Azeric groaned as cold water struck his face. He jolted upright with a shudder, the chill biting through skin still tender from bruising. Above him, a guard stood smirking, arms crossed, one boot planted near his ribs. "You're up. Thirty minutes," the man said, voice thick with amusement.
Around him, the barracks stirred with motion. Chains rattled. Weapons were being oiled and blades tested against stone. The air held the scent of sweat and iron, and every man within the room looked carved from something jagged. Gladiators moved with ritual calm, some sharpening their weapons, others muttering or praying.
The guard crouched and unlocked the shackle looped around Azeric's ankle. He chuckled as he did it, eyes flicking to the dark bruise along Azeric's jaw. "Took quite the beating, didn't you? What was it this time? Duke caught you in the Duchess's bed again. Gods know your face is too clean for the pit."
Azeric didn't answer. He rolled his shoulder with a wince and sat up.
"Good for you, though. You're protected," the guard went on. "If you weren't, you'd be hanging from the rafters by now."
Azeric gave a humorless snort. "Protected, sure. You can tell by how even the bruises are."
The guard stood and smirked, nodding as if amused by his own thoughts. "They should take better care of your body, considering how much coin it brings in," he said. "But the warden changed your slot today. No more staged fights or crowd-pleasing tricks. This one's real. You're in a proper match now--a fight to the death. Hope you know how to kill for real. Because this time, they won't stop it. Not until someone stops breathing."
Azeric laughed.
It came out rough and loud, the sound scraping out of his throat like it didn't belong there. The guard blinked, surprised.
"A real fight?" Azeric echoed, voice low. "You think those other matches weren't? They were still fights to the death. The only difference is that this time, I'm expected to die." He met the guard's gaze, something colder settling in his chest. "The duke must have paid more than the warden's greed."
"Those weren't shows. They were death matches." He wiped a hand across his mouth, the smile already gone. "Even when the warden gives his little warning, they fight to live. No one steps into the pit to let me win. They come for my throat either way."
The guard gave a quiet laugh, amused that the noble's favorite toy still had some fight left in him. "You're going up against Mountain Fritz," he said. "He likes to take his time. Breaks a man's legs first so they can watch the rest. Pray you live."
He didn't answer.
The noise beyond the gate thickened. The cheers rose higher now, unrestrained and hungry. Somewhere above, the arena roared with approval, and Azeric felt its pull like a storm waiting to swallow him whole.
He walked to the rack without a word and found his short sword with a hooked edge, brutal and inelegant, made not for show but for tearing. It wasn't balanced well. The hilt was worn smooth. But he knew its weight better than he knew most people's names.
He tightened the strap around his wrist and tested the blade's grip. No cracks. No chips. Still sharp enough to open bone. Good.
The gate creaked open.
The crowd spotted him first. Whistles broke through the roar, followed by a mix of jeers and shouts.
"There he is! Handsome little killer!"
"Go back to your noble's lap, pet!"
"Hope your face still looks that pretty after this!"
Some cheered--more for the blood than the fighter. Others booed with venom, eager to see him broken. Azeric didn't flinch. He'd heard worse. He moved toward the light without slowing, sword in hand, face empty of expression.
Let them scream. Let them hope. None of them mattered once the killing started.
Fritz entered the pit last, already grinning like a jackal. His bulk was thick around the middle, his arms meaty and sunburnt. He rolled his neck with a sick crunch and brandished his blade in showy circles, drawing cheers from the drunkest corners of the stands.
"They send you in polished?" he called out, voice thick with mockery. "Did your pretty lord kiss you goodbye too?"
Azeric didn't respond. He stood still, sword angled low, eyes tracking movement. He didn't need to answer cause Fritz would still keep talking.
And he did. "Maybe if you crawl fast enough, I'll let you keep your teeth."
Then the bell rang.
Fritz charged immediately, no buildup. A full sprint, shoulder lowered like a battering ram.
Azeric didn't backpedal. He sidestepped the rush at the last second, feeling the heat of Fritz's body rush past as the man overshot and stumbled.
