Unwillingly, Malan found himself facing Jean once again. They had both been treated by the infirmary’s two apprentices and Jean had taken it upon himself to approach Malan, smiling, at dinner. Malan wasn’t quite sure what in the world he could be so happy about all the time. Having calmed down several hours ago, embarrassment now clouded his face and turned it bright pink. How could he have possibly shown such weakness and lack of control? His mother would have been so disappointed had she seen him display such behavior—he was unbefitting of a warrior’s title.

  He avoided Jean’s eyes, as well as the eyes of the other gladiators. For some reason, the gazes the other gladiators—and even the instructors—were giving him had grown increasingly strange. Malan was not sure where he went wrong. Was it when he spoke in his mother tongue? No one had ended up punishing him for it, though. So was it when he fought Jean? He may not have understood the Empire’s common language, but even he knew that chimera slaves were at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Honorable, free gladiators like Jean were not held to the same standards as he was. Oh no—he let his emotions get the better of him! No one needed a disobedient, rowdy slave that openly spoke his mother tongue in the Empire and fought his betters. What would happen to him now? Would he be beaten? Executed? Thrown to the ring against a much more powerful opponent so Empire citizens could witness his pathetic death? Would he be sent away, to a place with much worse conditions, like his childhood? Oh, God and Goddess, no!

  Before he could spiral further, he was startled by a hand reaching for his own. On instinct, Malan jerked his hand up and away and his head snapped up. Jean sat across from him, looking a bit shocked with an outstretched hand, but smiled once again. Were smiling and speaking too fast the only things he knew how to do? Malan huffed, relieved that it was just Jean, but irritated that it was just Jean. Avoiding his gaze, Malan shoved his face down into his bowl. He thought he heard Jean stifle a laugh.

  “Jean.” He said. Malan glanced up slightly. Jean was pointing at himself. “————. Jean.” He pointed at Malan. “————?” Jean pointed at himself again. “————. Jean.” He pointed at Malan. “————?”

  ‘Oh’, Malan thought. ‘That word means ‘name’. He wants to know my name.’

  Malan raised his head. After a moment’s hesitation, he replied in a low voice, “Name. Malan.” Jean’s face lit up so bright, Malan had the illusion he was looking at the sun. Excited, Jean pointed at the sky. Then at a door, then the ground, then the sky once again, this time at the sun.

  “———! ————, —————, ———.”

  Malan blinked but did not respond. He felt uneasy, unsure of why Jean was being so friendly to him. Having someone willing to teach him the common tongue, though… was too much of a good thing to pass up. Being unable to communicate with others often left him in a precarious position. So after a moment’s hesitation, he pointed at the bowl in his hand. “Name?” He asked.

  “————,” Jean replied, looking at Malan encouragingly.

  “Bowl,” Malan repeated. It did not sound quite right in the middle, but from the way Jean’s face lit up again, Malan assumed he had said it well enough. This exchange went on for a while, with Malan pointing at objects, Jean saying the common language word attached to them, and Malan mispronouncing it back to him. They were only interrupted by the bell signaling the end of dinner and the beginning of evening training. Sighing, Malan scarfed down the rest of the food he somehow forgot to eat earlier and returned his bowl to the kitchen staff. He paid no mind to Jean, who had apparently gone back to his earlier habit of following Malan around, and collected his equipment.

  Gladiators were required to have excellent stamina and pain tolerance so they could give an exciting fight in the ring and, if required, die valiantly. Gladiators who used weapons and armor used training equipment that was double the weight of what they would use in the ring. Many gladiators wore this equipment all the time excluding meals and sleep. Malan, who used no weapon except his own claws and no armor except his own skin, wore weights anyway.

  Evening training consisted mostly of practice strikes against wooden dummies, teachings from the instructors, and spars for more experienced gladiators. Having fought nineteen times in the ring and spent four years in gladiatorial training, Malan was considered one of the most experienced. As he fastened the weights to his torso, forearms, and ankles, another senior gladiator approached him and indicated for a spar. It was the bald, middle-aged gladiator who liked to call him a brat and whoop and jeer when anyone caused any trouble. Malan was half a head taller than him, but the man was stouter and more muscular in contrast. They often sparred with each other. Few others could keep up with either of them.

