บท 3: Chapter 3: The Breaking Point-part 1

The crowd was as a beast unleashed: cries, some gutteral in pitch, the cries tumbled and rebounded against the jagged stakes surrounding the pit. Hadrian's heart hammered through his chest; short and fast were his breaths while he backed away from the towering figure in front of him.

The man was broad-shouldered, his skin weathered by long treacherous battles; he moved with a predator's ease, his blade flashing in the uneven light. He was everything Hadrian wasn't: strong, experienced, and utterly without mercy. His sunken eyes carried no anger, only a cold inevitability, as if Hadrian was just another obstacle to crush underfoot.

Hadrian's own blade trembled in his grip, his arm already aching from the weight of the chipped weapon. He was panting, his muscles screaming from exhaustion, and the jagged wound on his shoulder burned with every movement.

The system's words flickered faintly at the edge of his vision:

Mission: Survive. Reward: [System Activation].

What is this thing? The thought clawed its way to the forefront of his mind as he dodged another swing, the man's blade slicing through the air inches from his face.

The system didn't belong here. None of this did. Hadrian didn't know what it meant or why it had appeared, but it didn't matter. It wasn't going to save him. Only he could do that.

The man pressed forward, his sword coming down in a brutal arc. Hadrian barely managed to step aside, the blade grazing his tunic as he stumbled backward. His foot caught on a jagged rock, and he fell hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.

The man didn't hesitate. He lunged, his sword thrusting toward Hadrian's chest.

Hadrian rolled to the side, the dirt scraping against his skin as the blade struck the ground where he'd just been. He scrambled to his feet, clutching his weapon tightly as the man turned to face him again.

I can't keep this up.

His body was failing him. Every step felt like dragging leaden weights, every breath a struggle. The man, by contrast, was relentless. His strikes were precise and unyielding, each one forcing Hadrian closer to the pit's edge.

"Fight, boy!" one of the orcs bellowed from above, his voice booming over the din. "Or die like a coward!"

The crowd erupted in laughter, their guttural jeers cutting through the haze of Hadrian's panic. He could feel their eyes on him, could hear their cheers for blood.

The man swung again, and Hadrian barely managed to raise his blade in time. The impact jarred his arm, the force of it nearly knocking the weapon from his grip. He staggered, his vision swimming as he fought to stay upright.

You're just a boy, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, sharp and cruel. You don't belong here. You don't stand a chance.

Hadrian gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade. He couldn't let it end here. Not like this.

He lunged again, his blade aimed for Hadrian's chest. This time, Hadrian moved too slow. The weapon caught him across the arm, the edge biting deep into flesh and bone.

Agony detonated through him, blinding and all-consuming. He screamed, the sound raw and primal, as blood poured from the jagged stump where his hand had been.

The crowd was cheering, their cheers rising to a fever pitch.

Hadrian stumbled backward, his vision blurring as his legs gave out beneath him. He fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm as his mind worked.

This can't be happening. This isn't real.

But it was. The pain was real. The blood was real. The man in front of him was real, and he wasn't going to stop.

The man raised his sword, his face merciless, as he was about to deliver the coup de grâce.

Getup, Hadrian. get you fucking ass up!

Adrenaline coursed through him, numbing the pain as he reached for the blade he'd dropped. His small fingers found the base of the sword, slippery with blood, and he held the blade firmly.

The man's sword fell and Hadrian sprang forward.

The blade in his hand drove upward, sinking into the man's stomach with a sickening squelch. he gasped opening his large green eyes

—wide with shock, the large bronze weapon pierced his flesh.

He stumbled, hands scrabbling at the blade buried in his gut, but it was too late. His strength gave out, and he dropped to the ground, twitching once before going still. Hadrian was staring at him, his chest heaving as the adrenaline bled from his body. The world seemed to ebb away around him, growing silent and faraway as the jeers of the crowd receded.

I killed him.

The thought hit him like a hammer, cold and unrelenting.

He'd killed someone.

His hands trembled as he pushed himself up, his gaze locked on the blood pooling beneath the man's body. The smell of iron and sweat clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

Hadrian's stomach churned, and he doubled over, dry-heaving as the weight of it pressed down on him. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to face what he'd done. But the image of the man's lifeless eyes was burned into his mind.

He would've killed you, Hadrian told himself, his voice trembling in the confines of his own head. You didn't have a choice.

But the justification felt hollow.

The pain in his arm dragged him back to the present, sharp and unrelenting. He looked down, his stomach lurching at the sight of the jagged stump where his hand had been. Blood poured from the wound, soaking the dirt beneath him.

Hadrian screamed, the sound tearing from his throat as the reality of it hit him. His hand was gone.

The orcs above him roared in approval, their laughter echoing through the pit. Two of them jumped down, their heavy boots kicking up dust as they approached. One carried a length of iron, its end glowing red-hot from the fire.

Hadrian's vision swam as the orcs grabbed him, pinning him down as they pressed the searing metal against his wound. The pain was blinding, white-hot and all-consuming. He thrashed and screamed, his mind retreating into itself as memories flooded in—memories that didn't belong.

Flashes.

A world of sterile walls and blinking lights. Monitors beeping in a rhythmic pulse. Men in uniforms shouting orders. A tank rolling across a desolate street.

The images came in bursts, too fast to process, too vivid to ignore.

'What the hell is this?' Hadrian could feel some of his memories slowly coming back,

Hadrian's mind spiraled as the memories flickered and faded, leaving only confusion in their wake. They felt real. Too real. But they couldn't be could they.

The system's words burned in his vision again, cutting through the chaos:

System Activation Initiated.

Hadrian's body went limp as the world around him dissolved into darkness.

six months later...

