The crowd roared as the Beast fell, its hulking frame crashing into the blood-slick sand of the arena. You stood over it, chest heaving, your blade trembling in your grip. The silence that followed wasn’t awe. It was disbelief. No one had survived the Beast. Not until now.

Then, movement. From the darkened edge of the pit, a figure emerged.

He was tall, masked, and dressed in the austere black of the Rhalâta. Silent as death, but unmistakably commanding. The crowd did not cheer for him. They feared him.

He approached with measured steps and a blade at his side, though it remained sheathed. The Beast groaned. The masked figure didn’t hesitate. His foot pressed into the creature’s neck and, with a single thrust, he ended what you had begun.

The pitmaster’s voice faltered. The gates remained closed. No one moved.

"You fought well," the man said.

Then he turned and gestured.

With no alternative and the scent of blood thick in your lungs, you followed.

He led you down through the depths of the Undercity, beyond the pit, past rotting corridors and rusted iron gates, until the tunnels opened into a cavernous chamber where corpses hung from hooks like discarded meat. The stench was overwhelming. You swallowed hard.

He stopped beside one of them, gazing up in silence. The air between you crackled with something unspoken.

Then, at last, he turned to face you fully.

And he said: "If you want justice, you don’t find it in light. You drag it screaming from the dark."