The Rise is a gritty, heart-wrenching, and wildly immersive dystopian saga that grabs you by the throat and drags you through blood-soaked arenas, haunted bunkers, and psychological minefields. The story follows Asher, a gladiator trapped in a collapsing society ruled by the tyrannical Renatus, as he battles enemies, inner demons, and a regime built on resurrection and control. Interwoven are the narratives of Cephas, Sarai, and Kenan, each fighting their own battles in a world where memory, identity, and survival are fragile and fleeting. What starts as a sci-fi gladiator tale quickly blossoms into a dark, emotional exploration of trauma, resistance, and sacrifice.

From the very beginning, the writing delivers an immediate and powerful impact. The opening scene with Asher squaring off against Apex in the arena, only to be unexpectedly spared by an earthquake, establishes a tone that is both cinematic and intense. One line in particular, “Small dust clouds emanated from the arena as if demons were casually puffing on cigars,” exemplifies the book’s vivid and lyrical prose. The language is unflinching and evocative, blending brutality with a strange kind of beauty. This isn’t a story that’s merely read, it’s experienced with all the senses: the dust, the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of broken bones.

What kept me hooked wasn’t just the action or dystopian drama it was the emotion, the broken relationships, and the aching humanity buried under all that chaos. There’s a scene where Asher kills a man in the arena who pleads for his life, and Asher mutters “Sorry,” before driving the spear into his chest. That moment wrecked me. It said so much in so little. Later, Sarai reflects on seeing her husband kill for sport, wondering if he’s still the man she fell in love with. These moments are quiet but devastating, and they made me care deeply. Even Cephas, a grizzled war dog, has scenes of real vulnerability, like whispering apologies to his dead friend Jude or drunkenly mourning what Eden should have been. The book’s moral compass is messy, but intentionally so because it’s a world where even the “good guys” aren’t clean.

The most unsettling character in the narrative is not Apex or any elite combatant; it is Renatus. His psychological unraveling is profoundly disturbing. In one particularly harrowing chapter, he is depicted hallucinating while fishing, speaking to a photograph of his deceased son as though it were alive. The scene is haunting, pitiable, and deeply tragic. His chilling assertion, “All good things require a sacrifice,” leaves a lasting impression. What makes Renatus so compelling and horrifying is not gratuitous malice, but his unwavering belief in the righteousness of his actions. Most disturbing of all is his consistency. The system in which he operates enables him to function simultaneously as both deity and monster. This is where the novel excels: it constructs a world in which power does not merely corrupt, it gradually strips away everything that is human.

The Rise left a lasting impact on me. The characters feel deeply authentic, and the stakes are both personal and profound. For readers drawn to darker narratives, flawed protagonists, and antagonists who are disturbingly human, this book is a compelling choice. This is not light or escapist fare, it is a somber, emotionally charged, and battle-worn epic that leaves a mark. And truthfully, that’s precisely what makes it unforgettable.