MTLNOVEL Chapter 20: 4. The Fire Below
Chapter 4: The Fire Below
Year: 985 AN
Location: Zaun – Fissures, Secondary Pit Compound
The pit was alive with misery.
Every morning, a rusted siren screamed awake the half-dead. Slaves rose from stained cots in cramped cells, muscles aching and skin numb from the cold that crept through the concrete like mold. Light barely reached this deep into the Fissures. Instead, greenish chem-lamps buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly hue.
Ashryn didn't know the exact time of day. The sun never touched this place. But she knew her ribs ached less than yesterday—and that counted as progress.
Around her, the other fighters moved in silence, each one marked by bruises and vacant stares. No names. No friends. No trust. If you got too close, you might find yourself facing them in the pit tomorrow.
She'd learned that the hard way.
Two months ago, a boy around her age had offered her a scrap of bread. They didn't even talk. Just a nod, a silent exchange of suffering. She tried to return the gesture later with a piece of cloth for his bleeding hand.
They threw them in the pit the next day.
He'd hesitated. She hadn't.
Not again.
---
Her wound from the first fight had healed poorly—no medics, no painkillers. Just a tight wrap and time. The stab had cut deep, and for weeks, every step reminded her how close she came to dying because she hesitated.
Now she didn't hesitate. She calculated.
Every opponent, every routine, every crack in the wall—she cataloged it all. Her brain became sharper, her instincts honed. She didn't just want out. She wanted to erase this place.
The announcer liked to call it "The Devil's Playground." A name for the crowd's amusement. But Ashryn called it what it was.
A factory that made corpses and crushed names.
She didn't want to die nameless.
---
It took her months to piece things together. She was in a secondary pit—not the main arena where Renni paraded her best killers, but one of the hidden feeder camps across the Fissures. Less guards, fewer elite fighters, more chances to get noticed... or buried.
Renni's empire was vast, and this was just one gear in her rotten machine.
Only way out was up. Either climb the ranks and hope someone noticed her—some baron, some sponsor—or break the whole damn system.
She picked the second option.
---
By now, she'd found her rhythm.
Fight. Sleep. Heal. Train.
She stayed distant. Kept to herself. Let people call her "Ash" because they didn't need to know more. She fought smart, not hard—used the enemy's size against them, twisted joints, redirected momentum. Grappling and positioning became her bread and butter.
She pulled punches. Not to be merciful—but to hide her strength.
The guards thought they had her pegged. The announcer even called her "The Dancing Rat"—fast, scrappy, but harmless.
Let them think that.
She could feel the pieces aligning. Her body was lean, no longer starved—but wiry, sharp, like a knife carved from bone. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim. Her gait was silent. Her reactions honed by fear, her silence carved by grief.
Her humor, though?
That surprised even her.
She'd started talking to herself months ago, just to hear a voice that wasn't screaming or begging. Then she started joking.
"Morning, Ash," she muttered, mimicking a cheerful tone as she tightened the wrap around her wrist. "Weather's murder. But hey—so is the guy in Cell 4."
Sometimes she'd pretend the guards were part of a reality show.
"Welcome back to Survive or Die, today's contestant is a 6'4 drunk with daddy issues. Let's see how he fares against a 13-year-old with back pain and unresolved trauma!"
No audience, but she grinned anyway.
Laughter didn't heal wounds. But it made her forget they were there.
---
A year had passed.
She was thirteen now. A little taller. Scarred. But alive. Somehow.
And finally—finally—she saw her opening.
Tomorrow, she'd be evaluated for recruitment into Renni's lower ranks. It happened rarely—when fighters showed enough skill or cruelty to be useful beyond entertainment. The guards would test her, take her to a secure room, and decide if she was worth training.
She didn't care for their approval.
She cared that she'd be in a room with only two people: the pit manager and his second.
Only twenty-five guards oversaw this compound, most of them distracted during fight nights. It wasn't much. But it was something.
The announcer, despite his pomp, was always within reach of the controls for the cages and the alarm system.
If she moved fast—took them both down and seized the keys—she could free the other slaves. Incite a riot. Cause chaos. Maybe even destroy the arena. It wouldn't kill Renni, but it would take a bite out of her.
And leave a mark she'd remember.
She didn't want to just escape.
She wanted this place to burn.
---
That night, she sat on the edge of her cot, sharpening a rusted piece of scrap metal into a jagged edge.
Her "lucky charm," she called it.
"Tomorrow's the day," she whispered, tracing the dull blade with a cracked fingernail. "Can't believe it's already been a year. Time flies when you're repeatedly stabbed by strangers."
She chuckled softly to herself.
Then stared into the dark.
---
In a strange way, she'd grown attached to this place.
Not in fondness—but familiarity. Like the sound of chains in the morning. The clank of the feeding trays. The screams at night.
This pit had killed her once.
What rose from it... wasn't the same.
She still remembered their faces—her parents. Every time she closed her eyes. The betrayal of Piltover. The blade that cut into her belly. The boy she strangled, the blood warm and foreign on her hands.
Each moment had layered another mask on her face.
The funny one.
The silent one.
The calculating one.
She didn't know which was real anymore.
Maybe none of them.
---
But she'd figure it out. Once she was free.
And if she failed tomorrow?
Well.
She smiled bitterly.
"At least I'll go out swinging. And maybe take a few bastards with me."
She lay back, one hand on the charm tucked under her thin shirt—a phoenix, carved from scrap metal and broken glass.
A promise, not a prayer.
---
Tomorrow, Ash wasn't going to survive.
She was going to win.
And in the fires of rebellion, she would carve the first letters of a name not yet born:
Not Ashryn the slave.
But something more.