Prisoners kept coming in to the training room. Some were dragged in, some came in on their own will, but all of them were scared more or less. One of the four walls of the training room was covered with names. Names, pictures and descriptions. Descriptions of their deaths. It was all the people that died in the arena. Hundreds of them. And those that made out of there alive were colored yellow - only ten. That was when Luke realized his chances were slim. 

He swung at the punching bag repeatedly, hurting his knuckles. The gloves for that were available, but he didn't use them. He didn't know he had to use them. He wasn't a fighter at all. He was studying to become an english teacher, not training to be a professional boxer. Although he wasn't bad at hitting stuff.

Luke walked over to the weapon racks and widened his eyes at the sight of loads of weapons hanging. From simple knives to swords, from staves to nunchucks. Basically anything you could think of was there. There even was a shooting range at one side of the room with still and moving targets and packed with different types of guns. He stood there, near some girl with grey hair, looking for a weapon that would suit him.