Chapter 1
From a distance, the arena looked like a massive pit—like a wound torn open between the city’s rusted towers and its hazy lights. The metal walls surrounding it had darkened with years of corrosion, their surfaces scarred by the remnants of countless past fights. Dried bloodstains had turned black against the metal, as if they had never truly been wiped away.
The first thing you noticed when stepping inside was the noise.
The voices of thousands echoed off the metal stands and came crashing back, forming a constant, suffocating hum that hovered over the arena. The clinking of betting chips, the shouts of vendors, and the impatient breath of the crowd tangled together. Sometimes the sound swelled like a wave, rising higher and higher—only to be cut off suddenly, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
The arena floor was covered in sand.
But this wasn’t ordinary sand. It had darkened over the years with spilled blood, hardened in places. With every step, a faint crunch echoed beneath your feet. Scattered among the grains were broken teeth, shattered pieces of armor, and fragments of metal left behind from old battles.
Massive screens hung above.
Each fighter’s name glowed in blazing red letters beside the timer strapped to their arm. The numbers constantly shifted—rising, falling. People in the stands shouted as they watched them, arguing over how long each fighter would survive.
The wealthy sat in the highest tiers.
Their section was sealed off behind glass walls. Dressed in polished, immaculate clothing, they placed bets using sleek devices in their hands. Some of the timers on their arms displayed hundreds of years. To them, this arena was nothing more than entertainment.
But for those forced to fight inside it…
It was no different from a graveyard.
Metal gates towered on both sides of the arena. Every time one opened, it let out a deep, grinding screech—and then another fighter would step onto the blood-soaked sand. Whenever those gates opened, the crowd would erupt into madness.
Because everyone knew the truth.
Of the two people who entered this arena, one would leave with less time.
Sometimes…
They wouldn’t leave at all.
There was only one truth standing at the center of the arena:
Here, time was bought with blood.
I closed my eyes, trying to drown out the roar pounding in my ears. I forced my mind to clear. But with every breath I took, the stench of blood and sweat filled my lungs, making my face twist in disgust.
I could never get used to it.
That familiar, sour smell always reminded me of where I was.
I had known where I was for years.
I couldn’t say exactly what year it was—but like everyone else struggling to survive in this world, I knew the truth from the numbers carved into my own body. That number ticking forward with every second struck my mind like a relentless blow, reminding me that if I did nothing, my time would run out.
How long had I been twenty-seven?
Was I really twenty-seven?
Or had I simply assigned myself an age based on that burned-edged, yellowed photograph I found tucked inside my mother’s dusty notebook?
I had no idea.
Maybe it was 2045.
Maybe 2070.
Maybe something else entirely.
But one thing I did know:
Even if my birth was uncertain, my death could come at any moment.
Before leaving home, I had taken that photograph with me.
Was the person in it really me?
Lyra Ashford—her flame-red hair cascading over her shoulders, her bright green eyes filled with hope for the future…
Her loving family stood beside her: her mother, her father, her sisters.
That single moment captured in the photograph would never come back. Just like the people in it. That was why I came to this arena. I belonged here now. I had been fighting here ever since the time merchants took my family’s lives. They hadn’t spared them.
Like they did with most people, they came to our door every day. In exchange for basic shelter and assigned labor, they demanded time from each member of the family. If you refused to give up a few years from the timer on your arm, they would cut you off from the necessities you needed to survive for that entire month.
In other words…
They left you to die.
And then, in exchange for a few more years, they took whatever remained of your life anyway.
In the poor city where I grew up, everyone’s existence was exploited by games like this. If you couldn’t find food, the number on your arm stopped meaning anything.
This system continued until my family died, one by one.
Each time they came, one of us would sacrifice ourselves. When one was gone, they moved on to the next.
Who you were, what you did, what you believed—none of it mattered. You were nothing more than a vessel for time.
And you were not allowed to question it.
The moment you did…
You died.
By the time it was my turn, I was alone.
Every member of my family had died right in front of me—trading their lives for nothing more than a few meals. Their bodies had remained in the middle of the house, pale and still. There was nowhere to bury them, nowhere to burn them. With each passing day, this brutal system only grew worse.
One day, I decided it had to end. I had heard of the fighting arenas before—places where people fought for their lives and earned time if they won.
There was only one condition:
You had to live there.
That wasn’t a problem for me.
I had no one left.
Either I would die by my own hand…
Or I would step into the heart of these arenas and tear this system apart. No matter the cost.
I glanced at the timer on my arm.
135 years, 11 days, 2 hours.
For most people in the arena, that number was a lifetime.
For me…
It meant just a few more fights.
And there was something else—something no one knew about me.
I could manipulate time during a fight.
I could slow it down. Speed it up. Bend it to my advantage. But I always did it carefully, subtly. No one could ever realize what I was doing.
Technically, it wasn’t cheating. It was my ability. But every time I used it, my own time drained faster. It was a risk I had to take if I wanted to win.
I had discovered this power on my own, over years of fighting. If I got caught, things could spiral out of control.
But for now…
I chose not to think about that.
In a world ruled by time and life itself, I believed I could afford to take a few risks. With every fight I won, more years were added to my total.
But the time of the person I killed didn’t transfer to me. It was collected somewhere—into a pool I couldn’t see, couldn’t understand.
All I knew was this:
The loser always died.
And these fights were never ordinary.
I fought almost every week.
I had to.
Because if I fought…
I lived.
If I didn’t…
I would die anyway.
