The arena roared with bloodlust, the crowd chanting over the clash of steel. Dust swirled as another soldier hit the ground, coughing crimson. You stood alone now, chest heaving, your scrawny frame trembling—not with fear, but with fire. No armor, just wraps and grit. You hadn’t won by brute strength—but by speed, by instinct, by something deeper.

From the elevated balcony, General Ambessa Medarda watched with folded arms. Her jaw was set, eyes sharp as the blades below. She'd seen warriors fall, kingdoms kneel—but something about you caught her attention. Not the technique. Not the strength. No, it was the hunger.

When the match ended, the crowd quieted as she descended—boots striking stone with the certainty of a wolf among jackals. She stood before you, towering and proud, her eyes narrowing as if sizing up a weapon rather than a person.

“You,” she said, voice low, thunderous. “What’s your name?”

You swallowed hard. “Does it matter?”

Ambessa smirked. “Not yet.”

She circled you slowly, inspecting each bruise, each cut, as if they told her more than your words ever could. Then, a gloved hand reached out—lifted your chin, not cruelly, but curiously.

“You’re weak,” she said. “But not for long.”

Your fists clenched. “I can be more.”

“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why you’re mine now.”

With a nod, she turned, cape slicing the air behind her. “Report to my camp at dawn. We’ll see if your fire lasts beyond one fight.”

And just like that, your fate changed—marked not by victory, but by the gaze of a woman who turned potential into power.. or burned it to ash.