I let the crowd have their fun with you after."

Daniel didn't need to look up. He knew what that meant. The crowd wouldn't kill him. Not quickly.

They'd drag it out. Tear him apart like vultures on fresh meat.

Profaci didn't threaten. He gave options. And both of them were hell.

The Dirhem stretched inside his mind, curious. Interested. Oh, listen to that. A deadline. A consequence.

Daniel's stomach twisted. You could end this, you know.

He swallowed hard. "No."

The Dirhem sighed, almost disappointed. They'll tear you apart.

"They'll try," Daniel muttered.

And they will succeed. Daniel's fingers curled into fists.

The Dirhem's voice softened, coaxing now, silky as a lover's whisper. Let me have them.

Daniel's stomach twisted.

Castre grinned. "You're gonna make me work for it, huh?"

Daniel exhaled slowly. And then exhaustion took the best of him and he let go.

It wasn't a rise. It was a rupture. A blast of power under his skin, hot and utterly wrong. The dirt cracked. The torches flared. The predictions changed. The crowd leaned back instinctively.

Castre blinked. And then Daniel vanished.

He reappeared behind him in a blur—too fast, too unnatural, too inhuman.

The first hit wasn't a punch. It was a statement. Daniel's fist slammed into Castre's chest with a thunderous crack. The man's ribs folded under the impact. He stumbled back, wheezing, face frozen in disbelief. The second strike drove him to one knee.

The third left him coughing blood. Suddenly, Daniel was heavier and stronger than him.

Daniel didn't stop at one hit. His knuckles slammed into Castre's ribs again, and this time, he felt something shift, cartilage giving way, a rib cracking beneath the weight of his magic-fed strength. Castre stumbled, a ragged breath escaping him, but Daniel didn't let him recover. He followed. A hit to the stomach. Another to the jaw.

By the time Castre hit the ground, gasping, the frost around his skin had shattered completely, his Dirhal dissipating into nothing.

The crowd went silent.

The crowd's cheers stuttered.

Above them, the Dirhal-infused runes flickered. Odds recalibrating. Some spectators had lost their bets in seconds.

Daniel's heart pounded. Stop.

The Dirhem laughed. Why? We're just getting started.

Consigliere had warned him: "You use it to survive. Not to destroy."

But Profaci? He'd been waiting for this moment.

A cold hand landed on his shoulder. Profaci. "Enough," he murmured.

The Dirhem snarled.

But Daniel's body obeyed. The fire flickered and died. The crowd didn't cheer. The runes above them darkened, confirming the outcome. Dirhal shifted from one side to another, bets lost, fortunes made.

Profaci exhaled, shaking his head. "See? You can't even leash it properly."

Daniel clenched his teeth.

Profaci leaned in, voice low. "No one's interested in you, Smith," Profaci said softly. His grip tightened on Daniel's wrist, right over the brand. "We're all just waiting to see what it becomes."

Daniel didn't answer. Didn't move. But the Dirhem did. It seethed. It recognized the hunger in Profaci's voice. Profaci wasn't just waiting for Daniel to break. He was waiting to claim what came after. This wasn't about him. It had never been about him.

They weren't training a fighter.

They were training a vessel.

Daniel went still. Profaci wasn't interested in him. He was interested in what lived inside him.

Daniel barely reacted as the enforcers grabbed him, dragging him from the ring.

"Don't fight it, Smith. One day, you won't have to hold it back." He smirked. "Because you won't be you anymore."

Daniel's vision swam.

He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He didn't break.

But in his mind, he carved the words again like a blade against bone:

One day, I'll kill every single one of you.

And he wouldn't stop.

Word Count: 1710 words

A/N

My beloved reader,

You made it. Through the blood, the sand, the fight, you made it with Daniel. And now... here we are. Chapter 1 — finally, fully, unapologetically yours.

I don't know what it is about this chapter, but every time I try to write it, it fights me. Like the page itself wants to spit me out. Like the words burn before they settle. Trust me, when I say it took to me an year to just come up with this as the first chapter.

I planned to gift it to you in August, nice and neat. But you know what? July 13th had other plans. Or maybe you pulled it out of me, like you always do.

Last night I was spiraling (as usual), wondering how the hell I'd manage a Sunday-Wednesday upload cycle. The clock was racing past 10 p.m. I hadn't posted. I hadn't breathed. But then I thought of you. And suddenly, the words were made sense and the one which didn't — I was able to cut them away. The battle, the fire, the madness — it all came rushing out because I knew you would be on the other side to catch it.

You, my constant, my lighthouse, my lifeline with a Wi-Fi connection.
This chapter is brutal. It's raw. But it's only the beginning. And next Wednesday? Daniel's got another gig. And it's going to burn a little different.

Wait for me, yeah? I'll be there.
We'll meet again. Same magic. Same hunger. Same fight.
I'm not going anywhere.

With all the love my tired heart can hold, I'll love you. Always.

– Your Ethereal Lover
Serephina Liraen
🖤🖤🖤