The afternoon sun was beating down upon the open-air training center, which was bustling with activity. Dozens of bare-chested men were busy sparring, all kinds of people were present young and old, dark, and light, slaves from all reaches of Edernia competing against one another.

Standing in the center, separate from all the others stood a youth, not yet an adult but on the cusp of adulthood but with the frame of a man five years his senior. His bronzed skin showing not a hint of fat, the sweat navigating valleys formed from his chiseled frame, tempered from a life of combat in the arena. Thrust, swipe, strike, each movement with spear and shield natural, an incorporation of years of training. Following the death of the “venom fist”, the previous undefeated arena champion, the boy had turned to training to cope with the loss.

Train, eat, and sleep, that had been the routine of the boy after sickness had taken his teacher. Born and bred within the confines of the arena, the boy grew up never knowing the wonders of the outside world, forced to live through the experiences of others. Childish dreams of one day earning his freedom and exploring the world, side by side with his teacher, to travel to the unseen places and unexplored lands, together. That dream ended on that fateful day four years ago.

Try as he might the young man was unable to find balance since that final training with his teacher, Vishnamitra had taught him how to harness the energies of the world. To instill that within his attacks, to heighten one’s senses, to protect against attacks, yet he had become unable to meditate. Unable to utilize his training, to refine himself, and utilize the life energy his teacher called prana.

With each thrust and strike his expression grew more enraged, unable to freely express these thoughts, he instead focused his anguish into each fight. It was difficult at first, killing, but one became used to it over time, numb to it. How else is one to survive in a place such as this, where your friend may be your opponent in the next fight, with death as the only outcome. There was no honor in this place, no joy, only death, slaughter meant to entertain those wealthy denizens and their guests.

“Champion! Hey, champion! Enough with the training. The taskmaster is on his way, and he is not in a good mood.” A young boy called out to the young man as he was engrossed in his training. Hopping along at his fastest pace, which was difficult due to the hunched shoulders and slight growth on his back. Yet the boy did not allow such things to get to him, still retaining a cheerful smile as he waved his hand as high as he could towards the young champion.

“Polyxenius, aren’t you on duty to polish the armor and weapons in the armory? The other fighters already complain about you, and after the last prank you pulled… I’m surprised they haven’t given you a good licking.” Polyxenius, with his disability was still expected to carry out the duties of a child slave within the arena. Polishing the equipment, cleaning the latrines, serving the food, and washing the guards’ linens.

His hunched back and club foot did not deter his personality however, the boy was a known troublemaker, as many problems as he caused, there were others who found considerable amusement from his antics. Even the taskmasters and guards found him enjoyable, of course they were not the targets of any jokes.

In a sense this was his survival mechanism, no amount of training would fix his frame, a weak constitution over time could be fixed to some extent, but a faulty frame ruined any chance at a future in this environment. It was a surprise as to why he was even kept alive as a child, or why those who enslaved him even sold him here, or even why the arena master purchased him? A question many of the fighters asked amongst themselves, but what he lacked in strength, stamina, or speed, the boy made up for in intellect. Many saw the hunchback as a source of amusement in their otherwise bleak lives, but that enjoyment made him indispensable as they provided a few moments of enjoyment in their otherwise bleak lives.

“You already know how little the others like that man, and if that isn’t enough everyone always has at least one shameful act they don’t want others to know of. Who knows, maybe a unflattering rumor starts to float around? Who could know, right?” Behind the child’s playful exterior was a cunning snake. The older fighters, those who had been here since he was first purchased were aware of his ability to collect information, both inside and outside the arena. How that was possible, no one was sure, but it was best not to speak anything of importance in his presence.

“Enough with the training boy! Time to go prepare for your final match. Maybe you survive and earn your freedom… did you like my gift?” The taskmaster Lampo was a vindictive and sadistic individual. A sense of Lyrian superiority may have played into his treatment of the slaves, or perhaps it may have been his own miserable and worthless life that caused him to act the way he did. Often, he could be found whipping the slaves for the lightest of infractions, disciplining them at times for perceived failures, all to appease his own fractured ego.

“Lampo, as always I can never find myself enjoying your presence. Truly a face only a mother could love.” Some of the other gladiators broke out in laughter, laughter that quickly died down due to the enraged expression on the taskmaster’s face. The whip was trembling in his hand, threatening to strike out at the young man before him.

“You are lucky I can’t cut up that pretty face of yours. If you don’t win, assuming you survive, I would be happy to provide you with my personal attention. Leave my mark all over your back, another gift for you… perhaps the boy shall take your place.” In response to Lampo’s threats the champion could not help but touch the many markings covering his back. Welts, both new and old crisscrossed the youthful skin, reminders of the whip and Lampo’s “gifts”. The hardened flesh a reminder of childhood, before Vishnamitra, before his rise to champion, when he was still a lowly slave of no worth.

Lampo then turned his attention towards Polyxenius, as if finally noticing the young boy for the first time, an eerie glint in the corner of his eye. “Well, Well. This is where you were you disgusting little creature. I believe you are on duty, cleaning and polishing the armory. Shall I move to deliver your punishment now?” Unfurling his wicked three-pronged whip, the man was prepared to flay the child right here and now.

Sensing the change, the Champion stepped in to cover the young boy, ready to take the blow in his stead. Instead of backing down he stared down the feeble taskmaster, like all cowards, he only exuded strength when he remained in a position of safety. Taking a glance at the surroundings, one would notice the many fighters having halted their training, moving closer and quietly observing the conflict.

“You lowly slaves are not worth my time, just get over to the armory and get ready for the fight, the guests and the master are expecting a good show. So, get to it!” Lampos yelled out with all his strength, but if one focused, they would notice the slight crack in his voice. Fearful of the surroundings, he slowly backed away while exuding an aura of authority, even if those present were aware of the truth. For his part the Champion simply nodded and left, making sure to drag the young Polyxenius along with him.

“Come along kid, we got work to do. You will help me get ready for the fight.” Like his teacher before him, he gave the child a pat on the head before dragging him along.