Mystic Eyes of Death Perception from Zero

"I'm so hungry..." Clutching his stomach, Graham felt it constantly protesting, and dizziness began to cloud his mind.

Three days had passed since his escape, but Graham, who seldom ventured out, had no destination in mind and could only wander aimlessly away from the Mathers territory.

Unbeknownst to him, he had crossed from the Lugnica Kingdom into the Vollachia Empire, a place that revered strength, was barbaric, and respected the mighty.

This nation was deeply xenophobic.

However, this so called xenophobia did not mean simply driving foreigners away. No...

Here; thieves, criminals, and abandoned children of the poor were all sent to the 'arena' to become 'sword slaves' and fight endlessly.

And someone like Graham, with an unknown background, feeble strength, and dirty appearance would undoubtedly be targeted and captured to become a sword slave.

At that moment, Graham encountered trouble. He was overcome by hunger and was penniless. He also lacked any useful knowledge of magic. In his weakened state, he was apprehended by patrolling soldiers and sent to a sword slave concentration camp.

Fortunately, upon arrival at the camp, he finally received a full meal.

It was halfway through the meal that he regained his senses... His face fell as realization hit him.

Seeing how eagerly he was stuffing himself just moments before, the surrounding soldiers mocked him with jeers, "Eat up boy, after all, this might be your last meal!"

The others camp mates (slaves) remained silent. Taking in their jeers, Graham realized something...

He was now in a country called Vollachia. He had been mistaken for an orphan by soldiers and they were about to send him to an imperial sword slave training island.

'Damn it all!' Graham cursed in his heart.

He understood all too well what that entailed. A sword slave was merely a toy for noble amusement and a lackey for their whims. Becoming one meant fighting in the arena daily.

Only the victor could survive and as a consequence, advance to the next match in a perpetual cycle until death.

This was the case, unless one's prowess earned the favor of the observing nobles, only then could they shed their sword slave status and become an exclusive enforcer for a noble.

It was an existence devoid of human rights, security, or dignity. And now, Graham himself had become a sword slave.

What an irony.

Suppressing his rage, Graham forced himself to remain composed. Survival was paramount.

***

"Hey there, what's your name? I'm Mickey."

While Graham sat in a corner conserving energy, a bright-eyed boy approached him with an outstretched hand as a gesture of friendship.

Graham however did not even spare the boy a glance, he continued to ignore Mickey in silence.

Here, everyone was a sword slave; in other words, anyone could be your adversary. The next moment was always uncertain.

Moreover, Graham had noticed the soldiers' sneers.

More precisely, they were mocking the children who interacted amicably.

Sword slaves did not have the luxury of entertaining emotions. They required only loyalty and the resolve to execute orders at the cost of their lives; nothing more.

Lyle, his late butler, once said that those who became sword slaves were executioners stripped of their emotions.

And how should one go about cultivating such a merciless executioner?

Graham felt he knew the answer all too well.

"You there! Come out!"

"Ah!"

As expected, Mickey—who had been ignored by Graham earlier—sought friendliness with other children only to be summoned by soldiers shortly after.

Those who accompanied Mickey were also his newfound "friends".

When Mickey returned after a while, he was covered in blood. Trembling, he clasped his hands tightly together and scraped them against the ground in a futile attempt to erase the fresh blood stains.

But the guilt of having just slain a 'friend' had already seared itself into his heart—leaving an inerasable mark.

Yes, being summoned by soldiers meant only one thing—a fight to the death. The victor would leave alive to await the next battle.

Moreover, there is a time limit in the arena, and if no one wins within that time frame, both contestants will be executed simultaneously. These are the cruel rules of the sword slave arena.

Therefore, in Graham's eyes, everyone around him was simply a potential enemy, as heart-wrenching as that was.

Making friends in this situation? Such an act could only be a fool's endeavor.

Looking at Mickey's current state drove the point home, his humanity was bound to fade away. Sooner or later he would become nothing but a beast that only knows how to fight and kill.

The second rule of the Sword Slave Arena dictates that victors are rewarded with food.

But looking at Mickey now; he had already vomited everything he ate in the morning. There was no way he could eat anything else any time soon. So if another match comes up, his death is all but certain...

In this merciless place, the inability to eat carries dire consequences.

Graham observed soldiers eyeing Mickey with derision, signaling the end of his journey.

As Mickey regained composure, a soldier singled him out, "You there! Come forth! The nobles have specifically requested your bout. Engage wholeheartedly and excel!"

Pale-faced, Mickey complied without protest, his legs quivering as he trailed behind the soldier.

Unexpectedly, Graham too was beckoned, "And you, boy... I somehow missed your pleasing appearance. I especially detest such types."

The soldier spitefully instructed a trembling Mickey, "Ensure you mar his face during the match, or you'll rue it later!"

Mickey's alarm contrasted sharply with Graham's stoic silence. The soldier's irritation grew at Graham's apparent indifference, prompting him to vent on Mickey.

Exhausted and subdued, Mickey could only nod in acknowledgment, his once vibrant eyes now bloodshot.

"Listen well, lad. Perform impressively," the soldier demanded, still discontented.

Graham remained unfazed, his resolve unshaken. He harbored plans to annihilate this contemptible soldier and topple the kingdom's tyranny.

"Sword slaves... Such a worthless bunch." Disgusted by Graham's nonchalance, the soldier cursed and led the way to the arena...

....

[T/N: it seems it's about to go down. A bit too fast paced for my liking, but meh, nothing I can do about it. Someone please educate me on POV's, the style of writing the author employed here is unfamiliar to me...]