Paradise End

12 - Past

 "Welcome to Purgatory's Colosseum!"

A fist collided with jaw. Blood spattered across the floor. The sound of a soul fractured. Chants of the crowd increased. A whistle blew. Piercing over a large platform, the thud of a player hitting the floor reverberated.

Lovely. Raz's brows scrunched together. "This is what's supposed to help me make friends?"

The slam of a fist connecting to a stomach, a painful grunt, sweat lilting off foreheads.

Standing at the mouth of the tunnel, the roar of crowds rose and sighed around him, both messengers of the divine and lost souls inhabiting the stands. Benches and stairs grew in level all along the sides of the arena pit, making for proper viewings of the groundwork below. In the sands and dirt lining the bottom, where Razael, Nashira, and Zadriel stood, observing from the sidelines, a gargantuan expanse spread all the way towards the other side of the arena, split into different 8 by 16 ft squares for dueling opponents. Above the bottom level rings, large skyscraper type pillars reached towards the tops of the stadium, holding up a cemented platform with fire lining the edges. Although he couldn't see it clearly from below, Raz assumed above those columns, within that particular platform, lay a singular fighting ring. Towering over all who flipped, circled, and stood in separated rings in the grid below.

Fighting. Dirty hands. Grunts. Groans. Flying disks, weapons, flashing javelins radiating clear aquamarine essence. Why is there any need to fight at all?

"Let me explain—as Nashira said, every year, for about once a month on certain days and times, a tournament is held here in the Colosseum. Not by us, not the angels; the fighting rings and pits are set up, hosted by a group called the Marauders, a traveling group of lost souls no one seems to know very much about, but it's assumed they used to be kingpins in their past lives. Money is betted on the most powerful players based on how well they do each round, plus how many points they earn." Zadriel held up his hands in defense, "Now I know you'd probably prefer not to get your hands dirty, but it's important to consider this as a viable option; the whole layout of the rings is designed to help whoever participates to get stronger, earn money, and to earn a ranking in the natural realm. In other words, participating helps you show your strength and earn a name in a fair fight. Just by participating you can help remove your reputation by showing you aren't here to just destroy."

Nashira clicked her tongue, "It's forbidden for angels to host the fighting rings, but commanders and higher ranks never enforce the use of it to get stronger, make money, and rise in rank. In fact, I dare say, bluntly," Nashira narrowed her eyes, lifting her gaze to an unknown spot along the edges of arches and blocked off rooms along the rims of the upper levels, "They're not just aware of the pits. It's assumed now they observe it, use it, just as much as we do." She muttered something inaudible under her breath, crossing her arms.

Zadriel threw a hesitant look towards Nashira. More fighters came up from behind them, shouldering past them in the mouth of the tunnel overlooking the scene. Some edged past Raz, meandering around the corner and up some exclusive stairs. "We've still got some time, let me show you around!"

He led them around, up the small flight. Onward, Raz dared a final glance at the platform hovering over the middle. The downed individual they'd just watched beaten, pulling himself up off the sand, defeated. Elsewhere, he swore the eerie sensation of being watched creeped over his back. Well of course, we're right in the middle of a stadium. I'm sure it's nothing. His eyes narrowed. He turned, following Zadriel up the short steps.

At the top, the stairs turned into a closed off stairwell, continuing on towards upper levels one flight opposite to the other at a time. A sign hovering on the wall they exited from read Level 2 as they passed by. Conversations echoed all along a large hallway, brawny badged players lining the walls and observing arches peering into the fights below the stands. The hallway went on, encircling on and on and on, the wall opposite to the fights devoid of windows or sunlight, dirt and sweaty air coated into the fine layers of the corridor. Raz stopped, brows raising. "This place... this stadium... it's on levels like a tower, the stands seem to reach the top like a bowl, but each time I look out to the bottom field, I'm viewing different fighters."

Zadriel nodded, leading them further.

"How many levels are there to this place?"

Nashira glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, nodding. You're on the right track. Raz's brows leapt in amazement, watching as they continued to pass arches looking down on different fighters each one, they passed by, watching some turn like seasons, night to day, stars to clear sky blue, each stadium a mirror of the other. No matter the possibilities, the layout of the arena remained the same, the dust carved in a grid like format for different players and fighters, a long dueling strip lined in the middle of a bottom level where two swordsmen clashed metal on metal.

There's... there's an infinite number of possibilities. Not parallel worlds. Just bigger on the inside. All for a tournament? For some matches?

I don't get it, all this just for some cheap violent entertainment. When angels seemed to have it all? He stared up and down the backs of Shira and Zadriel. The question pressed on and on and on; how was this supposed to help him? While Raz wasn't a stranger to defending himself, using force in order to repair a reputation for himself just didn't sound like the right call. Not to him. His fingertips pulsed with an airy charge, mixing with the stench of hopelessness and grimy sweat covering the different players waiting on their upcoming match in the hallway.

Assumptions and expectations aside, why would the likes of angels concern themselves with... this?

Zadriel led them up a different stairwell, traversing to a place called level 3, where commoners, civilians, lost souls, painted a dimly lit corridor, this one with some larger arches overlooking the matches with smaller peering down to the city outside. Messengers of the divine littered the communal activity every so often, traveling in groups of their own, heavenly light emanating from their core.

Soldiers of the divine. Why. Why would they be here? In this disgusting spirit of ripe want and ruin? What was this place? Why was it supposed to help him? Why why why?
Razael let out an exhale in frustration, his feet stopping amid passersby. Nashira walked a bit further on, noting when Raz stopped behind her, tugging Zadriel's collar. Both turned, their brows furrowed. He waited, raising his voice, "Enough walking around. Tell me why we're here; how am I supposed to use this to my advantage? What about this place, this tournament, makes it so important it can help me become an angel of the divine?"

Zadriel exchanged a glance with Nashira, turning to Razael. He inched closer, "The tournament isn't just in the rings, Razael. The real prize isn't just respect, or even a spot in the divine affinity; for regular lost souls, you win the gold, a chance to see paradise. But you win this Raz, the other ma'lak won't just open up to you -- They'll recruit you. You win this, it's not a question of if you'll be able to become an angel—you'll be one. The dominion will give you a spot on the next divine exams, if not guarantee it."

"I'd like to see you try." A voice cooed from the corner of Razael's eye.