The magician’s words felt like a death sentence. My mind reeled. Four more days of this? The thought alone made my stomach churn. How could anyone endure this? My legs felt weak beneath me, but I forced myself to stay upright, not wanting to show even a hint of the fear clawing at my insides.

  The man stared at me with those cold, calculating eyes, as if weighing my worth. "Your hesitation today will cost you if it happens again. Learn from it. Or don't. It makes no difference to me." He turned and left without waiting for a response, leaving me alone in the silent arena.

  I sank to my knees, my breath shallow and unsteady. I had won—if you could even call it that—but I didn’t feel victorious. My opponent’s face, her pleading voice, her final, terrified moments, were all burned into my mind. And then the way her life was erased, discarded like garbage.

  They didn’t just want us to fight. They wanted us to become monsters.

  The next four days passed in a blur of terror and bloodshed. Each morning, I was forced to go to the arena. Each day, a new opponent awaited me, their faces different but always bearing the same fiery determination to survive.

  I quickly learned the truth of the magician's words: hesitation would indeed get me killed. My opponents didn’t hold back, and I couldn’t afford to either. The more I fought, the more my instincts took over. My magic flowed faster, sharper. My spells grew stronger. I didn’t have the luxury of guilt or regret—not in the moment. It was only later, in the quiet of my cell, that the weight of my actions would crash down on me, leaving me sobbing until exhaustion claimed me.

  By the fourth fight, something inside me had changed. My fear didn’t vanish—it couldn’t—but it had been pushed down, buried under a hardened layer of survival instinct. My opponents grew stronger, more ruthless, I used every mean at my disposal to survive.

  On the fifth day, the supervising magician greeted me with a faint smirk as I stood in the arena once again, exhausted and covered in scars but still alive. "You've proven yourself capable, Number 247," he said. For the first time, his tone held a sliver of respect—or perhaps it was just acknowledgment.

  I didn’t respond. I kept my expression neutral, my hands clenched at my sides.

  "As promised," he continued, "you’ve earned the right to a magical teacher. From now on, you’ll receive formal instruction, alongside… practical training." He gestured toward the far end of the room, where a new door opened.

  A tall woman stepped through, her presence commanding. Her sharp, emerald eyes swept over me with an appraising look, and her lips curled into a cold smile. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had survived countless battles..

  "I’m Instructor Vela," she said. "You’ve survived the trials, which means you have potential. My job is to turn that potential into power."

  Her words sent a chill down my spine. Potential. Power. Here, they weren’t just abstract concepts—they were the difference between life and death.

  Vela stepped closer, stopping just a foot away from me. "I won’t coddle you, and I won’t tolerate weakness. If you want to live, you’ll do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

  I nodded, though my throat felt too dry to speak.

  "Good." She turned on her heel, already heading toward the door she had entered through. "Follow me."

  I hesitated for only a moment before forcing my legs to move. I glanced back at the magician, who watched with a faint, knowing smile. Then I followed Vela through the door, leaving the arena and the nightmares it held behind me.

  Over the next few weeks, Vela pushed me to my limits and beyond. Her lessons were brutal, designed to strip away any remaining softness in me. She drilled me in advanced spellcasting, combat strategies, and survival techniques. Every mistake was met with harsh criticism, but every success brought a glimmer of approval in her otherwise cold demeanor.

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  But even as I improved, I couldn’t forget what this place was. I couldn’t forget the girl I had fought on the first day, or the countless others whose lives had been snuffed out in these halls.

  I had survived this far, but at what cost? What was I becoming?

  One night, as I sat alone in my cell, staring at the pale walls. I felt a weight pressing down on me. The faces of my opponents, the screams, the blood—all of it haunted me. My hands trembled as I clenched them into fists.

  I wasn’t just fighting to survive anymore. I was fighting to hold onto the last pieces of who I used to be, to keep the flicker of humanity inside me alive.

  Because if I didn’t… I knew this place would destroy me.

  Vela’s training was relentless, testing both my magic and my willpower. Each day, she pushed me further, stripping away the hesitations. It wasn’t enough to react; I had to anticipate, to counter, to dominate. The opponents in the arena had been desperate amateurs compared to the challenges Vela devised.