  Malan followed his opponent off to the left side of the training field, which was empty of training dummies. They positioned themselves some distance across from each other. Malan crouched low, his long tail suspended in the air for balance. His opponent lowered his own stance, holding out the weighted sword in front of him and placing the tall shield on his other arm in front of him. After a second of stillness, Malan braced his legs and leapt forward, closing the distance in an instant. He swept around to his opponent’s side, unprotected by both armor and shield. His opponent, who had been watching him intently, reacted in the same moment, whipping his sword around to block Malan’s strike. Malan’s claws scraped off steel with a screech. He darted backwards, avoiding a sword stab, then surged forward again and again. Once, twice, thrice, they clashed. He was both stronger and faster, but lacked his opponent’s sturdy stance and leverage. Against the heavy steel of his opponent’s sword, Malan could only dodge and strike back with swiftness. If he paused for even a moment too long, his opponent would bring sharpened steel to his neck.

  They met each other with stabs and slashes, blocks and dodges. Malan’s opponent made as few movements as possible, but the combination of Malan’s oppressive speed and the doubly-weighted equipment caused a river of sweat to flow down his face. Malan’s eyes darted around his opponent, not missing that he was beginning to lose steam. However, Malan, too, was feeling the burn of exhaustion. Large, even breaths of air scratched his aching lungs. His unrelenting assault would soon wear him down faster than his opponent, but he could not afford to stop. He knew that just as he was watching his opponent, he was also being watched—for a fault, a gap, a distraction, a momentary lowering of his guard—and the moment he showed weakness he would be struck down. That is how gladiators fought: relentless, and without mercy. They circled each other warily. Soon, they would be both be too exhausted to fight. Malan had to end this as soon as possible.

  It was, all things considered, a routine spar… but as they clashed, an unfamiliar feeling began to well up in his chest. The blood in his veins bubbled up slowly until only fire ran through them. His vision narrowed and the outside sounds began to fade away. His hands, claws outstretched, tensed. He didn’t even notice the grin that wormed its way onto his face or the low growl that rumbled his throat.

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  Malan studied his prey. Its armor was too thick to break through. He already knew speed was his key to victory. Now it was simply a question of whose speed faltered first. Then—a chance! Something made his prey flinch. In the momentary lapse, Malan shot forward until their faces were mere inches apart. His hand shot out to its throat like he held a blade of his own. Milliseconds from gouging the prey’s throat front to back, a force caught the collar on his neck and flung him back. His back hit the ground hard and he slid and tumbled over his head on the dirt, choking and coughing. Jolted into reality, a chilling fear ran up his spine as he realized he was really going to kill the man.

  Feeling the sharp glare from the instructor that stepped into the fight moments before, Malan scrambled to stand up. His face was blank despite the terrible dread that twisted his insides into knots. Malan was clearly taller, but he felt so small. The instructor marched up to him and spat out a few words. The activation phrase for his suppressant collar. Immediately, he felt his throat constricting until he could no longer breathe a single wisp of air into his lungs. He fought to stay awake, choking for air, and dropped to his knees. The instructor seized him by his hair and dragged him up a little. He turned to the gladiators who had been paying attention to the incident for a while already and shouted.

  “Attention!” His voice boomed across the training grounds. “——— —— ——— —————— —————— ———— ——— ———— ——— ———————————— ——— —————————— ——— —————— control —— ——————.” His tone was callous and cruel. The gladiators watched in deadly silence, not daring to move or speak. The instructor said another activation phrase and his wrists whipped back and bound to each other behind him. He threw Malan to the ground and crushed his head into the dirt with his boot. With the world beginning to go black, Malan glimpsed someone handing the instructor a glowing brand.

  He was jerked out of unconsciousness by white hot agony on his back. His eyes and mouth opened wide, but not even a squeak came from him and the only thing he received in return was the taste of dirt and the feeling of its grains in his eye. His claws dug bloody trenches in his palms. Suddenly, he could breathe again. He couldn’t even take a full breath before the shriek that had been strangled in his throat clawed its way out. Again, before the shriek ended, his voice died as the collar choked him. Again, searing agony weakened him and his collar was loosened, but he desperately bit back his voice in favor of filling his lungs instead. The instructor yelled something else as the black spots receded from Malan’s vision. Someone gripped his collar and dragged him to the training dummies, where he was tied and forced to kneel. His back throbbed and burned, and his throat stung. His limbs felt weak and useless among the waves of pain.

  Malan breathed a deep, shuddering breath. His eye stung and watered with every blink. Around him, he heard the shuffling of feet and the sharp clashing of weapons. His back throbbed painfully on beat with the throbbing of his head, and as the day went on, his legs became numb and his neck became sore from hanging his head—yet he still dare not move, and stayed obedient and still. Soon, the only thing that showed he was still alive were his slow, deliberate breaths to avoid moving his ribs and pulling his skin too much. Not that a branding would kill him.