The crowd howled.
Fritz spun with a growl and slashed in a wild arc. The blade hissed through empty air as Azeric ducked low, then slipped back out of range. He was studying the man's stance, the way his weight leaned forward, the slight stagger in his left leg. Sloppy. Confident. Predictable.
"You slippery little whore," Fritz snarled.
A pouch flicked into his hand--powder. Azeric recognized it instantly. He pivoted on his heel and drove his boot into the man's wrist before he could release it. The pouch burst in Fritz's own face, coating him in grit and bitter sting.
"You dropped something," Azeric muttered.
As Fritz coughed and reeled, Azeric stepped in and slammed the hilt of his blade into the man's ribs. Once. Twice. A crack answered the second strike.
But Fritz wasn't down. He stumbled back, drew a knife with his other hand, and came in swinging.
Azeric caught the arm mid-swing and twisted hard. Bone cracked. The blade dropped.
Fritz howled, then lunged recklessly, aiming to tackle him. But this time, Fritz's boot connected. A savage kick drove into Azeric's ribs--the same side still dark from yesterday's beating. Pain flared white-hot as he was sent skidding across the dirt.
Azeric's breath hitched, sharp and shallow. For a second, he couldn't move.
Fritz turned to the crowd with both arms raised like a victor, grinning through bloodied teeth. The crowd roared in response with screams, whistles, fists slamming against the rails.
Azeric spat blood. Then he pushed himself to his feet, slower than before, one hand pressed to his side. It still hurt to breathe.
Fritz didn't wait. He was already charging, bare fists swinging, the look in his eyes stripped of sense--just rage and the need to break something.
Azeric met him head-on.
He jumped. One foot planted against Fritz's thigh. The other landed on his shoulder. He pushed off and brought his sword down in a precise arc.
The blade cleaved through flesh and tendon, slicing into the side of Fritz's neck.
Fritz's mouth opened but no sound came then he crumpled around the blade, weight collapsing in an awkward sprawl.
The crowd roared when his body hit the floor. A dozen voices overlapped in praise and insult, demanding more.
The sword stayed buried until Azeric pulled it free with a hard wrench and the body slid free with a wet rasp.
Blood followed, spraying the dusty soil with red liquid.
Azeric lifted his hands and stared at the blood on his hands. It was warm, slick, and real and for a moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
He studied the red smears on his palm, flexing his fingers as if savoring the weight of it.
Then his gaze shifted to Fritz's body.
The man's hand twitched one final time, curling like it still wanted to fight. Azeric tilted his head, watching it with a strange curiosity. He walked over and gave the corpse a firm kick to the ribs. It rolled slightly with a fleshy thud.
So, this was what killing felt like--real killing. And he didn't feel broken.
He felt... good.
The scent of blood filled his lungs, thick and metallic, clinging to the back of his throat like smoke that refused to leave. He closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the weight of it to settle inside him.
It was not rage that moved through him, nor the hollow rush of revenge. What curled beneath his skin, what pulsed at the edges of his breath, was pleasure and that realization unsettled him more than the kill itself.
Then he heard it.
A noise, not from the crowd, but from within him. A low, insect-like hum rising behind his ears. It layered itself over the shouts, distorting them, until even sound felt distant. The hum became a pulse. Then something blinked into view--clear text, hovering just beyond his line of sight. It wasn't real, yet there it was, suspended like a ghost in the air. Azeric froze as the glowing words scrolled slowly in front of him, the hum syncing with each line as it appeared, mechanical and exact.
INITIALIZING CORE...
Azeric jerked back with a sharp inhale, He wasn't alone inside his head. The hum wasn't just a sound--it carried something with it. Then the voice came. Low. Detached. Male. Reading the words that floated in front of him like a second sky only he could see.
COGNITION STABILIZED. NEURAL LOCK COMPLETE. NOTED: EMOTIONAL STIMULATION DURING TERMINATION SEQUENCE. SUBJECT EXHIBITED ELEVATED SATISFACTION RESPONSE. TRIGGER DEEMED SUITABLE FOR SYSTEM INITIATION.
