Aelon hated it all.
He hated the crowds watching, he hated his opponents, he hated his inmates, he hated the announcer.
Most he hated himself.
He hated himself for killing all of them. He hated himself for entertaining the disgusting monsters watching. He hated himself for not being powerful enough to put an end to this immediately.
Aelon didn't know how much time had passed in the real world, but here he spent a month already. The black haired boy fought endless battles, improving with every one. Yet, he always wondered how he managed to survive.
After he almost died in his third fight, he started training after his fights too. Now looking at his reflection from the mirror in his glorified prison cell, he saw the previously unblemished and perfectly smooth skin being ridden by scars.
He changed cells twice, and was now in a room with a bed, a mirror, and an actual functioning toilet. His meals increased in frequency, and his body benefited from it.
The years of restricted development still showed very clearly on his frame, as he didn't even reach five feet in height yet, despite being thirteen. His frame was generally smaller than that of anyone his age, but the signs of malnourishment were gone now.
Previously he was skin and bones, and could see the striations of his own muscles everywhere. His cheeks were incredibly hollow, his face not even being able to hold baby fat.
Now, that he was fed well, his cheeks filled out, and he gained a little fat, to shift the unhealthily low bodyfat, to just leanness. His muscles grew a lot, due to having restricted growth prior. He wasn't muscular, nor normally built for his age, but at least he didn't look like a wind would blow him away any moment. The degree of muscle he gained was not enough to stop him from looking frail–– no. But at least it stopped him from looking like a skeleton.
Aelon just fought. A brand new wound showed itself on his arm. A deep cut. Unfortunately for his enemy, he had left the middle aged man with a cut throat.
Averting his gaze from his reflection, he grabbed the fabric he bought for one soul shard, cut of a strand and wrapped the wound in it. He was used to it now, after all he had done it after almost every battle.
'The only reason why I survived so far was sheer luck.'
The short boy's enemies were growing stronger and stronger. The past ten battles were all impossibly close. Luckily, every single one of them underestimated him.
Also, Aelon's advantages exceeded the natural. [Focused Existence] helped with the underestimating. The crowds chanting "Giantslayer" agitated his enemies, who saw it as a provocation, and got careless due to their aggression. Multiple factors played into his survival, but he wasn't sure if they would help him enough in the future to keep him alive.
Finishing with wrapping his wound, he tied a knot to keep the make-shift bandage tight, and went to his staple of weapons.
Aelon refrained from doing actual physical exercise. Gaining a little more muscle wasn't worth the risk of dying due to being sore.
But still, he trained with his weapons, mastering their uses. The black haired boy abstained from doing things like pushups or squats, but still swung his shortsword.
After multiple battles, Aelon restrained himself to use his hatchet, and the shortsword he gained from his second fight as a weapon.
In his left hand rested his shortsword, and on his right his hatchet. He had gained a belt after his sixth battle, where he could hang both of them during battle, allowing himself to wield one of them with both of his hands. The trick that worked the most was throwing the hatchet, just like in the first battle. Sometimes his enemies dodged, so he used his shortsword.
Grabbing both his weapons, he practiced swinging them. Getting used to a movement, was the best way to grow stronger in it.
After training for half an hour, he lay down, and waited for his food to come.
At the beginning he used to speak to himself much, after all there was no better coping method than joking, even if the jokes stem from yourself.
But after a while... after killing tens of people... he stopped.
Aelon looked at his soul shard pouch. He had managed to accumulate fifty pieces of soul shards so far.
'I still have to attend the same amount of fights I already have.'
Honestly, he was drained. Drained and tired.
The food came, and he ate in silence, simply staring ahead into the empty air.
Then, just like every day for the past month, he lay himself to rest, so he could fight well recovered the next day.
He didn't want to admit it, but his body was slowly failing him. His mundane body couldn't hold up such stress every day, and it's own recovery was slowed by the wounds he gained from almost every fight. Whenever a new cut wanted to heal, a new bruise came. When that bruise wanted to heal, a new cut came. It was a perpetual cycle, that ultimately left Aelon feeling like a wreck.
The next morning he got up, and dressed himself. First the armor, then the belt, then the weapons on the belt, and ultimately a piece of cloth, which he tied his hair with, so it wouldn't come in the way during the fight.
Aelon had debated cutting it, but hair holds memory. And as much as he wanted to forget every single one of these battles, and just brandish them out of his mind, he couldn't allow himself to do that.
Even if they were a projection cast by the Spell... here in the nightmare they were real. It was due to their deaths that he could live. He had to honor their memory.
With a somber expression he watched as the guard approached.
A few minutes later he found himself in the colosseum.
The crowds were chanting his nickname, and sounded happy. In response, Aelon looked up once.
Once.
He vomited.
Every time he saw their faces, he grew more disgusted. Now he couldn't even bring himself to look at them.