Darkness. All he could see around him was pitch black. The deafening roar of the crowd drowned out any doubts he might’ve had. His eyes stung, and he waited in anticipation. Finally, a loud creaking noise filled the room as the gate slowly opened. As the slit of light in front of him slowly expanded, he went over what might easily be his last thoughts. He didn’t know much about the job today. The last “contestant” hadn’t done so well, he knew that. He also knew that those responsible for this game of death had ways of forcing it to become “entertaining,” should any slaves get any ideas. Finally, he knew that if he made it out today, it wouldn’t be the last time he’d be in this position.

He was blinded as his eyes struggled to adjust to the lighting in the Colosseum. Before he could even see, he knew today was going to be a particularly bad one. Already he could note the silence under the crowd, which could only mean he was the first one out. Or the last. Finally,  he could make out his environment. Although someone must’ve cleaned the arena before he came out, some of the sand was clearly stained in red. Ahead of him stood the arena champion, a giant among men, known only as Gigas. His helmet was molded into the visage of a skull, and the rest of his gladiatorial armor was a deep, shining black. It was a sharp contrast to the man’s old, rusty armor. The man was a slave, not fighting for glory, but for freedom: He was scarred from his past experiences, emotionally and physically.

He couldn’t afford to take in his surroundings any more. The crowd, and by extension, those in charge, wouldn’t allow for it. “So, the slave believes he has the strength to overthrow his betters?” Gigas growled, without any real emotion at all. His voice was deep, booming, gravelly, and barely human.

“You are no one’s better, demon. I am winning my freedom today, no matter what happens.” the man said. “We shall see.” And with that short exchange, they charged.