Azeric's heart pounded as his eyes started darting around. No one else reacted. The crowd still cheered; their screams undimmed. A guard was already dragging Fritz's corpse away like nothing had happened.
HOST SIGNATURE CONFIRMED. WELCOME, AZERIC
MISSION PARAMETERS: SURVIVAL. THREAT ELIMINATED
REWARD ACQUIRED: STRENGTH +2 -- AGILITY +1 -- CORRUPTION +4
WARNING: CORRUPTION EXCEEDS SAFE THRESHOLD. PROCEEDING ANYWAY.
Azeric's pulse spiked. His grip tightened without meaning to. But it wasn't cold anymore. It burned. His muscles twisted beneath his skin, tendons pulling tight like cords about to snap. Pain rippled through his back and shoulders, sharp enough to steal breath. His legs buckled. He collapsed to one knee, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
Guards moved in without ceremony, grabbing him roughly by the arms. He tried to resist, but his limbs didn't cooperate. His body twitched with spasms, strength unraveling beneath the weight of something unseen. They dragged him out of the pit and down the tunnel, jeers and cheers echoing behind him.
He was thrown into his cell like a sack of meat. He hit the floor hard, coughing from the impact. Sweat soaked his back. His fingers clawed at the stone, searching for an anchor, but the tremors kept coming like waves rolling beneath his skin.
Even with his eyes squeezed shut, the text still floated. A second sky burned behind his eyelids, pulsing in rhythm with every beat of his hammering heart.
WARNING: ERROR – PROCESS INTERFERENCE DETECTED. MULTIPLE SIGNALS DETECTED. CONFLICT UNRESOLVED.
... ... SUPPRESSING.
... ... SUPPRESSING COMPLETE.
PROCEEDING WITH VESSEL PROGRESSION.
WARNING: HOST TISSUE STRAIN CRITICAL. PAIN RESPONSE ELEVATED.
NERVOUS SYSTEM FEEDBACK TRIPLED.
Azeric's body convulsed violently. His spine arched off the stone as if an invisible current shot through him. A guttural sound ripped from his throat--part scream, part growl--as his muscles seized.
Pain fractured every thought, boiling in his nerves.
His nails scraped the floor, tearing skin as his hands spasmed.
His vision pulsed red, breath ragged, chest heaving. The agony didn't pass--it built, wave after merciless wave. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out, drawing blood as his jaw locked.
WARNING: PAIN THRESHOLD EXCEEDED. ACTIVATING EMERGENCY SUPPRESSION PROTOCOL. DURATION: 36 HOURS. SYMPTOMS: NERVE RESPONSE BLUNTED. SENSORY DISTORTION ENABLED.
The change hit him like a silent rupture. One second, he was drowning in fire. The next--it was gone. Not faded. Not eased. Just gone. Like someone flipped a switch.
His chest still rose and fell, his limbs twitching from memory of the agony, but the pain no longer burned.
Azeric lay there in silence, heart still thundering. But there was no ache. No strain.
Only the cold echo of what had just passed.
SYSTEM NOTICE: ADAPTIVE PROCESS UNDERWAY. ESTIMATED DURATION: UNKNOWN. UPDATE WILL RESUME UPON COMPLETION OF VESSEL INTEGRATION.
The voice had vanished. The text had faded. No sound, no words, no instruction followed. Only silence.
Azeric stared into the dark of his cell, heart still beating too loud in the silence. His hand trembled faintly on the cold stone, the phantom of pain still flickering through nerves now dulled.
No more voices.
No more lights.
Just the memory of something vast and impossible.
"Haaa." He dragged air out of his lungs. He pulled himself up. The pain from his earlier beatings and the one he got from the fight are gone. He moved his arms in circular motion but still, nothing hurt.
"What was that?" he whispered, staring down at the stone he had been writhing on moments before. His voice barely carried.
"What in the hell is happening to me?"
No one answered. Only silence.