The corridor was dark, lit only by the flickering glow of torches embedded in the walls. Shadows danced across the uneven stone, twisting into strange shapes that seemed almost alive. Hadrian stood in the center of the passage, his back straight and his gaze fixed ahead. He had learned long ago not to show weakness—not here, not in front of them.

On either side of the corridor, orcs lounged against the walls, their hulking forms barely fitting in the narrow space. Their guttural laughter and crude jokes filled the air, accompanied by the clinking of weapons and the occasional bark of an insult. One orc—a particularly ugly brute with a jagged scar across his face—leaned closer as Hadrian passed.

"You're looking sharp, runt," the orc sneered, his yellowed tusks glinting in the firelight. "Bet you'll last all of five minutes out there today."

Hadrian didn't respond. He had learned not to. Talking back only earned you more attention, and attention in this place was never good.

Instead, he focused on the system interface hovering in front of him, its faint glow the only constant in his life these past six months. The words were sharp and clear, as though etched into the air itself:

Mission: Defeat 3 opponents. Progress: 2/3. Reward: +6 Attribute Points.

Beneath the mission window, his attributes were displayed in cold, clinical detail:

Strength: 6

Intelligence: 11

Charisma: 9

Agility: 5

Stamina: 5

constitution: 10

And then there was the other section, the one that still made his stomach churn every time he looked at it:

Race Points Acquired:

Orc: 0

Elf: ???

Dark Elf: ???

???

Hadrian clenched his jaw, his gaze lingering on the word Orc. He didn't know how it worked, not entirely, but he had figured out enough. The system rewarded him for killing. Not just with points, but with... pieces. Traits.

the system had whispered promises of power—power stolen from the very beings who had enslaved him. It was simple, really. Kill orcs, gain points, and slowly gain there racial attributes like a healing factor or orc strength.

The thought of more killing sickened him,

'I'm just a kid, I don't wanna kill anything else' but he couldn't deny the allure.

The system didn't care about morality. It didn't care about right or wrong. It only cared about results.

Hadrian hated it. But he needed it.

"Runt!" one of the orcs barked, his voice booming through the corridor. "Get moving. You don't want to keep the crowd waiting."

Hadrian took a deep breath, his hand tightening around the leather strap of his shield. His other arm—what was left of it—was strapped with a crude metal blade, its edge jagged and uneven. It wasn't elegant, but it was functional. Functional was all that mattered.

He stepped forward, the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor looming closer with every step. The roar of the crowd grew louder, a wall of noise that pressed against his ears and chest. He had walked this path dozens of times now, but it never got easier.

The door creaked open, and the light of the arena spilled in, harsh and blinding. Hadrian blinked against it, his stomach twisting as he stepped into the ring.

The arena was just as he remembered it—crude and ugly, the dirt floor stained with blood that never seemed to dry. The stakes lining the edges cast long shadows, and the crowd of orcs above jeered and shouted, their guttural voices blending into a cacophony of violence.

In the center of the ring stood his opponent—a boy, no older than Hadrian himself. He was small, wiry, his face pale and streaked with dirt. His eyes were wide and fearful, his hands clutching a short, rusted blade that looked like it might fall apart at any moment.

Hadrian frowned. He had expected another man, another brute like the one who had taken his hand. This... this felt wrong.

The boy didn't move, his shoulders hunched and his legs trembling. Hadrian could see the fear in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

"Fight!" one of the orcs bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip.

Hadrian hesitated, his grip tightening on his shield.

The boy lunged suddenly, his movements clumsy but desperate. Hadrian sidestepped easily, bringing his shield up to block the strike. The boy stumbled, nearly falling to the ground, and Hadrian used the opportunity to shove him back with the edge of his shield.

The boy fell, landing hard in the dirt. He looked up at Hadrian, his eyes wide with panic.

"Get up," Hadrian said, his voice sharper than he intended.

The boy didn't move. He just stared at Hadrian, his hands trembling as he gripped his weapon.

"Get up!" Hadrian shouted, stepping forward.

The boy scrambled to his feet, his blade shaking as he held it out in front of him. He looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.

Hadrian sighed, lowering his shield slightly. "You don't have to do this," he said, his voice quieter now. "Just... stay down. They can't make me kill you if you don't fight back."

The boy's gaze flicked toward the crowd, and Hadrian followed his line of sight. The orcs were shouting and jeering, their voices filled with impatience and cruelty. One of them made a crude gesture, his tusks bared in a mocking grin.

"They'll kill me," the boy said, his voice barely audible. "If I don't fight, they'll kill me."

Hadrian's chest tightened. He didn't have an answer for that.

The boy lunged again, his blade slicing toward Hadrian's side. Hadrian deflected the strike with his shield, stepping back as the boy pressed forward with another desperate attack.

It was sloppy, and Hadrian could see every opening, every weakness. He blocked the next strike easily, using his shield to shove the boy back again. This time, the boy didn't get up right away.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Hadrian said, his voice low.

The boy looked up at him, his expression a mixture of fear and something else—resignation.

"I'd rather die," the boy said softly, his voice breaking.

Hadrian froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

The boy took a shaky breath, his hands tightening around his blade. "I'd rather die than let them—" He stopped, his voice catching in his throat.

Hadrian didn't move. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.

The boy stood slowly, his movements deliberate. He raised his blade, but instead of pointing it at Hadrian, he turned it toward himself.

"No!" Hadrian shouted, but it was too late.

The boy drove the blade into his own throat, his body jerking as blood poured from the wound. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide with pain and terror as he collapsed to the ground.

Hadrian stared at him, his chest heaving as the weight of it all crashed down on him.

The crowd roared in approval, their cheers ringing in his ears like a cruel mockery.