"Today's your lucky day. It gives the heart of a mountain lion!" His voice echoes—twice from the right, thrice from the left—through the vast training hall where stones rained just hours ago. I walk through silence, my steps heavy on the floor, passing strange equipment I can't name or understand.

"You've fought against it. I saw you from the audience, dueling the mountain lion that day."

He answers quickly, but I take my time, absorbing the room, letting it remind me of how small I am here. Minutes pass. My left hand wipes sweat from my brow.

My heart pounds as I approach through the open wall, only a dozen more steps until standing before him. On a plate before me lies the heart of a mountain lion—nearly twice the size of my head, orange and still pumping.

"Freshly from a battle of O27," he says, grimacing as he sits at the table—a polished slab of black and brown stone, veins of deep grey running through it. Five seats surround it. Old Wrinkle takes one.

I take my place, leaving four empty. "Why me?"

His frown deepens. Blue eyes fade into grey as they fix on me.

"Why you? Good question…"

His hands plunge into the lion's heart, dark Blue skin and clothing stained by it.

"…Better question, why Reds in general? Why use you for these duels, for fights in masses, in the Colosseum? Perhaps because you populate this world more than any other. You're livestock. Playthings. Short-lived—an average of eighty years at most."

He bites into the heart, then places a hand, smeared in orange blood, over a book cover.

"You have no value. That's why we use you for entertainment—to spare warriors, whose blood is richer, more delectable. Even I am of low blood, but your kind… You are to my kind as mortals are to gods."

He chews slowly, deliberately, nodding at me to eat as well. I swallow a mouthful of saliva, nearly gagging at the sight of orange blood splashing from the heart. His voice, muffled by the flesh, speaks with a strange calm.

"Well, you are the bottom of the food chain. You did the same with animals; some of you even bet on it. No different from us. We bet on you. Your fights, your deaths—they are a sport. And as for why you… Personally, I do not know.

"Mother Serena decided that, and her mind is a craft of its own. Everyone we picked, you or any other, had remarkable aptitude for taking blood."

He swallows, the orange staining the Blue of his lips and skin, and I can't help but flinch at the sight.

"No, even the worst Red has better adaptability than the mightiest Blooded, and yet… another, the biggest reason we use you in the Colosseum is that you can acquire the abilities of any color. Therefore, you Reds can entertain the masses at most."

He chokes slightly, curses under his breath, and leans over the heart to sip directly from it. I hesitate for a fraction, then tear a piece with my fingers, warm blood oozing over them, the taste rich and pungent, almost sweet.

I chew slowly, letting it slide down.

"As for me," he continues, "I am Blue. I can only gain something divine by drinking higher blood. Yours—Red—grants little except its taste. And yet, with it, the pyramid rises. Greens gain nothing from drinking mine or yours, but from Orange, Yellow, and higher. The chain climbs—"

He stops mid-sentence, lost in thought, gripping half the heart on his plate. I chew another piece, its aroma heavy, almost honeyed, filling my senses. Still, I nearly puke from the consistency.

"And to not take too much from tonight's lecture," he resumes, "I, like any other, can freely drink the blood of higher animals, for they are their species alone. The abilities you gain are triggered by something deep in your being after consumption. Animals—divine or otherwise—never trigger this. Nor can they corrupt you through the process."

He pauses, wiping the orange from his dark-blue hands, eyes wide, swallowing heavily.

"Eat the rest yourself. Read the first ten pages of the book." He taps it, leaving another smear of blood on the leather cover. "We'll discuss the rest later. I must go for a few long heartbeats."

No more than ten seconds pass, and he's gone. Silence follows. I am left alone with a quarter of the mountain lion's heart, warm in my hands, the metallic scent thick in the air.

-----A/N-----

—Bloody Potato out

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