From Trash to Lord of Thunder: The Rise of the Cursed Extra-Chapter 59: The Locker Room

The roar of the crowd slammed into Charles’s ears the moment he crossed the stadium’s inner threshold.

"Let’s go!" shouted a girl, excited.

"Did he really break his sword!?" a man cried out in disbelief.

"No way! I bet everything on him!" yelled someone, clearly desperate.

"Finish him!" screamed another girl, thrilled.

The sound was real—physical—it vibrated through the air and made the walls themselves feel alive with excitement.

Applause echoed down the hallway ahead of him: wide, clean, with reinforced walls and polished stone floors that faintly reflected the light of lamps embedded in the edges.

Was there electricity in this place?

"This is on another level," Charles muttered to himself, amazed.

It was nothing like the training arenas he’d seen back at the clan.

This wasn’t some stone courtyard or open-air practice zone.

This was a coliseum.

And not a small one. The dimensions, the design—everything was built to hold hundreds, maybe thousands of spectators.

’This really is a damn professional football stadium made for death matches,’ Charles thought, swallowing hard.

Did all those people really pay to be here?

"No way! Get up!" shouted an angry man.

"No, no! That guy can’t lose like that..." another yelled, frustrated.

The shouting grew louder.

Voices cheering for someone, applauding actions he couldn’t see.

Cries of excitement. Collective euphoria.

And while Charles definitely wanted to see whatever fight was going on...

Right now, he had a priority.

He slowed his steps and muttered,

"System... please guide me to the locker room."

That was the most logical place he’d need to be to get into his match.

[Searching...]

[Location found. Displaying route.]

A blue arrow appeared in front of Charles, and he followed it without hesitation.

’Here we go...’

The path led him down a narrower corridor, then down a flight of stairs into a quieter area, far from the stadium’s noise.

The mood shifted. Here, the air was thick with tension—not excitement.

Charles entered a rectangular room with stone walls, long wooden benches, and a few hooks holding cloaks, practice swords, and half-empty water bottles.

There were at least a dozen guys inside.

Some were sitting on benches, others stretching on the floor or tightening their bandages.

All wore black tunics with colored trim—brown, blue, even red.

One of them, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, looked up as soon as he noticed Charles.

"And who the hell are you?" he asked loudly.

Heads turned toward Charles, and the tension ticked up.

Charles, a bit more used to this kind of tension by now, sighed.

"I’m Rian," Charles said, raising his hand in a casual greeting. "I’ve got a match tonight."

One of the guys, wearing a tunic with pure white trim, snickered.

"Seriously? What’s your rank?"

"Warrior," Charles answered calmly.

That was enough to trigger a few chuckles.

Another guy, with brown trim, clicked his tongue.

"A Warrior rank? What the hell’s a Warrior doing here? This locker room is for Custodians and up."

"Someone at the front must’ve screwed up," said another, stretching his legs. "Told them not to leave the doors to the trainees. Bunch of useless morons."

Charles crossed his arms and let out another sigh.

"If you’ve got a problem with me being here, we can settle it in a duel."

The moment Charles said that, silence dropped over the room.

A few guys turned to look again, this time with wider eyes.

One of them muttered:

"Guy’s got balls, huh?"

Another burst out laughing.

"I like him. Got some fire."

The one with white trim stepped forward, not hostile, just curious.

"When’s your match, Warrior?"

Charles raised an eyebrow and gave a small smile.

"I’m the last one."

That made them pause.

The nearest guy frowned.

"Last... You’re the closing fight?"

Charles nodded.

"Yeah."

One of the guys in the back let out a nervous laugh.

"You’re kidding. That’s gotta be a joke. A Warrior rank for the final match? Nobody’s buying that."

Just then, the door opened.

A servant in a white tunic stuck his head in.

"Taiven Draxel, get ready! You’re up!"

"Damn it!" cursed one of the boys, getting up from the bench with an annoyed look. "Just when it was getting good!"

He approached the door but looked back before leaving.

"You better tell me everything when I get back, assholes!"

The door slammed shut behind him.

Immediately after, a few of the guys stepped toward Charles, firing off questions.

"Who assigned you that fight?"

"Who’s your opponent?"

"Is this a test or a punishment?"

Charles raised his hands, not answering right away—he hadn’t expected this kind of reaction.

But before he could say a word, the door opened again.

A girl entered, walking with firm steps.

Straight black hair, loosely tied back. Crimson eyes that cut through the room like blades.

Her black tunic was flawless, and the trim was solid red.

No stripes, no accents like the others—just a bold, dominant red.

Silence.

Everyone shut up instantly.

One look from her was enough to command respect. You could feel the difference. Her presence had weight.

"Why all the noise?" she asked with a steady voice—no need to raise it.

Charles watched her for a moment before replying.

"These guys don’t believe I’m fighting tonight ’cause I’m Warrior rank," he explained, shrugging. "And they were about to start picking a fight with me."

Some of the boys looked ready to protest, but stopped when they caught the girl’s serious expression.

She looked Charles up and down, evaluating him.

"Kid, what’s your rank?"

"Warrior."

"And when’s your fight...?"

Charles smiled when he heard the question.

"I’m the last two matches of the night."

For a brief moment, surprise flickered on the girl’s face. Just for a moment.

Then her eyes narrowed.

"That can’t be," she said, crossing her arms. "Because I have the last two fights tonight."

Several of the boys turned their heads like they were watching a tennis match.

One of them—a short guy with glasses—gasped.

"Wait! So he’s the guy you were talking about, Razz?"

"The what now?" muttered another.

"I told you someone had the last two fights! You all called me a liar!"

"Having two matches in one night doesn’t really make sense..." the other replied.

The air in the room grew heavy with curiosity. Eyes bounced between the girl and Charles.

Charles, still calm, simply said:

"Looks like someone didn’t get the full info."

The girl, never taking her eyes off Charles, muttered:

"Either that... or they scheduled us against each other."

The tension thickened.

But Charles just smiled.

"That’d be interesting."