The kaleidoscope corridor ends, and the main hall stretches before us. At first glance, it looks like a market, but in truth, it is more labyrinth than hall—winding alleys and stacked levels, hundreds of shops cramd together, and people flooding every path. Masses of humanity, pressed into motion.
I still know almost nothing about this place. What I do know is simple: we live underground. There is no sky here, no sun, no horizon. Only crystals in the ceilings far above, casting their light. The ones here are not close like in the sleeping caves—they are impossibly high, hundreds of ters, so so distant they seem like stars. Their glow stretches for kiloters in every direction.
Frank and I have barely explored any of it. A few hours of walking would not scratch the surface.
As we move with the current, my eyes sweep across the shops. Weapons. Armor. Food. Bread, fruits, nuts, and spices. Most of it is of low quality, hardly fit for survival, but still, the sheer variety is dizzying.
There are even inns where one can rent a bed, though only those who have wealth in items can dream of paying the price.
This place is not only for us. We belong to Colosseum R37, one of hundreds, according to so passersby; R37 is one of the colosseums reserved for Reds—for people like , Frank, Paula—but there are others too.
Colosseums for blue-blooded. Green-blooded. Entire arenas filled with those of one kind, and then the rumors of mixed colosseums, where the colors pit against one another. Rumors only, yet in a place like this, who can say what is true?
They say the main hall connects all colosseums. That through these labyrinthine passages, one could travel as far as the whole earth itself. Again, rumor; however, one truth remains undeniable.
Everyone is chipped. Every single person. A shard of sothing buried in the blood, a seal that binds.
If you miss your appointed battle in your colosseum, you do not flee. You do not hide. You die. Exploded from within, your body ripped into shreds, no matter where you cower.
Maybe propaganda. Maybe another lie ant to keep us obedient. But if it’s real, then there is nothing we can do. Nothing but fight.
“Oi, ya have no eyes?” A voice barks beside . I barely turn before soone shoves hard, ramming another body into mine.
“The fuck are you on, old geezer?!” A man with broad shoulders and hair red as fire, shouts at the dark-skinned man—seemingly older than sixty.
Shoving. Shouting. The chaos here is no different from ho markets, except here everyone is starving, everyone is dangerous, and everyone has nothing left to lose. Fights break out as naturally as children being nad Paul or Fritz.
Before they spill fists and blood across the stones, I sidestep, pulling away, and focus on Frank, who suddenly breaks ahead, climbing a narrow stair tucked into an alleyway. The steps wind upward toward a higher stage.
“Where are you going?” I call, raising my voice above the crowd. He doesn’t answer—doesn’t even glance back. He keeps moving fast, his broad shoulders—compared to the red-haired, twice as big in fra—vanishing into the turns of the path.
Cursing inwardly, I break into a run, my bare feet slapping against the rough stone. But by the ti I reach the first corner, he’s gone.
Gone.
How can I lose sight of him? Frank, the massive brute of a man. No, he’s a soldier. He drank others’ blood and is now faster than any athlete could dream of being.
But still—why? What did he see that made him vanish like that?
Walking along the upper stage, I keep my eyes fixed downward, scanning every passerby like a bird perched on the lanterns above. But unlike the birds I imagine, I have no wings to free , and in truth, there are no birds here at all.
Only strange rats with twisted limbs and insects that sohow burrow through the stone. This place is impossible to describe in a way that makes sense. Stages upon stages, but not like floors layered neatly above one another.
No. They rise and fall without order, crossing and overlapping, as though built by the hands of madn; that’s why the locals call it the Endless Labyrinth.
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