บท 2: Training and debut
The carriage ride was long and arduous. During the journey to their destination, Ezra and the old man struck a deal: Ezra would receive five percent of the earnings from every victory, and if he managed to save enough money, he could pay the mages to terminate the contract at any time.
Ezra knew it was likely a scam, and the old man would do everything he could to prevent him from saving enough money. Still, he was already far too deep in this ordeal to turn back now, and that deal was likely the only way he would ever achieve his freedom.
Eventually, they arrived at Dammon's mansion. The man claimed to be of noble birth, but he didn't act like it. Upon their arrival, Ezra felt the sharp sting as the slave seal was marked on his skin, binding him magically to the old man.
"Now rest for today," Dammon said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "You'll begin your training tomorrow. You look pretty slender, so I have the perfect fighting style in mind for you."
Ezra tossed and turned in the bed he had been given, unable to fall asleep. He had taken the deal because this wasn't the first time someone had offered to buy him; he had been turned the offers down plenty of times before. He had also fought off kidnappers on numerous occasions, realizing he couldn't fend them off forever. He figured it would be better for the orphanage to gain something from his departure, and this man seemed particularly relentless.
But even with all that in mind, he still regretted his choice. He knew he would likely have a hard time finding work that didn't involve violence; after all, he had been told by various businesses that he had an "untrustworthy look."
This sucks. If the old man loved me as much as this letter said he did, he would still be here, Ezra thought to himself, but he quickly dismissed the notion. His father had his own problems; he couldn't blame the man. The director had told him how much his father had lost before he died—his clan wiped out by devils, and he had lost his wife as well. No normal person could handle all that.
The Elthar clan, he wondered to himself. I wonder if any others escaped total annihilation. It would really suck to be the last Elthar.
Finally, Ezra drifted into a restless sleep, still questioning whether his choice had been the right one. He was jolted awake the next day by a punch to the gut.
"Wake up, boy! We have work to do. We need to get you combat-ready in a month!"
Ezra sat up, ready to retort, but a shock ran through his body, and the man who had just woken him up smirked.
The man was tall, with a thick beard, and his hair was shaved to the scalp. "Don't think you can talk back, boy. Let's just go."
Ezra followed the gruff man to the training ground, where he was tossed a training sword. "I still can't believe he's having a knight train a lowly gladiator. It's a useless sword style, though, so I guess it's fine enough," the knight muttered.
Ezra stood there, sword in hand, watching the knight complain about having to train him. "I don't really want to be here either, but it looks like neither of us has a choice. Let's just get this over with, yeah?"
The large man scowled, then took a deep breath to calm himself. "You have a point, kid. Let's just do this. I'll be teaching you the Swift Strike style—a fast sword technique used with slender blades, mostly favored by beginner explorers and those without much upper body strength."
Sounds like he's calling me weak, Ezra thought, but he decided to play along for now. "Okay, that sounds interesting enough. I like moving fast, so I can see why he set this one up for me. Let's start."
The man smiled. "I'm William. Now, let me show you the proper stances."
William demonstrated how to position himself for the sword style, surprised by how quickly Ezra absorbed the information. That damn merchant picked up some real talent, he thought to himself, moving on to demonstrate some strikes.
A week had passed since the start of training, and William was shocked. The boy had mastered all the basic strikes and was utilizing them effectively in sparring. Ezra was even managing to land hits during practice. He was an enigma; why did he have to be a gladiator?
As the days went on, William began teaching him various techniques. Just like everything else, Ezra absorbed the information with remarkable speed. He quickly progressed from basic maneuvers to more advanced techniques, mastering the entire training manual well before the month was up.
William found himself increasingly impressed—and a bit frustrated. The once-cocky knight realized that he could no longer hold back against Ezra; if he did, he would risk losing. The young boy had become a formidable opponent, and the dynamic of their training had shifted. What had started as a routine duty had turned into a genuine challenge, and William couldn't help but feel a sense of pride mixed with unease at the boy's potential.
What could he have achieved in a different life? William thought, wondering how a talent like Ezra's had ended up in the brutal world of gladiatorial combat.
"So, William, I'm leaving tomorrow, right? Thanks for all the help. At least now I'm sure I won't lose my life," Ezra said to the tall man, who simply nodded in response. It felt cruel that such talent was being shipped off to fight in some colosseum.
That night, Ezra retired to his room, but his sleep was restless. The following morning, he awoke to the excited laughter of Dammon, who was practically dragging him toward the carriage. "I've heard stories of your success in training! I didn't check in so you could focus, but to think you would improve so much in such a short time!"
Ezra climbed into the carriage, and they set off for the capital city of the Stellaris Kingdom. The journey was uneventful, and they arrived a week later. As they entered the bustling city, Dammon seemed to be in high spirits, parading Ezra through the streets. He quickly got him registered for the next fight, which was set to take place in just a week. The anticipation and pressure mounted as Ezra prepared for his debut in the arena, knowing that he would soon face opponents who had spent years honing their skills in brutal combat.
But his first-ever fight was not the grand battle he had imagined. His opponent was a criminal—a rapist—caught in the act and forced to fight to earn a reduced prison sentence. Ezra felt a wave of disgust as he stepped into the Colosseum arena. Clad in simple leather armor and wielding a slender straight sword, he looked across at his opponent, a hulking, bald-headed man gripping a massive hammer.
The man grinned with twisted delight, his eyes gleaming as he sized Ezra up. "They're making me fight a kid?" he laughed. "Luck's on my side. Strange-looking kid, but just a kid. I'll be a free man soon enough."
Ezra tightened his grip on the sword, feeling the weight of his blade and his rage combine. He fixed his opponent with a cold, unwavering stare. "Think what you want, creep," he said, his voice calm but sharp. "Just don't start begging for mercy later."
The crowd's murmur rose to a roar as the announcer's voice echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the fight. Ezra steadied himself, ready to face whatever came next in the brutal proving grounds of the Colosseum.
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