  “Again,” she barked, her voice sharp as steel.

  I was standing on a narrow stone platform suspended over a pit of swirling black mist. It wasn’t real—just another of her illusions—but the sensation of falling, of the mist swallowing me whole, felt terrifyingly genuine. Across from me, another illusionary figure—a faceless mage clad in black—hurled spell after spell, forcing me to dodge, counter, and attack without pause.

  I barely had time to breathe. I gathered mana, summoning shards of ice to intercept the incoming barrage of fireballs. The explosion of heat and frost left my ears ringing, but I pressed on, weaving a quick binding spell to immobilize the mage. My magic surged, as I locked the illusion in place.

  I aimed a finishing blow—a blast of concentrated wind magic—but the figure dissolved into smoke before my spell could land.

  "Too slow," Vela said from behind me. “If that had been real, you’d be dead. You must think faster, act faster.”

  I turned, panting, sweat dripping down my face. “I immobilized him,” I protested, struggling to keep the frustration from my voice. “I—”

  “You hesitated,” she interrupted. “The time you spent confirming the binding spell’s success gave him enough time to feint. Even in a victory, hesitation can cost you your life.”

  Her words stung, but I couldn’t argue. She was right.

  “Good,” Vela said, her tone softening slightly as she noticed the change in my expression. “Remember this feeling. Let it fuel you. Regret is a luxury you can’t afford.”

  She flicked her wrist, and the illusion of the pit vanished, replaced by the sterile white floor of the training room. I fell to my knees, drained both physically and emotionally. But Vela wasn’t done.

  “Stand up,” she commanded. “We’re moving to close combat.”

  Magic was my strongest asset, but Vela insisted on drilling me in physical combat as well. “Magic is powerful,” she explained,“but it’s not infallible. One misstep, one loss of focus, and you’ll find yourself at the mercy of a blade - or worse.”

  Her idea of “close combat” training was brutal. She handed me a wooden staff on the first day and showed no mercy, striking at me with precision and speed until my arms were bruised from blocking her blows. The following days, she swapped the staff for daggers, fists, and even improvised weapons like broken pieces of wood or chains.

  At first, I was clumsy, overwhelmed by the pace of her attacks. But gradually, I learned. My reflexes sharpened, and I began to anticipate her moves. Magic became second nature in my defenses, small spells woven into my movements—an ice shard to parry, a burst of wind to knock her back, a flash of light to disorient.

  Every week’ Vela threw me into new scenarios designed to mimic real-world danger. Ambushes in dark alleys. Traps rigged with explosives runes. Battles against multiple illusionary foes at once. Each test was more challenging than the last.

  One test left me stranded in a maze, hunted by shadowy creatures that seemed impervious to direct attacks. I had to use my surroundings—collapsing walls, creating diversions, funneling the creatures into chokepoints—to survive. When I finally stumbled out of the maze, battered but alive, Vela was waiting with a faint smile.

  “You’re learning,” she said. “But don’t get comfortable. Your enemies won’t.”

  Despite the grueling training, there were moments of… something close to humanity. One evening, after a particularly harsh session, Vela sat beside me in the training room as I nursed a sprained wrist.

  “You’re improving,” she said. Her tone was softer than usual.

  I glanced at her warily. “You don’t normally hand out compliments.”

  “It’s not a compliment,” she replied, smirking. “It’s an observation. You’ve got a fire in you. Most of the others break after their first few fights. You haven’t.”

  I looked down at my hands, bruised and calloused. “I don’t feel strong,” I admitted. “Every time I win, it feels like I lose a piece of myself.”

  Vela’s expression shifted, her eyes distant for a moment. “That’s how it starts,” she said quietly. “But if you survive long enough, you’ll learn to live with it. Or… you’ll find something worth fighting for that makes it bearable.”

  Her words stayed with me. I didn’t know if I could ever “live with it,” but I clung to the idea of finding something worth fighting for. Something to hold onto in this nightmare. Perhaps she was speaking from experience…