Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 98: The Blue Team

The distant crackle of torches, the rhythmic pounding of boots on frozen stone, the stale air heavy with the stench of mold — everything bore that bitter familiarity Mordred had learned to recognize.

As with every macabre ritual, he was extracted from his cell at dusk, when the shadows devoured the last light from the ramparts of the High City. Two dragon guards, their spears crossed against his spine, escorted him through the winding corridors leading to the Colosseum’s waiting hall. Beneath his steps, the stone floor, polished by centuries of blood and tears, groaned with muffled echoes, as if recounting the laments of the condemned.

Mordred moved forward, head bowed, limbs abandoned to an apparent submission, his soul folded deep into the darker recesses of himself. His docility was nothing but a mask.

When they finally emerged into the hall a vast circular chamber carved directly into the heart of the rock an unusual commotion greeted his eyes. Other human gladiators were scattered across the room, forming disordered constellations. Some slumped on stone benches, staring at their hands as if to read an elusive future. Others paced between the columns, warming up their tense shoulders, twirling their wrists in nervous dances. The atmosphere, thick with the stench of sweat, tanned leather, and dried blood, clung to the throat like a funeral shroud.

Dragon stewards recognizable by their black tabards adorned with golden crests moved between the groups, distributing equipment with mechanical precision. One approached Mordred and deposited at his feet a cuirass of clean but sturdy design, polished bracers, greaves stained with brownish splatters, and his usual katana, its blade a deep, inky black.

With an economy of movement born of habit, Mordred equipped himself. His agile fingers tightened the straps, tested the resistance of the clasps, verified the perfect balance of his blade. The steel, at first as cold as a winter’s breath, slowly warmed against his scarred and calloused palms.

A draconic officer soon climbed onto the central dais. His gaze, carrying a calculated hauteur, swept over the assembly as his voice, shrill as a blade on stone, sliced through the murmuring.

- "Silence, vermin!" he barked, his scales shimmering under the torchlight. "Tonight, for the sacred entertainment of His Majesty King Maelor, you will partake in a special trial."

The murmurs evaporated instantly, snuffed out by a wave of dread.

- "You will be divided into two factions: the Blue Team... and the Red Team. You will embody the Blue Team, the humans, and you will face the Red Team. Here are your insignias."

With an imperious gesture, he ordered his assistants to distribute the ornamental helmets. Each one bore a vivid cerulean plume, as if a piece of the sky had been torn and bound to their helms.

Mordred accepted his helmet, cradled it in his hands, then placed it on his head. The familiar weight was almost comforting — a reminder that he had already survived the unbearable.

- "Your mission is clear," the officer continued, his voice turning metallic. "EXTERMINATE the opposing team. No mercy. No quarter. The only rule is victory. Blood is your only currency."

A sepulchral silence wrapped around his words, as if even the echoes dared not repeat them.

The Blue Team quickly formed a tight circle. About a dozen souls: men with bodies twisted by forced labor, women with steel in their eyes, youths trembling with barely hidden terror, veterans whose faces were maps of old scars. Most had been pulled from the mines only the day before — their first fight would likely be their last breath.

A colossus named Kael spoke, his voice resonant like distant thunder.

- "I’m Kael. I’ve set foot on this cursed sand before, unlike most of you who are only now glimpsing the shape of this hell. Believe me, you’ll soon regret the mines. We won’t survive by fighting in disarray. Our only hope lies in unity."

A nervous man, his hair wild as if dancing to an invisible fear, stepped forward.

- "Tactical formations? Coordinated defenses?"

Kael nodded grimly.

- "Exactly. Two lines. The fast ones upfront to shatter their formation. The heavy hitters right behind to crush any breakthrough."

Mordred listened, seemingly detached, but his attention had already drifted elsewhere.

To a figure in the shadows.

An old man stood near a massive column, his sparse beard framing a face marked by the ages, yet his posture betrayed a preserved, coiled strength. Mordred recognized him instantly.

The "Dancer."

The one whispered of in cell block legends, the assassin of a six-armed ogre killed barehanded.

He economized every movement, adjusting his gear with a precision that spoke of endless practice.

Mordred narrowed his eyes slightly.

Deep within the amber glow of his pupils, something stirred. Slowly. Methodically.

