If victory had a taste, it would taste like sweet, red wine. It would taste like ecstasy in liquid form, washing away every ounce of doubt, drowning my worries in a single, intoxicating gulp.

I haven’t won much in life.
But I’ll spare you the sob story. You've heard it all before, from others just like me. Right now, though, all I can feel is the rush—standing over the girl who met her end at my hands, savoring the triumph. I wave to the crowd, who cheers and throws coins and flowers at my feet, their admiration palpable in the air.

Six months.


That’s how long it’s been since this competition began. Six months of pushing myself further than I ever thought possible. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen—I'm not sure the person I was then even exists anymore. But I guess that's the point of these games: to break you down and build you back up into something else entirely. Something stronger. Something more dangerous.

I scan the arena, eyes lingering on the bodies scattered across the floor. Most are from my hand, a few from others, but it doesn’t matter. There can only be one victor, and today, that victor is me.

A shadow falls over me, and I don’t need to look to know who it is.
The Arena Master stands behind me, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips as his eyes flicker to the girl lying at my feet. “A fine fighter,” he says, his voice low. “Don’t you think?”

I glance over at the crowd again, feeling the weight of their gaze. This feeling—this sweet, intoxicating rush—is all I’ve wanted for so long. But I know it’s fleeting. It always is. The Arena Master chuckles softly, his voice rising above the noise of the crowd. “This is only the beginning, child.”

His words hang in the air, a reminder that this victory, like everything else, is just a small piece of a much larger game. And I'm only getting started.