Tales of a Ninja Magician: Of Where We Come From

Fatal Warfare

He helped her and looked out for her in every way he could. He'd get murdered out there today, Mana didn't know when or how but he was being set up for a slaughterfest. Could she really sit tight and just do everything she could to survive? Beat up a bunch of people and gain respect? If she was anything like these men she could've even made a living here, be respected and gain fame and trust... No, Mana couldn't do that.

Even if she decided to do something stupid, something she'd likely regret, what exactly could she have done to help her friend? She was locked in a cube of solid steel, bound by chains and located underground in a catacomb below meters of sand. Mana stood up and slowly tumbled up to one side of the cube she was locked up in slamming her heavy hands against the hard steel wall.

"I really miss my magic shows..." She thought to herself.

*****

"And now, finally, the event of the day – our beloved veteran Bult, the Bare-Hand Axeman faces off against the Asura Berserker, Basher of Faces, the Bare-Chested Rampager – Almash!" the announcer was having a field day presenting the main event of the day to the public.

"Raising the stakes even more, just to make it that more interesting our beloved Sheikh-sama has decided that the two would be facing off in a Fatal Warfare match so if the engineers below would be so kind as to set up the arena..." The man yelled out loud pointing his finger at the artificially grown grass below that already had some teeth and blood scattered loosely over it. 

Loud screeching followed and grinding noises announced that the needed levers were being turned as the ground plates with grass were set on flames singing everything off leaving just bare steel plates. After several moments bloodied and rusty spikes shot out through holes surrounding the arena in a deadly field, each spike at least as large as a short person.

"Introducing the first contestant who needs no introduction or tales to be spun about his feats as they would not serve him justice, the legendary icon of the Sun Disc arena and the Agbarah Hero we all grew up with – Bult!" The announcer yelled out as the platform slowly moved from the circular structure of the arena up to the small quarters were the waiting contestants were housed forming a sort of bridge for the contestants to enter through. 

Slowly, Bult made his way over the bridge, he didn't even bother to look at the sides, his stature was slightly hunched as his entire body ached, he hasn't completely recovered from his previous wounds and he also managed to gather an impressive collection of scars over the years. The man pressed his busted up hand tightly against his chest. Bult survived many matches like this, countless more lethal matches, if he was to die that day he would've left this world seeing it some sort of repentance for the sins and lives he had claimed over the years in this arena.

"And now, the newest addition to Damij's crew, the man with one of the most impressive winning streaks – the bare-chested berserker who was found surrounded by desert raiders with the flesh, skin, and guts of his captors in his nails and his teeth, the Tearing Scorn of the Desert – Almash!" The announcer spat out squirts of slobber in his impressive immersion into his tale of the man's abilities, on the other side of the arena, another platform extended to the other side of the arena's living quarters, another, much more luxurious living quarters. After the sandstone gate rumbled and open only loud foot taps to the stone bridge could've been heard for a moment and then... He appeared.

Almash was a rather short man, certainly entire head shorter than the bulking yet hunched Bult. His skin was white as young cheese implying he may not have been from around the place. The man certainly fit his label of a "bare-chested berserker" as he didn't choose to wear absolutely anything, usually, the fighters were allowed to keep their clothes and once they killed someone they had the right to claim them from the corpses of their opponents. If even half of the tales describing the man were correct he should've had at least a shirt to cover his scarred iron-hard chest.