Eros Academy

United States of America, Texas, Houston, Central Arena of Rivers Foundation. Terrance is dumb. Dumber than I thought he was. The worst part of standing in the arena, excluding the deafening roars of the wild crowd that stood holding a black flag to manifest mercilessness, the burly guards that occupied the exit door to circumvent any sort of escape of the players, and a man that was crowned the King of Games standing on the auditorium, high up from my view holding a mic with his corrupted hands, was to control the urge to pee. I could have easily stayed down, and screamed--probably at the top of my lungs, even though the voice could not be heard from this distance and through all the reverberating bellows, I still felt like I should have. Like the good old times with my dear dad, when we used to hunt and train collectively. My own voice consuming me was like a part of my medication, something that my old man taught me over the years. Though it was easier said than done, I did try it once, and it helped me forget things that were farther from my age. The man standing up on the auditorium is a huge incentive for the people of Rivers Land, a place said to be lost among the wild forests of Luna, besieging it from plain perception. He was always the nice guy player. I have watched his prior games, where he took down professionals easily being an amateur. Though I heavily deliberated if he was a rookie, I kept to myself all the urges of throwing at him a simple question that could easily ruin his ever-growing career. He was a perfect six feet high, with muscles than could be easily traced out even if there was a suit on, bronzed skin that was embraced in zodiac figures that portrayed versatile nature, and pitch-black eyes that could send rivulets of chills down your spine. His hair was always mellowed to a precise angle, and his wrists held a watch that would determine the time when the games were to commence. His features were contrasted to the five feet five me with a petite self, and I did not have anything to be noted down as compelling or stalwart. My dad wouldn't have fancied this, if I retrieve correctly, he even asked me to step away from my friends. Although I did surmise it's because he was swindled on once, I still sustain the words that he has hurled out for me every now and then in the past years. But little did he know, or I, that I would end up here, amidst the terrifying masses of people that sat in clique around the gallery, anticipating to see me fall. I wasn't scared, I never was. But I was quite agitated to see my nemesis who was yet to come. I flipped my inky hair bangs aside-backward, precisely. Last time, when I lost my view of the opponent for a split second because of these bangs that settled on my eyes, I had to get a linear hit from him. I saw that movement coming, but I did nothing to stop that. Because once I get a rap, I become more worked upon making the player pitch. I had won-barely, but I elected that I would be more alert when it came to my hair bangs. The rules of the Foundations that sponsored my games were simple: You win, you are paid. You lose, you perish. Pretty sick and that was one of the causes I linked. After dad left us, growing up was not easy. We had debts to pay, I had school to manage, and we all had to feed ourselves. Mom never appreciated me fighting for money because I came home half-dead. She never liked seeing me that way, but notwithstanding the fact that she despised it, she knew that this was the only way to survive. Albeit I work as a part-timer in a cafe, the intermittent subsidies were not enough to contrive everything. The Raven Foundation had three pro players, who were easier to take down with all the amassed information I received. Either way, they would have gone down since they require skills, something I was qualified at. I acted in a different way when it came to fights. My tactics were really easy to read: Kick them off balance, retrieve my weapon and make them accept defeat. Even when they knew all that, they converged more on my balance and how to cast and overwhelm me down. The rawness and absurdity of their impassive mind and body are just manifested in those words. Above me, the huge speakers that were outfitted on either facet of the arena's gallery rumbled in a familiar groan and I shuddered imperceptibly. The man-as I called him-named Jasper Lovetto gesticulated to a guy standing next to him. He was staring down at me-or that's what I thought, considering I was far off at a distance from him. And if I surmised it correctly, then the games were going to begin. The speaker rumbled again, this time with a succinct intensity, and I stood unafraid, adjusting the hem of my tank top. The day-star was sweltering and sultry, rays reflected against the mirrored downside of the gallery, shadowing my eyes as my head glistened with beads of sweat. I was used to this heat, but unlike yesterday and the day before that, today I felt a bit offbeat. My legs felt weaker and the more I stood on the wet pavement of the arena floor, the more I felt like I should leave. But no-this was it. This was going to be the last time I am ever contending against the Ravens, and I will make sure they never interlope with me, ever again. Jasper bought the mic above his jaws, at the apex of the lower lip. He inhaled and his sharp breath reflected through the speakers. His black orbs scrutinized the gallery as he slipped one of his hands into his pants pocket, simply in a neat motion. The scorching heat felt like it was enhancing every moment and I bit back the stinging sensation. Whatever happens, this is not the time to show my weakness. Dad always told me that manifestation of your delicacy is the last thing you want to show your nemesis. I clutched onto every word that he had for me because he was the whole tenacity I took up the career of a player. The man's eyes finally settled upon me. Even if we were off at a good distance-him above, and me below, I still felt like he was almost expecting to see what would become of me. This was my first time playing for Rivers foundation, and to see that an amateur who has just come into this game of death has risen to an even higher position than any of the other players who are pros, sounds a bit misleading to me. The way he plays his games are easy to understand: defense first, attack later. It is quite the piece of cake, but often the opponents fail to understand that, just like how they surmise I am going to lose. A moment of ponderous stillness crashed over, the silence of the mass of people growing. They were anticipating his words, they look up to him as if he is the one that created them. I didn't fancy a single thing he does; I never liked hearing his voice--a clear, ornate voice that was laced with an edge of poison. Even after the fights were over and the opponent accepted withdrawal, he would still keep knocking the crap out of them-which hurts, if you ask me. In short, he was a sadist. Lovetto cleared this throat and the sound rebounded against the gallery. I waited--patiently? Yes, and perturbed about the whole thing. "WELCOME