A sudden shout tore through the air.

So this is 'Judgement'?

I thought it’d be quieter…

Luke muttered internally, his eyelids peeling open like rusted shutters.

What greeted him was a circular field, vast and unfamiliar. Bleachers surrounded the arena, filled with silent onlookers whose faces were lost in shadow.

A coliseum.

Directly in front of him stood a boy—no older than twelve. Pale, trembling, tears streaking down his dirt-smudged face as he cautiously inched closer.

Luke blinked, disoriented.

"What’s happening? Where am I? Is this… my 'Judgement'?"

The thought escaped his lips in a whisper, as his eyes scanned the unnatural stillness of the arena.

Then—without warning—the boy lunged.

A sharp punch crashed into Luke’s face, snapping his head to the side. Pain flared across his cheek as he staggered back, barely keeping his footing.

"What the hell?! Why is he attacking me?!"

Before Luke could recover, the boy was on him again—fists flying in frantic repetition. 

A straight. Then another. And another. Each strike fueled by something deeper than fear—something desperate, almost primal.

Luke stepped back, weaving instinctively. His body moved before his mind could catch up, slipping left, ducking right—evading each blow like a dancer caught in the chaos of a storm.

But the boy didn’t stop.

And the crowd above? Still silent. Still watching.

Suddenly his back met the cold, unyielding wall, and escape vanished in an instant.

Shit... Whats happening.

Seeing no room for escape forward was 

the only way out.

Luke caught the boy’s straight kick mid-air. For a split second, he froze—eyes locking onto the child’s tear-streaked face, his frail frame trembling with exhaustion and fear.

He’s just a kid...

But instincts overruled mercy.

Luke forced his body into motion, driving a clean shot into the boy’s side—right at the kidney—before slipping to the side with practiced precision.

The impact landed hard.

The boy staggered, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as his body reeled. He collapsed back against the cold wall of the 

coliseum, barely standing—held up more by concrete than willpower. One hand clutched his side, where the liver shot had stolen the breath from his lungs. His legs shook. His eyes, wide and unfocused, were filled with pain… and something else. 

Something that made Luke's chest tighten.

I have to end this.

Luke took a breath, the decision solidifying in his chest like ice.

 I need to know if this is the 'Judgement' the 'Holy books' spoke of—a reflection of one’s life, weighed and measured before the afterlife… or is this something twisted?

He stepped forward.

In front of him, the boy was barely standing. The earlier liver shot had done its work—paralyzing, suffocating. He leaned against the wall like a dying branch in the wind, knees buckling, eyes glazed with pain.

Luke hesitated for a breath. Just a breath.

Then he moved.

With silent precision, he closed the distance, feinted a jab to test what resistance remained. The boy flinched, arms trembling as he tried to defend.

I’m sorry.

The uppercut came like lightning.

A clean, explosive arc—fist meeting chin—

snapping the boy’s head back. His legs folded. His body collapsed, a marionette with its strings cut. The wall no longer held him.

And for a moment, the world stood still.

Then came the cheers.

They exploded around him like a storm—deafening applause from unseen faces above, echoing through the coliseum like thunder.

Luke didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t look up.

This isn’t 'Judgement' . Not the kind I read about. This isn’t some divine weighing of right and wrong. This is… something else.

One moment he was dying—blood pooling from a bullet wound. The next, he was here, fighting a terrified child for the entertainment of faceless spectators.

His fists clenched.

He looked around at the towering bleachers, at the shadows applauding his violence, at the blood on his hands.

"Fuck..." he whispered.

"Where am I?"