"Transmigrated to Runeterra."

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Shortly after the end of the battle, amidst the applause and celebrations, we were guided by the guards to the dining hall. The treatment we received along the way was completely different from before, with the guards acting friendlier and even other, more experienced gladiators nodding in recognition of our victory.

On that day, we were allowed to eat and drink as much as we wanted, and all the prisoners—now official gladiators—feasted on the banquet. However, before Mark could join his companions in the festivities, two guards approached him.

"Gladiator, state your name!" the guards demanded. Mark hesitated slightly but quickly responded, "My name is Mark, sir." He answered respectfully, which earned him a few disapproving looks from the guards, but they soon faded.

"Which region are you from? I don't recall that name from any known area," the guard questioned, probing further. Mark quickly devised a plan and answered, "I come from a village of immigrants, sir, near the waters of Bilgewater." His response was simple and plausible; there was no way they could trace his past, and if questioned about his sword skills, he could simply claim to have been trained by a wandering swordsman.

However, the guard seemed uninterested in continuing the interrogation and snorted in dissatisfaction. "Follow us. There are nobles who want to purchase you from the arena. Lucky you," the guard said, motioning for him to stand up.

The entire dining hall fell silent as Mark rose. "Don't worry, everyone, I'll be fine. Good luck," he said to his companions, though a heavy atmosphere lingered at the table until he left the room.

As he walked through the corridors of the Arena, Mark noticed that the entire place was a maze, with countless doors and intersections every few steps. If there were an uprising, the prisoners would likely get lost in the corridors without finding a way out. The guards, however, seemed oblivious to this and moved through the passages with ease, as if it were a casual stroll. They soon passed through a large, heavily guarded gate, and Mark noticed a significant change in the environment beyond it.

He was now in the stands. "Follow us," the guard instructed. They ascended the rear stairs to the section reserved for the nobles.

As soon as he entered, countless eyes fell upon him, sending shivers down his spine. Those gazes didn't see him as a person, but as merchandise.

"He is quite handsome; he'll definitely fetch a high price today," a noblewoman remarked, smiling discreetly at her friend, who smiled back. "It's a pity that Lady Elise Zaavan is here today; she'll probably take him," one of the ladies said. Mark's heart sank upon hearing the name and glancing ahead.

There she was, a woman with an eerily seductive presence, staring directly into his eyes. Her blood-red eyes and alluring smile would have deceived many men, but not Mark, who knew her true nature.

"But there are two other significant figures present today, aren't there?" another woman chimed in, and Mark noticed two particularly intense gazes directed at him from a table reserved for distinguished guests.

There they were: Jericho Swain, the great Noxian general, and beside him, an unfamiliar figure with fiery red hair and eyes filled with murderous intent, signaling that he was dangerous.

A stout man entered the nobles' section and exchanged a few brief words with the guard who had escorted Mark. After furrowing his brow briefly, the man's expression shifted to a diplomatic smile as he stepped forward to address the nobles.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, this man before you is our newest slave!" the man began, presenting Mark to the crowd with great exaggeration. He claimed that Mark had killed his own parents at the age of five, stolen his family's secret technique, and fled to Bilgewater, where he lived a life of murder and pillaging until he was captured by a Noxian coastal ship and sent to the Arena.

Mark didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of many gullible nobles believing the story. Little did he know that this tale would earn him a terrible reputation that would complicate his life in the future.

"He is also extremely intelligent, fluent in Noxian and several other languages," the prison warden continued, gesturing towards Mark, who took a deep breath and decided to play along.

"My name is Mark, your excellencies!" he said, bowing his head and adding a touch of eloquence at the end. Years of experience in sales had sharpened his skills in flattery.

At that moment, the stares of Swain and the general beside him changed, and Mark felt another shiver as he saw Elise's smile deepen, as if she had found a new toy.

"I bid 1,000 gold coins," Elise's voice rose, causing the prison warden to halt mid-sentence and smile broadly at the offer. With those coins, he could buy five thousand slaves if he wished.

"Well, since Lady Zaavan desires him…" Before he could continue, Swain rose from his seat and approached Mark, silencing the announcer instantly and causing him to step aside.

Mark raised his head and met Swain's gaze, feeling as if those eyes, belonging to a man who had ordered the execution of his own parents, could see straight through him.

"You, gladiator, what is your name?"

"It is Mark, General," Mark replied, seeing Swain's eyebrows lift briefly before settling. It was not uncommon for people to recognize him. "Tell me, boy, what do you believe in?" Swain's words resonated within Mark's heart, and he took a breath before replying with conviction.

"I believe in power, sir. But not just in the power of strength, but in the power to make others submit," Mark's words caught Swain by surprise, and he nodded in approval.

"You will come with me," he declared, and no one in the room dared to object, not even Elise, who simply nodded in acceptance.

As Mark stared at the back of that man, he knew that an unsatisfactory response would have cost him his head, or worse. "Since you have pleased me, I will allow you to make a request. What do you wish?" Swain asked, without turning to face him.

"I would like to bring the Vastaya and the old man who were with me in the Arena," Mark declared, causing murmurs among the nobles, who called him foolish and naive. Swain silenced them with his next words.

"What is the reason?"

"Loyalty," Mark's words echoed once more in the room, and Swain nodded in satisfaction, making his way out while leaving a final instruction for the prison warden.

"If you don't want your head to roll for lying to a Noxian officer, I expect him and the two men he requested to be ready for my departure in 20 minutes." Swain's words left the announcer pale, and he quickly left the room, instructing the soldiers to guide Mark.

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