The massive Ox beastkin stood over me, his shadow blocking out the flickering torchlight of the waiting room. He was huge. I had to tilt my head back just to see his face. His chest was as wide as a barn door, covered in thick, dark fur that looked like it had been brushed with oil. He leaned in, and I could smell the sharp scent of dry grass and old blood on his breath. His nostrils flared with every heavy inhale, the wet black skin of his snout twitching.

  "How is it," he rumbled, his voice so deep I felt it in my own ribs, "that such a beautiful lady comes into a place like this with nothing? No sword. No shield. No heavy iron to keep your skin safe."

  He was trying to do two things at once. He wanted to make me feel small and scared, but he also wanted to show he liked what he saw. His eyes, big and dark like a bull’s, traveled slow from my boots up to my face. He didn't blink. He just stared. I could see the muscles in his thick neck bunch up as he shifted his weight. A single drop of sweat rolled from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and hung there for a second before he blew it away with a sharp huff of air.

  I didn't move. I didn't even stand up. I just looked at him and let out a small, soft laugh. It wasn't a mean laugh, just a calm one.

  "Watch me," I said. My voice was steady. Inside, I felt a strange kind of heat. It wasn't fear. It was the feeling of knowing I had something he couldn't see. I had the Glock in my mind, the rubber bullets in my pouch, and a body that was faster than any animal. I felt like a cat watching a dog bark behind a fence. I was ready.

  He grunted, his tail twitching behind him. He didn't seem to know what to make of my laugh. He stood there for a few more seconds, his hand gripping the handle of the big axe on his back. His knuckles were white. He eventually turned around and walked back to his bench, his heavy hooves making a dull thud against the stone floor.

  I sat back and watched the room. It was getting quieter.

  One by one, the gladiators were called out through the big iron doors. I couldn't see the fights, but I could hear them. The sound was like a physical weight. First, there was a low murmur from the crowd, then a sudden, sharp silence, and then a roar that made the dust fall from the ceiling.

  Some of the warriors started coming back through the room to the infirmary. They didn't look like heroes anymore. One man stumbled in, his left arm hanging at a weird angle. His face was covered in grey dust, and he was gasping for air, his mouth open like a fish out of water. Another man was carried in by two helpers. He was unconscious, and his skin had a weird blue glow to it, like he had been dipped in magic ink. It looked like a stain that wouldn't come off. He was shivering, his teeth chattering even though the room was warm.

  I felt a cold knot start to form in my stomach. These weren't bad fighters. They had muscles. They had expensive armor. But they were coming back broken.

  What was happening out there? What kind of monsters were they fighting? The cheers from the arena grew louder and louder. Every roar felt like it was pulling the air out of the waiting room.

  Soon, the room was almost empty. It was just me, the big Ox, and the skinny guard from the gate. I remembered him. His name was Jerome, though his friends called him Mr. Cliff. Jerome Cliff. He sat on a stool across from me, polishing a sword that looked a bit too heavy for his thin wrist. He was friendly enough, but he was boring to listen to. He kept talking about how he had the "perfect face" for the posters. I looked at him and felt confused. He was okay-looking, I guess, but "the most handsome man in the guard force"? That felt like a stretch. He had a long nose and a chin that was a bit too small.

  A door opened, and another guard walked in. He looked tired but happy. He saw Jerome and waved him over.

  "Hey, Cliff! You're up next," the guard said. Then he looked at me. He remembered me from the day before, when I was holding the baby. "Oh! It's the lady from the gate. You want to come and watch? We can let you stand behind the entry door. You can see the 'Hero' in action."

  I looked at Jerome. He stood up, his knees making a small popping sound. He tried to look brave, but I saw his thumb rubbing against the crossguard of his sword over and over. He was nervous.

  "Sure," I said. "Why not?"

  I followed them down a dark, narrow hallway that smelled like wet sand and old iron. We stopped at a massive set of double doors. The guard opened a small set of iron flaps, and I leaned in to look.

  The arena was huge. It was a giant bowl of white stone, and every single seat was filled. Thousands of people were screaming and waving flags. The sun was right above us, making the sand in the center of the ring look bright white. An announcer’s voice boomed through the air, amplified by magic so it sounded like it was coming from the sky itself.

  "Next to the sand! The pride of the Titan's Arch! The bravest heart in the Outer Ward! Give it up for... Cliff the Hero!"

