Zharkov slowly walked out of the cave, letting out low and heavy breaths. He reached his arm out, grabbing the cyclonoid and crushing its headpiece in his hand before tossing it aside. The slave warrior made it through the ring- its location was all too familiar to him. Zharkov had walked to and from the ring almost all his life. Though the others saw it as a festival of beasts, to Zharkov, it was a morning commute.

As he found his way to the ring, hearing the crowd cheer, Zharkov raised his hands in the air to rouse excitement in the audience. He put his hands down and flexed, growling in a low tone as he waited patiently for his first victim.