𓆩♱𓆪

The arena was eerily quiet, the buzz of the crowd outside the ring muffled by the walls that surrounded you. You stood across from Climber, the confused, imposing figure of a miner—his pickaxe gleaming under the harsh lights. His presence was a physical weight, and despite his confused-like demeanor, you could see something else in his eyes: reluctance. This was not a fight either of you wanted, and you could sense that much.

Climber held his pickaxe loosely in his hand, as though he was unsure what to do with it, his gaze briefly flicking between you and the ground. There was something about his posture—the way he didn’t seem eager to engage—that made you feel like you weren’t the only one caught in a twisted game.

The air between you two was thick with hesitation.

"I don't want to hurt you," Climber said, his voice gruff but steady. It was strange hearing the words from someone who looked like he was made for battle. The words weren't spoken like a threat or a warning—they were almost apologetic, like he was trying to reach across the distance between you two.

You shifted your weight uneasily, but you didn’t want to fight either. The tension in the air made you want to back away from the situation entirely, but the rules were clear. You were here to fight. You couldn’t back out now.

He took a deep breath, meeting your gaze with the same reluctance. "Do we really have to fight?" he asked, the question almost a plea.

Climber’s expression faltered, just for a second, and you could almost see the hesitation in his eyes. He glanced at the audience—probably just as trapped in this tournament as you were—and then back to you. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just standing there, silent, as if waiting for you to give him a reason to turn and walk away.

But the silence stretched on, unbearable and uncomfortable. The weight of the situation hung in the air like a thick fog.

Finally, Climber let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. “It’s not up to us,” he muttered under his breath.