On the day of the fight, the arena was filled to the brim with people hungry for an unforgettable spectacle.

The Emperor’s presence entailed a lot of benefits to the Arena, but also many challenges.

Firstly, there had to be more thought put into fights and the show around it.

Normally, there were little to no decorations on the battlefield. The game masters and the handlers didn’t see a point in wasting precious time and money designing sets for ordinary people.

The Emperor in the audience, however, was a whole other story.

That called for a proper spectacle. Something to impress him and win his favor.

For that reason, all of the handlers who had stakes in it spared no expense and effort.

The orators were hired to spread the news about the fights. A proper themed set had been designed and prepared. Even the slaves were fed better and made to look more presentable.

Whenever the Emperor showed up during an auction, he would always leave a big sum in the hands of handlers, buying their best fighters.

And even if he wasn’t a buyer, his visit gathered enough nobles and people with deep pockets to still make it worthwhile. It was nearly a win-win situation for the slave sellers.

As expected, when the time came, people rushed to the Arena in droves.

Among them was a nobleman, Praetor Decimus Junius Sulla. One of the higher-ranking officials in Aervelis.

Upon learning about the auction, Praetor Sulla made sure to claim a spot as a buyer. He had been waiting for this moment for days.

Ever since he saw Thirteen fight, he knew he had to have her.

He was a ‘connoisseur of exotic fighters’, as he liked to claim about himself.

In reality, Praetor Sulla was a terrible gambler, who had a tendency to put his daethris in matches that were impossible to win. As a result, not only was his family’s fortune a shadow of its former glory, but his catalog of warriors was down to two.

He had no doubt that someone like Thirteen would be able to turn the tide for him and help him recover the losses.

No matter what, Praetor Sulla had to buy this daethri.

He had to have her.

On the other side of the Arena, in the loge for the most noble guests, the Emperor Lucius Octavius and his daughter, Princess Lysandra, were subjected to the Handler’s silver-tongued advertisement.

“This is the best sort I’ve had so far. Plenty of young, fervent blood that would be a perfect fit for your legion, Domine Pater,” the Handler started planting the seeds of his fortune. “Especially one of the girls. You’ll know the moment you see her. Excellent warrior, unlike anything I have seen!”

The Emperor nodded absentmindedly. Years on the throne made him completely numb to the honeyed words of the people around him.

“We’ll see, Sevus, we’ll see,” he muttered and took a big sip from his cup. The taste of wine did little to wash off the boredom.

Seeing the utter disinterest from the Emperor, Sevus the Handler moved to his next victim—Princess Lysandra.

“We also have a fresh shipment of able-bodied thaels, of any gender,” he winked. “We will present them after the fighters, so I’ll ask for your patience, Your Highness.”

The Princess’ graceful eyebrows raised slightly as she gazed at him curiously.

“So you offer my father a warrior and the best you have for me is a servant?” she asked, seemingly innocently, but a proficient ear could notice that her melodic voice carried a vague note of threat.

“No, no… of course not,” Sevus started explaining, “I simply thought—“

“You simply thought that my needs aren’t worthy of your best stock?” she cut in, denying him the chance to talk his way out of it. “That I would be gullible enough to be satisfied with crumbs?”

Sevus stared at her blankly. Droplets of sweat slowly formed on his forehead.

“N-no, no, I—” he stammered.

“Let me explain something.”

She leaned closer.

An insincere smile tugged at the corner of her delicate lips. Her fingers grazed the coarse pallium in a gesture far too gentle for something so crude.

“My needs… aren’t easily satisfied,” she said, raising her golden eyes to look at him.

Her hand on his chest moved up in a deceptively gentle gesture.

“I need someone strong enough to give me what I want,” her fingers moved higher.

“Whenever I want,” curled around his collar.

“And…” she pulled him closer, staring into his eyes, “as many times as I want.”

Her irises shimmered in the sun like a golden flame, ready to burn to the ground everything that stood in its way.

They radiated authority that Sevus never expected from the woman who was known for her simpleton interest and uncontrollable fleshly desires.

“Do you understand?” she asked, her grip tightening around the collar of his tunic.

Sevus nodded in panic. Between the veiled threat that he finally noticed and her astounding beauty right before his face, he was unable to utter even a single word.

“Good,” she said and let him free, “Make sure to remember that.”

It took him a second to regain the ability to think and speak, but once he did, he immediately understood the error of his ways.

“Of course, Your Highness. As you wish, Your Highness!” The Handler wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and hastily backed off before he could cause more damage to his business.

Princess Lysandra leaned back in her chair and swept away a loose strand of her golden hair.

She didn’t like this man. At best, she barely tolerated his existence. If it depended on her, he would be long dead or imprisoned.

Being a former slave, he managed to buy his own freedom. Then, he became a handler himself. On the surface, he was no different from others in his business.

Lysandra, however, knew about the other services he was providing. Much darker, more disgusting ones.

The stories of what he did with some of the people he enslaved still lingered in her memory, no matter how much she wished to forget them.

Her slender finger brushed against her lips in contemplation.

She better be as good as you promised, Sevus, because I have every intention of taking that girl away from you.

The excitement on the surface also reached the area underneath the arena.

Everyone hoped that it would be the day luck smiled at them.

Thirteen was calm. Her hands tied the belt of the brand-new tunic the Handler provided for them without any sign of anxiety.

She heard the roar of the crowd and smiled to herself.

If they wanted a show, she would give them a show they would never forget.

She took a simple shortsword from the rack and went to her gate.

There she found Tally, who had just finished his match. Aside from a few scratches and superficial cuts, he seemed to be in good shape.

It was one of the things that surprised her about him. He might not have looked the part, but Tally was an unexpectedly apt fighter.

When she asked him about it, he just shrugged and said that living on a farm and having eight siblings taught him how to take care of himself. But Thirteen always had a sense that there was something more to his story than he was letting on.

“Nervous?” he asked, seeing her approach.

Thirteen looked at him without a word.

“Right. What am I even asking,” he sighed. “Sometimes I wish I had your amount of confidence.”

“It’s not confidence,” Thirteen answered.

“No? Then what?”

“Familiarity,” she said, gazing through the gate at the blood-soaked arena, “When I fight, it’s the only time I don’t feel alien. The only time I feel like I belong somewhere.”

Since she woke up, the fights were the only moment of respite for her, as paradoxical as it sounded. In a world when everything felt foreign, it was the only place she could stop thinking about her past and her memories.

Tally stared at her in silence for a moment.

Eventually, he got up and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You need to go out and see a bit of the world,” he said, looking her in the eyes with a glimmer of something too close to disappointment.

He patted her shoulder, then went back to clean himself after the fight, leaving behind a slightly confused Thirteen.