TO THE DEATH BATTLES," his voice, that always had that power in them, were raised and the whole gallery rumbled and roared. The black flags poured downward and I managed to kick off most of them. The arena was quivering--thundering is the right word honestly. The cheers and howls were deafening and I found it harder to breathe. The never-ending hunger for seeing someone die could be traced in their voices. This was going to be worse than I thought. "CHEERS LADS," his voice rumbled again through the speakers and the crowds roared again. "EVERYBODY, PLEASE BE SEATED." Almost as if under a spell, all of them sat back in their places, the voices slowly dying down, although most of them were stamping their foot intact. He went on about how important this match was, who founded and co-founded it, how to win, and many things that were of no use whatsoever to me. My mind was revolving around a single solicitude, encompassing about me. I wasn't afraid--not at the way the crowd reacted, or of winning, I was afraid of how these people would react if I won. They were waiting to see me fall, and not to win. I tried shaking off the timid feeling that I was never coming out of the arena alive. What could possibly go wrong? Nothing, absolutely nothing. But my emotions were mixed, I had the feeling I would win, but as usual, it wouldn't be a satisfactory one. A small chill went up my body and as I glanced down at my feet that was sunken in the cold water, which was freezing more than usual, I realized that they increased the water's intensity. A cool trick--to help the player lose his balance, but no--it won't work with me. Nicole Vivienne Black, unconquered for five cycles, the best warrior of the King Foundations, I heard him say. It was exaggerated, the whole statement about me. I wasn't unconquered. I lost to Jack most of the time and that was more than amply to transcribe down that I wasn't the best. Also, the warrior was a wrong choice of word, instead, it should have been playing. It's been six years since I started and I won five times consecutively. Losing wasn't an elective in my lexicon, and it also meant severe punishments and training in our Foundation. The main part of the game was to kill the opponent, but I never had an exceptional resolution to do that. Even if the player left me in bruises, I left him alive. "AND AS FOR OUR PLAYER," Jasper went on with his bonker speech. "IT'S TERRANCE NIGHTMARE!" Funny, was the first thought I had. It's okay to have Terrance as a name for a kid, or a person--depending on the age. But Nightmare sounded like a bluff name that was exaggerated only to give everybody an idea that I am not somebody you should mess with. But honestly, the name didn't trigger me in any way. I fought against Tides and Knives-but Nightmare was a first. I chewed on my lips, trying to fight back the laughter that laid on the tip of my tongue. It wasn't too superfluous, yet it sounded ludicrous. But the crowd reacted in a different way. They stood up on their feet and kept howling and yelling his name, almost as if they were awaiting the arrival of a King who managed to kill thousands. Well, if he is this popular--then he got to be reliable enough of this fight. If he is going to have the name of a monster and compete like a loser, then I will have to kick the Raven Foundations for playing with me. I play because I prefer it, not because I want to frolic around. The cheering didn't die down. Not even after five seconds--preferably, it kept flowing. The opening to the arena floor creaked, slightly, as a huge figure stepped out in the searing sun. I inhaled deeply, as I watched the burly guards step aside for the player, and then closed the door behind. He took a few steps forward, away from the blinding sunlight, and roared. The impression of the crowd-as usual-was huge. But for some reason, I seemed to recognize this guy. I don't have any exceptional memory power but he kind of stole that peace from me. Where have I seen him before- He walked towards me, abruptly, startling me from my pool of thoughts and I collected myself, hoping this was not a direct attack, before the games began. He came to a halt, as he stood ten feet away from me, hands-on-hips style, and gazed down at me, given that he had his chin raised in a peculiar angle. He wore a loin-cloth, which was just beautiful and I bet the urge to laugh again. His eyes were furious--something that I don't encourage before the games begin. Because if you lose, then your pride goes along with it. His face was chiseled and I assumed his brown hair was neck-deep and they were fixed in a pony. His better build which was enhanced with a tanned complexion, was contrasted to pastel me. And his height was definitely a fringe benefit--he was way taller and his shadow loomed over me. I was used to people like this, they unmistakably came in bigger torsi. But nobody frets about how you are, all that concerns is winning. "We meet again, Nico," was the first thing he said. The voice--was unquestionably familiar. I tried bringing back my mind to years of history that was bottled up inside. Over the years, I had done many street fights. I never challenged anyone to a duel, they started all of it. Either they came over to me and Jack saying they want to fight, after seeing our performance. Or they simply came to pick upon us. For the most part, I know that I made a lot of enemies. Not my fault, it never was. They wanted to ace the Foundation that sponsors me, so if they lose, it's all on them. "You sure you wanna do this?" I found myself asking him, as I did a side-bend and a head drop. Pep talks were never part of my agenda once I meet my opponent. It was an immediate fight, doesn't matter if you start right away either, before the games actually began. Though I never favored it, I have come across a few who did that and failed imperfectly. "Is that even a question?" He grinned from ear to ear, and roared, which turned on the crowd to yell and howl profoundly. The cheers didn't die down like I wanted them to. Instead, it kept flowing, but this time, it was going to last till the fight ends. "Can't believe I am playing with someone tiny like you. Ravens need a break from throwing unworthy opponents." "Jesus Christ," I muttered to myself at his dumb alternative. Players never took me seriously contemplating how I seemed like. They often rumored that my Foundation was going nuts, given that, Lucius always selects players who are less inbuilt, but stronger in games. "Why do they never take the easy way." "Oh well," He said, his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk, as he came running, almost ripping the air apart with the increased force of his hands. I felt my switchblade unwinding heavy in my pants pocket. I charged. Cookies I said silently as I ricochetted swiftly like a high-jump athlete, casting out my switchblade mid-air, as I grasped Terrence arms elevated in my direction. Without a second thought, I sliced through the air, my body stabilized under my weight, and land foot-first on the course icy-water, my switchblade glistening in crimson blood. The battle has begun.