FlOWERS WITH THORNS | K.TH

The Arena

If only I could have it my way now, I'd have that face trampled underneath a herd of horses.

He continues to look.

I know exactly who he's looking for.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer yells, his voice projecting over the Arena. He opens his arms, looking immensely pleased as he turns to the audience. "Welcome to this year's slave auction!"

I scoff softly.

Probably happy over the crowd he'd gathered tonight.

Jimin shifts uncomfortably besides me. His eyes flicker back and forth at the chained slaves that are being dragged into the Arena, row by row. Finally, he turns his face away and looks elsewhere.

I wonder if he'll hate me, for bringing him here.

But I'd had no choice.

"This year, we have over hundreds of slaves to present to you." The announcer continues, smiling widely. "Ranging from beauty to strength, there is a slave fit for each and every one of you."

"But for those of you who look for a soldier..."

The rows and rows of slaves that line the Arena are only men. Men, and I even see boys fresh out of their adolescence. They all look terrified out of their minds, faces drained of blood and gaze fixed on the ground.

I purse my lips.

Still children. Yet forced to be like this.

The first thing I would do when I finally reigned as untouchable Queen— would be to get rid of these damned auctions once and for all.

Then I find him.

Kim Taehyung.

He stands in the middle of a row, his hands chained to the others. Even though he is younger than I am, he stands a head above most of the men here. His build is lean and powerful— the build of a born warrior.

A Tarakan. The Clan of Beasts.

But despite the name, he is too beautiful.

I hear the whispers spread like a rapid wave across the Arena as people begin to lay eyes on him. His hair is the sable shade of night, covering thickly lashed eyes that seem to have the blood moon embedded in them. It's unnaturally scarlet, too surreal in its beauty.

Most of the people is here today, for him. To make him serve either in the battlefield or the bedroom.

"We cannot offer our prized customers any weak slaves." The announcer yells, pointing towards the hundreds of slaves. "The slaves will be given a total of five minutes, to fight for their lives."

A sickly smile paints his lips.

"Whoever stands after five minutes will be then put up for auction."

A horn blows, in the distance. It starts so suddenly, not giving even a single second for the slaves to prepare themselves. The chains are broken, the metal collapsing to the ground.

Maybe that is why.

So many fall within the first ten seconds.

It's an absolute bloodbath below me.

Screams erupt in a dissonant harmony. Some of the slaves had hid knives between their clothes, and they slash through helpless boys and the older men. They are the ones who are taken first.

Morals have no place here.

And Kim Taehyung is the definition of that.

He has taken a jagged piece of the metal chain, in his hands. He moves through men, cutting through whatever flesh he finds. His eyes remain a chilling shade of blood— they never turn hot, or show the excitement of battle.

He just kills.

And when he is cornered by men, his weapon knocked away, he uses his own body. He rakes his fingers across their eyes— and I'm almost entranced in horror as he closes his mouth over a man's ear, who has him pinned down to the ground.

He tears it off and spits it into the dust.

The man screams, letting go. The moment he does, Kim Taehyung leaps on top of him, hands wrapping around his throat and snapping his neck cleanly.

He's a monster.

He was seventeen, and this violent.

No wonder he had served as Han's best warrior.

By the time the five minutes come to an end, bodies litter the floor. There are only about fifty of the slaves standing, out of the hundreds to begin with. Most of them are wounded heavily.

Kim Taehyung is not. He's covered in blood, but none of them is his.

He looks up in my direction.

And for a breathless second, his red eyes meet mine.

Then the announcer's annoying voice comes back, and his eyes turn back into the cold, silent stare to whatever is in front of him.

"Absolutely astounding!" He roars. "Please give a round of applause to the standing survivors!"

The sound of clapping echo over the dead. And I see one of the slaves fall to his knees, bursting into heavy sobs as the applause surrounds him. Then before I can look away, he stabs his own knife into his throat.

A soft breath tumbles from my lips.

It's as if the dull sound of his corpse hitting the ground is the starting bell.

"Now let us begin the auction!"