  The crowd went wild. I saw Barnaby, Joshua, and Eren in the stands. Joshua had a giant bag of popcorn, his mouth already moving as he watched the gate. Jerome stepped out into the bright light. He looked tiny in that big circle of sand. He raised his sword, and the light hit the blade, making it flash.

  Then, the doors on the other side of the arena slowly ground open.

  Something huge walked out. It was an Owlbear. It stood on four thick legs, covered in dark brown feathers that looked as hard as scales. It had the massive, muscular body of a bear, but its head was a giant owl’s, with big, round eyes that shone like honey gold. It snapped its beak, a sound like a heavy branch breaking. It was slow, moving like a heavy truck, but you could feel the power in its steps.

  Jerome stood his ground. He looked like he was vibrating. His knuckles were so tight they were turning white. The Owlbear let out a low growl and put its head down. It charged.

  Jerome tried to sidestep. It was a clumsy move. He moved his feet too fast and hit a small rock in the sand. He tripped, falling flat on his face just as the beast roared past him. The crowd didn't see the trip. From where they sat, it looked like he had done a perfect, low-profile dodge. They roared with joy.

  "Whaaaat?" I whispered to myself. I watched Jerome scramble back to his feet, his face red and covered in sand.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The Owlbear began to turn. It was slow, its big body taking a long time to swing around. Jerome saw his chance. He ran forward, screaming a battle cry that sounded a bit high-pitched. He swung his sword at the beast’s front leg. He wasn't strong enough. When the metal hit the thick hide, the blade bounced back. The force of the bounce sent his arms flying upward. By pure luck, the tip of the sword caught the Owlbear right across its big, golden eyes.

  The beast let out a shriek that hurt my ears. It shook its head, blood starting to cloud its vision.

  Jerome didn't stop. He was brave, I’ll give him that. He started hitting the bear’s upper body, but the hits didn't do much. It was like he was tapping a wall with a hammer. The Owlbear got angry. It raised a massive paw, the claws looking like long, black knives, and swiped at Jerome.

  Jerome panicked. He raised his sword to parry, but his hands were shaking. He held the blade at a weird angle. Instead of blocking the hit, the bear’s paw came down right onto the sword. The blade pierced into the soft, fleshy padding of the beast’s hand.

  The Owlbear roared again, now limping on one front leg and half-blind in one eye. It was furious. It lowered its head and charged again, moving faster this time.

  Jerome tried to run, but he hit that same rock again. He tripped and fell backward, his legs kicking in the air as he landed on his rear.

  "A second time!" I gasped.

  I zoomed in my lens. I saw the Owlbear coming right for him. As Jerome fell, the beast’s head went over him. I noticed something. The Owlbear’s underbelly was pale and soft, lacking the thick feathers of its back. That was the weak spot.

  Jerome was scrambling in the sand, his eyes wide with terror. He looked like he was about to cry, but he didn't run away. He kept his eyes on the beast. He was hurt from the falls, I could see a scrape on his elbow and a bruise forming on his cheek, but he didn't show fear. He just looked determined to live.

  The bear turned again, its one good eye fixed on Jerome. It let out a final, desperate charge.

  Jerome looked at his sword. Then, for some reason I will never understand, he just tossed it. He threw the sword toward the bear like it was a piece of trash.

  "Wtf is he doing?" I said out loud.

  The sword didn't hit the bear. It flew through the air, spun a few times, and landed point-down in the sand. It stayed there, embedded deep, with the sharp edge of the blade sticking straight up.

  The Owlbear couldn't see it. Its good eye was on the other side of its head, and the sun was in its face. It charged right over the spot where the sword was stuck. The blade sliced deep into the soft underbelly, the weight of the charging beast doing all the work. The Owlbear collapsed, sliding across the sand until it came to a stop, lifeless.

  The arena went quiet for a heartbeat. Then, it exploded.

  "TACTICAL GENIUS!" the crowd screamed. "DID YOU SEE THAT? HE PLANNED THE TRIP!" "JEROME CLIFF THE HERO!"

  Jerome stood up, shaking the sand off his tunic. He looked as surprised as I was. He looked at the dead bear, then at his hands, and then he raised his arms to the crowd. He actually believed them. He had a big, dumb grin on his face.

  I stood behind the door, my jaw hanging open. I watched the guards drag the body of the beast away. I looked at Jerome, who was now blowing kisses to the ladies in the front row.

