In a fleeting moment, when time seemed to stand still, a sword soared through the air.

Moments later, that blade garnered the crowd's uproar and cheers as it clashed against another, casting silvery sparks into the air.

The man, himself a living weapon, wore a sinister smile as he relentlessly attacked, fueled by the escalating clamor. He was driven by an unyielding desire to emerge victorious. For he was a Warrior; defeat was not in their vocabulary.

Soon after, his opponent retaliated, slicing through cloth and flesh, splattering blood across the assailant's arms and the earth. The metallic tang of blood permeated the air.

All transpired within mere heartbeats. In the expansive sandy arena, reminiscent of ancient battlegrounds where survival hung in the balance, two men engaged in combat for mere amusement. Each step on the sandy terrain, each rock that impeded their movement, was part of the battlefield. With a decisive strike, the Warrior intercepted an attack and countered with a forceful kick. Bloodlust filled the air, invigorating him. His adversary was faltering, a prospect that brought him satisfaction.

It was nothing but a spectacle, a display illustrating the dominance of The Pure Race over the world. It showcased their might and supremacy. Untainted bloodlines remained unadulterated, resilient. They did not comprehend defeat and had no intention of starting now.

His rage-fueled cry pierced the air as he intensified his assault. A minor gash on his arm altered the stakes. It was no longer a game; winning was imperative. Losing was inconceivable.

Meanwhile, the remaining five Warriors, descendants of the initial breed, all Pure Blood men, awaited their turn to enter the fray. It was tradition. Triumph or perish. Failure to uphold their bloodline's honor was not tolerated. Here, lineage was paramount, a truth they must validate.

If they couldn't best an impure adversary, a mere semblance of a human animal, who were they? How could they contend with their foes, especially those wielding Powers? The answer was simple: they couldn't. Thus, when another Warrior, Kassian, muttered under his breath to conclude this charade, he lunged at his opponent with sword raised high. Moments later, warm blood splattered across his face. The figure before him staggered, then collapsed. The battle had ended. The crowd erupted in raucous celebration, endorsing their victory. The Pure Race triumphed once more.

As the Warrior removed his mask, an unexpected countenance was revealed. Not the sturdy youth with azure eyes the audience anticipated. No, this was a warrior of wars won, skilled in the art of precision, death, and torment. His eyes mirrored the blood he'd spilled over the years, icy and resolute, signaling an unstoppable force.

Swiftly wiping the blood from his face, he revealed himself to the onlookers. While they presumed he had just slain his adversary, he drew closer to his kin. One by one, they partook of the liquid on his hand—blood mingled with sand and sweat—feeling an empowering surge. A broad grin adorned Kassian's face as he patted his comrade's shoulder.

"Well fought, Arhe."

Arhe nodded and retreated to his position. They all knelt, heads bowed in unison, moving into the shadows. Behind them stood a line of new Warriors, just beginning their journey.

The crowd clamored for more, craving bloodshed and death. One voice rang out, echoing the ancient cry, "panem et circenses!" They knew nothing beyond this.

Swords plunged into the ground, signifying death to those opposed to the system, as the Young Warriors emerged from the shadows, embodying a strength inherent to their bloodline. Once again, they proved themselves to be the sons of their fathers.

A resounding shout pierced the once-boisterous arena: "We built this town!"