The cold stale air woke him abruptly. Dusty ice sickles broke the sweet, yet brief reprieve from the brutal days- it was a stark reminder of his existence. The boy took in a sharp gasp, coughing immediately as the stale air of his cell filled his lungs. Day 763 in the pit - it was reaching the point where the boy could not count.

He sat up on his cot, ignoring the aches and wounds from the day before - he had grown accustomed to waking in pain. For a brief, blissful moment, the weight of this particular day had evaded his mind. For the time being, he was in his routine, waking a few minutes before the guards made their rounds, banging the cell doors with truncheons; he developed this routine as a response to the punishments he received for violent responses to the banging. Waking to the jarring sound evoked memories of a past best left forgotten. As such, by time the jailer came to his door, he stood at full attention, within clear view of the viewport. The jailer slammed the truncheon against the door all the same, though today he wore a sadistic smile, accompanied by a sadistic fire in his eyes.

That was all it took to remind Malakaii of what today was. His senses were suddenly bombarded by the events that had come to pass in recent weeks. Battles won, against the will of his 'masters'- and the price which they incurred. Today, he was to be punished for his defiance. Today he was to be made an example of. Suddenly the dull pain, which the boy was accustomed to, was flushed away and replaced by a chill that clawed at his lungs- dread.

It must have been clear upon his face, as the jailer let out a chortling laugh before spitting on the floor and moving on. He didn't need to say anything - the entire arena knew what was about to happen, and most were going to enjoy it.

With the jailer gone, and the dread set in, the boy decided to clear his mind and prepare for that which was to come. With a grace that seemed unnatural for one as tall and lithe as he was, the boy dropped to the ground- straight as a board. He caught himself inches before his face could collide with the cold dusty, durasteel surface of the floor, and began to exercise with push-ups.

Minutes felt like hours - reality was kept in check by counting repetitions. He reached 439 when the truncheon clattered against his door once more. Two curt knocks. The boy stopped, resisting his bodies instinctive response to flinch. He brought himself up to his full height, standing at attention, 7 feet away from the door.

While not particularly remarkable, the boy was large for his age - standing at 6'4" at the age for 15 - he still had room to grow. While tall, his frame was lithe, which meant that visibly he was not particularly intimidating. Even so, the two jailers that entered his cell (Different from the morning grinner), approached with caution.

The boy drew his breaths slowly, exuding a calm demeanor as he offered his wrists for their binding. There was no point fighting here - it was a waste that would result in a shameful show, and the boy refused to grant the masters such a pleasure. The bindings were cold against his wrist, and snapped into place with a low hum as the clamps magnetically sealed. The guards exchanged a slightly wearied glance at one another as the boy stepped forward - he said nothing, but his head was held high, and the gaze of his cold blue eyes seemed focused forward. He was not resisting.

The men gave him a gentle nudge on his lower back, commanding him forward, to which he obeyed. Up until this moment, the halls had been eerily silent, as his fellow slaves waited in anticipation for a fight. The moment he stepped foot out of his cell the silence was shattered, as a cacophony of chants in different tongues echoed through the slave pen's halls. Jeers and curses filled the air - along with no shortage of resonating bangs and crashes as the slaves gave to their baser instincts. One of their own was being led to the slaughter, and a bloodlust had taken hold - some that the boy thought were friends were among them.

The boy moved forward, unperturbed. This was nothing compared to what he was doomed to face. He steeled his heart, and walked with an unmistakable pride. That was what defiance looked like - he was a martyr. They all knew it. Yet what they did not know, was that the boy had no plans on dying today.

The guards led him through the winding corridors that laced the underbelly of the Colosseum - usually the crowds could be heard cheering at this point, yet this walk was different, as the sounds of the slaves screaming died down, replaced with the rhythmic thump of feet against the ground, broken only by the occasional hum of the restraints. As he walked, the boy's mind drifted to his uncle Cassus' words.


"Remember boy, rage is a tool - in the hands of an amateur, it is a risk, but in the hands of a Mandalorian, it is an asset. So tell me, which are you?"


The boy did not need to say it, as this was not the way. Instead, today he would show it.


The escort rounded a corner - ahead a small gateway was left ajar, letting bright light spill into the condemning corridors. He had walked this ramp many times, but this was the first time that the walk was not heralded by the voices of blood thirsty audiences. Instead, all he could hear was the methodical thump of feet against the ground.


As they marched closer to the light, the boy hummed a tune that the guards did not recognize - perhaps most slavers would chastise him for this, yet the guards opted to grant him this final grace - after all they were marching the arena champion to what they thought was his certain death. And it was indeed going to be his certain death, but not of his physical body. Malakaii Concordia, the boy who was raised an exile, then a slave, was going to die - and the man that walked out of there would hold his name, but nothing more of his past life. The last words the boy would utter were:

"Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an"