A glacial interest. A methodical calculation weaving itself like a spider’s web across his mind.

No one noticed the predatory glint in his gaze.

While Kael’s commands echoed, and desperate promises of survival were exchanged like last rites, Mordred leaned against the rough stone, silent, watchful.

Then it began.

A low rumble shook the ancient iron doors behind them, the breath of some colossus stirring beyond.

First a hum.

Then the roar of a crowd thirsty for slaughter.

The Colosseum awoke, ravenous.

- "It’s starting..." murmured an anonymous voice.

All the gladiators stiffened, as if an electric charge pulsed through their veins. Fingers tightened on weapons. Eyes dropped into the abyss of their own mortality.

Then the coppery ring of a trumpet.

A shrill, commanding sound, filling the hall like a funeral omen.

- "The royal family..." Kael muttered grimly.

Everyone froze.

Even Mordred held his breath for a heartbeat.

The king had arrived. The bloodshed was sanctioned.

Steps echoed above them — nobles draped in silks, high officers armored in gold, dignitaries shimmering with excess. Mordred imagined them, perched in the sky-high balconies, idle chatter fluttering like moths in the warm twilight air.

Then a voice, magnified by enchantments, filled every crevice of the Colosseum.

The presenter, theatrical to the extreme:

- "People of the Crown! Are you ready to revel in blood, to drown in courage, to worship in glory?!"

The response thundered like an earthquake.

The presenter pressed on, savoring the climax:

- "Tonight, to honor King Maelor’s divine will, we present an exceptional spectacle! Two teams shall clash upon this sacred arena, on the sands that have drunk the blood of both brave and coward alike!"

The waiting hall trembled with the force of the crowd’s hunger.

And finally:

- "Let the BLUE TEAM step forth onto the arena!"

Ancient gears groaned. The portcullis rose slowly, ceremonially.

A blast of searing air rushed in, carrying grains of sand and the acrid scent of old blood.

Mordred’s gut tightened not in fear, but in lethal focus.

Kael spoke one last time:

- "Delta formation. Stay tight. Move in double lines. Show them we are not just meat for slaughter."

He lowered his helmet, the blue plume fluttering like a bright defiance.

One by one, the humans crossed the threshold between waiting and doom.

The sand whispered underfoot the murmurs of those who had died before.

The roar of the crowd swallowed them whole.

Mordred stepped out last, memorizing the moment.

The Colosseum unfolded around them a pit of dark, seething faces, banners snapping like whips in the heated wind.

High above, draped in imperial red and gold, the royal balcony loomed.

The king. Elystria. Watching.

His gaze darkened to slits.

The gladiators advanced toward the center, drawing ephemeral furrows in the sand.

The presenter, suspended on a floating platform, pirouetted dramatically.

- "And facing our brave human gladiators..."

He dragged the silence, letting it bloom.

Then pointed grandly at the opposite portcullis.

- "...the RED TEAM: the terrifying Vhulks of R’daz!"

A monstrous roar.

The crimson gate yawned open like a beast’s maw.

And the Vhulks emerged.

Mordred narrowed his eyes.

They didn’t walk they slithered, propelled by grotesque, tentacle-like limbs.

Their bodies, hulking masses of grayish muscle, were veined with black pulsating lines. Bone protrusions jutted from their limbs, gleaming with sickly wetness.

Their heads, crowned with writhing bioluminescent filaments, resembled nightmarish hybrids between orcs and abyssal horrors.

Seven of them.

Each radiating a primitive terror that seemed to sap the warmth from the air.

Kael blanched slightly.

- "Shit..." he whispered.

The dragons above laughed, a chilling cascade.

The hunt. The massacre. The rigged spectacle.

The presenter savored the tension.

Then thrust his scepter into the night sky:

- "Let the carnage... BEGIN!"

A gong of titanic magnitude sounded.

The arena held its breath.

The sand thirsted for blood once more.

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Hello everyone ! Just to let you know that I’m going to be quite busy with my studies, I have to hand in a file to validate my diploma, so excuse me if the quality of the writing drops a bit during this week, I’ll do my best but I prefer to warn you.

I can’t wait to finish all this so I can finally relax...

I hope everything is going well for you in your life, Strength and honor never give up