  His mind slowly calmed. The punishment had already been decided; the instructors were never much for long-term consequences. Was that strange state what his mother called battle clarity? Or was it called focus? ‘She never mentioned it would cause me to lose control,’ he thought with turmoil in his stomach.

  As the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and everyone left the courtyard, the sweltering, dry heat also dissipated, leaving Malan kneeling alone. He basked in the cool air in the rare, but unfortunate circumstance he found himself in. Ironically, being punished had allowed him the small pleasure of being outside at night. The breeze slightly soothed his burns. Despite himself, he could not help but relish in the absence of the sun, and wonder about the snowy mountain range his mother came from. Having spent his entire life in the dry south, he barely even saw a warm rain. He couldn’t quite imagine what snow was supposed to be like.

  Then, he heard something. His ears twitched and he jerked his head up to the sound of light footsteps. He warily scrutinized the darkness, and into his view tiptoed none other than Jean. Even in the absence of light from a new moon, Malan could clearly see Jean’s figure darting over to him through the pitch. Tense, Malan kept his eyes on Jean as he neared. What was he doing? How did he get out of his room without being caught? Why?

  Finally, Jean arrived in front of Malan. He knelt down and smiled at Malan with that bright, irritating, sun-like grin he always had, and rummaged around in the makeshift pouch he created with the hem of his shirt, pulling out… was that bread? How did he manage to get that? With questions in his eyes that Jean could not see in the darkness, Malan watched and flinched back when Jean shoved the piece of bread in his face. Had he been given bread in any other situation, he would have felt gratitude and goodwill, but now he only felt fear.

  “—————, eat!” Jean whispered urgently. Was he insane? Why was he risking punishment for this? More importantly, why was he risking making Malan’s punishment worse? Did he not know that someone attempting to help a gladiator in the midst of punishment would only make it infinitely worse? He anxiously glanced around for the figures of the instructors. Finding none did nothing to lessen his anxiety, and he desperately shook his head.

  Afraid Jean would not understand what he meant, Malan whispered in the common tongue, “No. Punishment.” His ears twitched at the slightest sound and his head turned on a swivel as he vigilantly watched the night. Every shadow seemed to jump out at him. There was still nothing, but he did not spare Jean another glance for fear he would miss the something. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jean make a contemplative expression and place the bread back. Before Malan could feel relief, Jean rummaged around even more and pulled out a small container instead. Malan recognized it—it was an ointment container used by the infirmary apprentices. Slack-jawed, Malan stared at Jean incredulously. He broke into the infirmary? Was he trying to get punished? Or was this some kind of sick, twisted revenge against Malan for his not-so-friendly behavior? When Jean made to crawl around to Malan’s back, Malan jerked back, hissing in pain when the brands were pulled. Jean whispered a sentence Malan could not understand. Malan simply kept shaking his head, repeating “no” in the common tongue. For what felt like the millionth time, he resented his lack of proficiency in the common tongue. Jean clearly did not know the same terror Malan did. Else, why would he attempt something so stupid?

  “No, no, no, no,” Malan whispered frantically, twisting so Jean could not reach his back. Thankfully, Jean finally seemed to understand. Looking disappointed—at what, Malan could not fathom—Jean took the things he stole and left Malan alone, where he stayed until the next morning’s summer rays chased away the darkness with heat.

  Malan was not released until after breakfast had already passed. When he was finally freed, his legs had already been numb for an entire night and it took him some seconds longer to find his balance. Once on his feet, he didn’t stretch his stiff shoulders or shift his weight to rid himself of the pins and needles.

  Not daring to show any discomfort or pain, he turned to look at the instructor who had punished him the day before. The instructor looked him up and down, then gave a dismissive wave and scoffed before promptly turning on his heel and leaving. Malan let out a small sigh of relief. He joined the others in their training. Wounds from punishments weren’t to be treated.

  Jean had once again returned to his irritating habit of glancing at him from afar. Malan wondered if Jean thought he really didn’t know—how dull did he think he was? In any case, Jean was clearly reckless and stupid. Who else would do something so wildly foolish as breaking into the infirmary, stealing medicine and food, and attempting to help a punished gladiator? Having suffered doubts and fears about yesterday’s “battle clarity”, a punishment, and ravenous hunger that would not be sated until dinner, Malan felt like that was quite enough suffering for him. Clearly nothing good would come from getting involved with a reckless idiot like Jean.