Romian.
The capital of Romulus. Not a city that simply stood on the land — it commanded it.
Tall, bone-white buildings reached for the sky like broken teeth after a brawl. Everything about it felt deliberate, like the architects had been trying to remind the gods who ruled down here now. The streets were lined with ancient carvings — some looking straight-up Egyptian, others more Roman. Arches, statues, runes. Power chiseled into every surface.
Columns thick as trees, statues dipped in gold. Courtyards that could hold armies. Fountains that never stopped spilling water, just to show they could. It was loud without noise. Overwhelming without motion. The way the guards marched, the way nobles leaned off balconies in rich robes, sipping something expensive while they laughed down at people too tired to raise their heads. You didn't visit Romian. You were judged by it.
It called itself civilization.
To Armin, it looked like a throne built on bones.
But that was another world. That place — those smells, those cold stone walls, the way it made him feel small — it all felt like a story someone told him years ago. Because right now? There were no walls. No statues. No fountains. No guards.
Only heat.
Only dust.
Only survival.
Seven days.
That's how long he'd been back.
Seven days since the last portal. Since he got dropped in this hell.
He hadn't seen a single person in all that time. No towns. No wagons. No traders. No bandits. Not even smoke in the distance. Just red sand stretching forever in every direction like a dead ocean. And beasts — too many of those. Things that didn't blink. Things that didn't hesitate. Things that weren't afraid to die, or maybe didn't know what dying was.
They came at him hard. Claws. Teeth. Horns. Venom. Some were silent, others screamed like they were possessed. Big ones, fast ones, smart ones. He killed every single one. Not because he wanted to. Because it was that or die. No speeches. No dramatic moments. Just kill or be torn apart.
He bled. A lot.
Bones snapped. Skin tore. His knuckles were so raw they felt like sandpaper. His feet had blisters under blisters. His muscles screamed like they were ready to give up. And every single time he collapsed, his body repaired itself. That gift. That "blessing." That thing that kept him alive.
But it didn't take the pain away. It didn't restore energy. It just rewound the injuries and dumped him back in the arena.
Over and over.
Stabbed. Healed. Beaten. Healed. Cut. Healed. On loop.
He didn't sleep. He didn't eat for two days. His lips were cracked, bleeding. He was down to the last sip of water two days ago. Gone now. He could feel his organs starting to grind down inside him. Skin red and peeling. Eyes dry. Vision starting to blur at the edges. His legs kept moving because they didn't know how to stop yet, but the truth was he had nothing left. Not really.
One piece of dried meat in the Storage System. He hadn't eaten it yet.
Didn't feel like he earned it.
He walked.
And walked.
And walked.
He didn't even know what direction he was going anymore. The sun was his only compass, and even it seemed to move slower than usual. Like it wanted to watch him suffer a little longer.
Eventually, his knees buckled.
He dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
[Water Levels Critically Low. Seek Shelter Immediately.]
The system message blinked across his vision. Golden letters. Clear and kind of mocking. As if he didn't know.
He tried to brush it away.
Tried to stand.
The sand was hot, but he barely felt it anymore. Just a distant tingle.
He blinked hard.
His brain screamed at him to get up.
But the rest of his body had stopped listening.
And then the world just—
Stopped.
He didn't dream.
There was no fade to white. No soft music. No memory. No gentle fade.
Just black.
Then — something shook.
His back pressed against something rough. Wooden planks. Rattling.
The jolt of wheels hitting a rock.
He opened his eyes.
Blurred at first. Blinding sunlight pushing in through slits above him. Everything smelled like sweat, blood, piss, and something sour.
Wooden beams overhead. Ropes. Rusted metal bars crisscrossing the windows.
He blinked.
Sat up — slow. Every inch of him screamed, but it was pain he understood now. Familiar. It almost comforted him.
He was in a wagon.
A big one.
A prison on wheels.
He looked around. Dozens of bodies crammed inside the space. Most of them seated, chained, slumped against the sides or each other.
Demons. Some tall and thin with curling horns. Others squat and scaled, with tails and long claws. A few goblins — twitchy, sharp-eyed, muttering to themselves.
Two dwarves near the back, bruised and bloodied, one with a broken nose that hadn't healed right.
But what really got him — what made his breath catch — were the kids.
Two of them.
A boy and a girl, maybe seven or eight. Dirty black hair, pale skin, eyes wide and empty. They huddled in the corner, clinging to each other.
Humans.
They looked just like him.
Almost.
He stared. Couldn't help it. Something inside his chest pulled tight.
"They look like me…" he whispered, voice hoarse. "Except the eyes…"
His red eyes. Those were really the only two differing features.
He had never seen humans before but now he understood why the villagers called him a human disguised as a demon.
Speaking of that....doesn't seem like the other demons had seen humans either.
Demons didn't really eat humans in the modern age.
But demons still somewhat liked the taste of human flesh.
A demon across the cage leaned forward. Sharp-toothed, scaly, one horn broken off at the middle.
"Oi! Red-eye's up!" he barked, like it was funny.
Armin didn't answer. Didn't even blink.
Just tried to process.
He was alive.
But he wasn't free.
Chains. Bars. A cage.
"I am a slave."
That word hit differently when it was you in the chains. Not something you read about or watched from a distance. Something on you. Inside you.
He looked around again.
Some of the prisoners looked half-dead. Eyes glazed. Bodies still breathing, but souls somewhere else. One goblin rocked back and forth, whispering the same thing over and over in a language Armin didn't know. One of the dwarves had dried blood smeared across his chest.
And then — the weirdest thing.
A kid his age. Maybe a year older. Blond hair with black streaks running through it, like someone had slashed a brush across his skull. Lean. Dirty. Calm.
Asleep.
Actually sleeping.
In this place?
Laid back like it was just another day. Like this was normal. Like being shackled in a cage was boring.
What the hell is wrong with this guy?
Armin wanted to say something. But then another voice spoke. Deeper. Steady.
"You know where we're going?"
Armin turned his head.
A troll.
Huge. Easily seven feet, probably more. Blue skin with scars all over his chest. Black hair tied into braids. Tribal tattoos covered his arms, winding around muscle like they were painted on a statue. Thick chains around his wrists and ankles.
"No," Armin said. Voice still low. Still dry.
The troll nodded slowly. Like that answer didn't surprise him.
"Colosseum," he said.
The word landed heavy.
Armin swallowed. "What is that?"
The troll leaned back against the bars. Eyes on the ceiling.
For a second, he didn't speak.
Then: "It's where they make people fight."
Armin waited.
The troll kept talking. "For money. For sport. For death. The crowds cheer. The nobles place bets. And the slaves get fed to beasts."
He looked at Armin now. Right in the eyes.
"If you're strong, you live. If not… they sell your corpse for rituals and money."
Armin didn't respond.
What could he say?
He didn't know if he was strong. He didn't feel strong.
He felt tired.
'So much for A.S.C.E.N.D.'
End of Chapter-014