Cass’s POV

The night was a symphony of agony: the clanging of iron, the snores of broken men, and the suffocating stench of blood, urine, and rot. The iron bolts securing the mask to my skull pulsed with every heartbeat, but the itching—the maddening, unreachable itch on the bridge of my nose behind the metal—was worse.

A girl from a neighboring cell drifted toward the bars. She was platinum-blonde, though her roots were long and dark, and her skin was smeared with grime.

"What’s with the mask?" she asked.

"I don't know," I muttered. I had no intention of revealing who I was.

"Looks stupid," the girl remarked. "Can you even see through that?"

"I can see enough to know your hair is a disaster," I replied.

She laughed—a dry, raspy sound. "Touché. I’m Sheril. I’m a hunter."

I looked around the hellhole. "How did you end up here?"

"My guild got jealous of my success," she said, her expression hardening. "They took me out of the game."

The day passed in a blur of misery. By late afternoon, we were shackled and dragged into the market area. We were paraded like cattle in giant cages, gawked at by laughing onlookers who laid bets on our survival.

The guards shoved me into a holding room and dumped a pile of gear on the floor. "Get ready," one sneered. "You’re the 'Persian Princess' tonight."

Persian Princess. What the fk?

I scanned the room. Musa, a newcomer, was shaking, while Kanda—the Greek-goddess-like warrior—methodically tested the balance of a double-sided axe. I bypassed the heavy plate armor, opting for light, leather-padded gear that wouldn't impede my speed. For weapons, I chose two curved, gem-encrusted daggers. They felt like extensions of my own hands.

"Are we fighting each other?" Musa whispered, her voice trembling.

"It depends on Zao’s mood," Kanda said grimly.

Suddenly, a microphone shrieked, echoing across the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready? Tonight, it’s a Battle of the Sexes!"

The crowd—a sea of men—erupted into cheers at the mention of the men, while the few women in the stands booed.

"Start it off!" a guard barked, pointing his weapon at Musa.

"NO! Please!" she sobbed.

I lunged forward, but the guards swarmed in, guns leveled at my chest. They dragged Musa out, her screams tearing through the arena. We huddled by the iron-barred viewing slit.

"Don't be a hero," Sheril warned, patting my shoulder. "You won't last long that way."

Outside, the announcer’s voice boomed: "The Blue Snake against the newly arrived Sprite! I don't see a good outcome for the little woman, folks!"

We listened as Musa fought. We listened to the sickening thud of impact, the crowd’s roar, and then—the gurgling silence of her death.

Disgust boiled in my veins, hotter than any fear.

The door creaked open. The guard’s gaze swept over the room, his eyes lingering on the survivors until they settled on me. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"You," he growled. "You're up."