  Whaaa the hell is going on

  As I stood behind the iron door, my fingers curled around the cold, rusted bars of the viewing flap. I watched the second round of Jerome’s fight, and I couldn't believe my eyes. It wasn't a fight; it was a play. Five other guards, men I recognized from the gate, the ones who had been laughing and joking with Jerome earlier, marched into the center of the ring. They looked tough in their polished chestplates, but their body language was all wrong. Their shoulders were loose, their eyes darting to the crowd to make sure people were watching.

  Jerome, or "Cliff the Hero" as the announcer kept screaming, raised his sword. He let out a yell that sounded more like a cheer than a threat. He ran forward, swinging his blade in a wide, slow arc that wouldn't have hit a tree, let alone a trained soldier. But as soon as the wind of the blade passed by the first guard, the man did a dramatic backflip. He landed in the sand with a loud thud, clutching his stomach as if he had been hit by a boulder.

  "Oh, no! His strength is too much!" the guard yelled, his voice carrying far too well.

  The other four followed suit. One of them "tripped" over his own feet when Jerome merely pointed his sword at him. Another dropped his spear and began to spin in circles before falling flat on his face. It was a joke. I saw Jerome’s friends pretending to be knocked out, rolling around in the sand and making loud groaning noises. Jerome stood in the middle of them, puffing out his chest, his face red with a mix of exertion and the sheer thrill of the lie.

  "WTF, that is so unfair," I muttered under my breath. I looked up at the stands. I could see Barnaby clapping, though he had a small, knowing smirk on his face. Joshua was busy shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth, his eyes wide with confusion. Even from this distance, I could tell he was trying to figure out how Jerome was winning so easily.

  However the crowd still cheered, excited by Jerome Cliffs amazing abilities.

  Then came the third trial. The atmosphere in the arena changed instantly. The celebratory cheering turned into a low, respectful hum. From the dark tunnel opposite Jerome, a man walked out. He was older, well into his fifties, with a bald head that caught the sun and a long, grey beard tucked into his belt. He wore simple, heavy robes and carried a sword that was almost as tall as he was. This was the Ultimate Paladin, the monk who had spent thirty years in the mountains.

  He didn't run. He didn't yell. He just walked to the center of the sand, his eyes fixed on Jerome. Jerome tried to look brave, but I saw the muscles in his thighs start to twitch. He was shaking. He raised his sword, his hands trembling so much the tip of the blade was drawing circles in the air.

  The monk moved. It was one single, flowing motion. He swung his massive sword, not at Jerome, but at the air in front of him. A wave of shimmering blue light, a magic attack, tore through the sand, kicking up a cloud of dust. Jerome didn't even have time to scream. The blue hue hit him like a physical wall, hurling him backward through the air. He flew ten feet before slamming into the stone wall of the arena with a sickening crunch.

  The crowd let out a collective "Ooh!" of sympathy. This was the move they knew. This was the attack that had ended every other gladiator’s run today. I watched through the flaps as Jerome slumped to the ground, his sword falling from his hand. He looked like a broken doll.

  But then, something happened. Jerome’s fingers twitched. He let out a low, pained moan and slowly, painfully, pushed himself up. He was covered in sand and bruises. He took one single, wobbly step forward, his eyes glazed over. He reached down, grabbed his sword, and raised it high into the air with a shaky arm. Then, as if the effort had used up every last drop of his soul, his eyes rolled back in his head and he promptly collapsed into the dirt.

  The arena went absolutely nuts. People were standing on their seats, screaming Jerome’s name. The elder monk paused, watching the unconscious guard. He gave a slow, respectful nod of approval. Every other person he had hit with that magic attack had been knocked out cold instantly. Jerome was the only one who had stood back up, even if it was just for a second.

  The monk raised his hands to the judges’ box, holding up six fingers. A score of six out of ten.

  "The highest score of the day!" the announcer roared. "A display of true heart! A hero who will not stay down!"

  I watched as a group of medics rushed out with a stretcher to carry Jerome away. His "tactical genius" and his "unbeatable spirit" were all anyone was talking about. He was the luckiest, most unfairly favored hero I had ever seen.

  I was still shaking my head in disbelief when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. I jumped slightly, the obsidian material of my suit giving a faint, rubbery squeak. It was the guard from earlier. He looked at me, his eyes taking in my platinum hair and the tall, statuesque lines of my body. He seemed a little nervous now, seeing me up close in the dark hallway.

  "Ready for your fight?" he asked.