The Blood of a Warrior

Chapter One

As the roar of the crowd died away, I turned to see the same helper from before the fight approach me, his eyes filled with terror.

I smiled softly at him, then handed him my now bloodstained blade. He took it cautiously, then scuttled off to give it to the kitchen workers, all of whom had come here for work, yet did not get what they had expected. The work wasn't too hard, there weren't that many fighters, and they were treated well. They weren't paid, though. Even if they were, they weren't allowed to leave to spend it.

No one could leave, besides the crowd members. All who tried were put against me.

And that never turned out well, at least not for them.

I heard The Ringmaster approaching, and turned to greet him.

"Isaac!" he called to me in his faint Russian accent, "Another win for our champion? That's, what? One hundred forty seven now?"

"One hundred forty nine." I corrected him. And yet another scar to add upon the hundreds that already covered my body.

"Ah. Well, you best clean up then. Head to the showers, and get that wound looked at. We don't need you getting infected now, do we?" He laughed, and I returned one.

A few minutes of mindless small talk later, I turned for the showers.

The Arena was built from an old prison, deep in the Everglades. The fighters were kept in the cells, while the dining hall was turned into the Arena itself.

Everyone called the whole building "The Arena" while the only actual "arena" part was the old dining hall. The balcony where The Ringmaster sat was cut into the wall above the dining hall, with a stairwell leading up behind a door that was usually kept locked.

Because there were so few fighters compared to the amount of people the prison was originally meant to hold, The Ringmaster has knocked out the walls between cells to make them larger and more comfortable.

Another section of the cells was also in use, but served a different purpose.

They held women, but not fighters. They were here only to serve as whores for the fighters during their off time. My mother had been one.

Not all of them were whores, though. There were a few who patched and cleaned clothes, but most of them had been brought here for pleasure and ended up being either too old or too stubborn.

The Ringmaster himself had come from Russia, after his original arena had been discovered. A few of his old fighters had made it over, but almost all were gone.

He chose the Everglades to make his new one because it was such a large place, he would have plenty of time to clear out before the police got here, as well as having Miami close by to pick up new fighters when old ones died.

Joshua would have to be replaced, so that meant a group of men working for The Ringmaster would be sent out to look for someone else, maybe even two.

I stopped by my cell to grab my regular outfit, just a black T-shirt and torn jeans. Right now I was wearing my fighting outfit, a silver leather shirt with a golden dragon's head sewn onto the chest and black leather pants. I wore combat boots all the time. They were more comfortable than you think.

I would send the pants to the cleaning ladies after my shower to be washed and fixed.

Striding to the shower room, I stopped outside to make sure no one else was inside. The showers was really just one shower, with enough room for everyone. I didn't like the group showers, so I always made sure it would be just me. I hated large crowds, and physical contact even less. I have a bubble, and you will respect my bubble before I make you.