The Pit

A price

Xisuma pov

It's been 3 weeks since I started watching the fights each fight getting more and more gruesome as we got further down along the alphabet I only noticed recently that they skipped a lot of the alphabet going from a to a little bit of b and then a lot of x's and y's and Z's so maybe my price wasn't as bad as I thought but once we got to the xs.

I realized I was going to be here for a long time there were so many other watchers with x names so many. It was 3 months worth of just names I'm pretty sure some watchers died during most of these fights. I couldn't help but notice that they used a lot of different fighting styles like they used to be different types of hybrids before they were all forced to be the same

Amidst the monotonous cycle of watching the Watchers, one figure stood out from the rest—an anomaly in the sea of uniformed purple robes. Clad primarily in black, he caught my attention with his unconventional attire. Unlike the others who wore standard robes even during combat, this Watcher sported a striking black crop top that left his back exposed. It was an unusual choice, especially in a place where the norm was conformity.

Two sets of wings adorned his back like the others, but unlike their slightly spread-out posture, his wings were tightly folded against his frame. His demeanor exuded an air of palpable frustration, his focus intense as he observed the fighters with a keen eye. It was clear he was studying their every move, meticulously taking mental notes in a way that suggested he was not just a participant but an observer with a purpose.

His appearance was shrouded in mystery. A deep hood concealed most of his features, though glimpses of blonde hair peeked through, hinting at a human-like quality beneath the mask of a Watcher. Half of his face was hidden behind a porcelain mask, while the other half was veiled by a black cloth that extended beneath it. Intricate marks adorned the exposed skin of his shoulders, back, and stomach, glowing softly with a purple luminescence. They resembled tattoos, but their eerie glow hinted at something more arcane, a mark of his otherworldly nature.

Next to him lay a jacket, a stark contrast to the robes worn by his peers—a bomber jacket crafted from remnants of purple robes, customized with white lining and other embellishments. It was a defiant statement, a gesture that spoke of rebellion against the uniformity imposed by the Watchers' garb.

As I continued to watch, torn between fear and fascination, time seemed to stretch endlessly. Hours blurred into days, and the relentless passage of time weighed heavily on me. Unfortunately, that was the last or only time I saw that Watcher, or so I thought. I wasn't allowed to move around and couldn't really look around either. Every time I looked away for too long, my head was snapped back into place, forcing me to watch the fight.

It was on one of these long, grueling fight nights that something interesting happened. In the pit, there were little alcoves or hallways leading off, used to drag people away most of the time. During one such night, I saw that Watcher again, hidden in the shadows. The only things I could see were those arcane tattoos that glowed purple.

I could tell from the little I could see that he wasn't happy. His wings, too, had an ethereal glow to them, almost angelic. Above his head, a symbol resembling a halo—but more like the Watcher emblem—shimmered faintly. It was unsettling. He wasn't watching the fight; for some reason, I felt like he was watching me. His gaze bore into me, and the oppressive weight of his scrutiny made time feel even more drawn out.

In the background, the clanging of chains echoed, mingling with a cacophony of distant voices—some jeering, others whispering ominously. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a blend of anticipation and dread that hung heavily in the air.

As the endless nights of fighting dragged on, his presence became less and less distinct until I caught sight of him in the ring. His opponent looked wild—like a feral animal. His disheveled hair hung loosely, and his eyes glinted with a manic intensity. Despite the chaos surrounding him, he didn't look scared. He was calm as usual, leaning against one of the walls, his posture relaxed. Even though I couldn't see his eyes or mouth, his body language screamed boredom, as if this brutal spectacle was beneath him.