The shouts were louder today.
The entire arena was shaking—walls echoing with roars, stamping feet, and laughter too sharp to be real. Azeric sat on the cold stone, back to the wall of his cell, watching the dust swirl in the corridor as if it too were bracing for something.
Azeric's lip curled. The air reeked of sweat, piss, and old blood. And yet the crowd above howled as if the slaughter was divine—drunk on it, cheering like animals in heat.
He hated them. Hated the arena. Hated the way it reeked of centuries of carnage and worshipped pain as if it were holy. He hated the nobles who treated death like wine, the mobs who screamed for blood with mouths stained red from spiced fruit and rotgut.
His vision shifted. The system flickered open before him:
SYSTEM STATUS
ATTRIBUTES
• Strength: 12
• Agility: 10
• Endurance: 4
• Corruption: 14
Passive Skills
• [Pain Forged]
• [Repetition Stack]
• [Shadow Hand]
Combat Skills
• [Pulse Strike]
Trait Path
• [Silent Elimination]
MUTATION TIER I: UNLOCKED
• [Emotion Null]
He closed the interface with a blink. It wasn't enough. Not yet.
He needed more. More power. To collapse this pit of filth from the inside out. Every cheer above fueled his loathing. Let them laugh. Let them feast on death.
"Hey," a voice called out across the cells. A gladiator—grinning, gap-toothed, leaned on the bars. "You think if you die today, I can have your cell?"
A few laughed. Another chimed in, "He won't need the food either. I call dibs."
Azeric didn't answer, his eyes trained on the corner. He stood.
Across the corridor, near the shadows, he saw her—Little Rat. Curled in her usual corner like a shadow that never moved watching him.
She looked up at him, face half-hidden under her ragged hood. "If you die... can I have your food?"
He knelt slightly and patted her head. Dry amusement touched his lips. "I'm going to win."
She nodded slowly. Then leaned closer and whispered, "If you do... can you bring me his pouch? The one on his belt."
His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Just bring it."
He studied her for a moment longer, then said, "Fine. You owe me."
She smiled. It wasn't smug or sly. Just a small, real smile. And for the first time, after all the nights she'd eaten like a rat from his scraps, she looked like a little girl.
A guard's voice cracked through the noise.
"Azeric!"
He straightened, turned toward the pit gate. His name echoed again—louder this time.
The gate screeched as it began to open, gears clanking like grinding teeth.
"Now entering the pit—THE PRINCE OF DEATH!"
He flinched.
That was new.
They never gave him names. Only champions got names—monsters who had painted the sand red more times than they could count. So why now? Why him? It made his jaw clench.
He stepped through the gate, and the sound hit him like a wall.
The arena was full.
Not just with people—but energy. Frenzied, drunken, cruel.
They cheered. They jeered. Some laughed. Others screamed his name like they had always known it.
The pit was wide, sunken in the center, with sharp sandstone walls stained darker in some places. Above, torches burned in broad daylight, smoke mingling with the sweat of thousands.
He walked toward the center.
Then he heard the scraping.
Steel on stone.
Adol.
Dragging that massive axe behind him as if it weighed nothing.
The announcer shouted again: "AND FACING HIM—THE CRUSHER OF LIMBS, THE WARDEN'S HAMMER—ADOL!"
The crowd erupted.
Azeric's eyes locked onto the man.
He was massive, towering over the pit like a walking slab of violence, muscles packed over his frame with the density of stone, every inch of him bred to crush and dominate. The axe he dragged behind him was as wide as a man's torso, its jagged edge scarring the sand in a crooked line as he moved forward without urgency, as if this was already over in his mind.
Azeric didn't look away. He clenched his jaw.
"Kestel," he muttered, full of anger.
That bastard planned this.
Kestel wasn't simply pitting him against a brute for blood; he was branding Azeric, feeding the crowd a story they could scream for, a name they could worship or curse, a myth they could throw into the arena again and again until it broke or rose too high to reach.
The sound blurred. His heartbeat overtook it. Slow. Measured. Controlled.
Azeric flexed his fingers.
The air between them thickened, weighted with intent. Adol raised his axe slightly an acknowledgment.His smile wasn't wide. It was tight. Calculated. The man wasn't just muscle—he was trained. Bred for this.
"Combat Protocols Initiated," the system whispered in his mind.
[Passive Buff: PAIN FORGED – Active]
[Repetition Stack – Reset]
[Combat Sync – Engaged]
[Pulse Strike – Ready]
The signal was silent. But his body moved.
Adol stepped in first. Predictable. That heavy axe demanded momentum, and Azeric gave him what he wanted—barely shifting back just enough for the blade to carve air in front of his chest. Sand exploded where it hit ground, shards biting his skin. The crowd roared.
Azeric was already inside the arc. Close. Too close for Adol to reset.
He struck his blade flashing in the space between them as he swung his sword in a tight arc meant to open Adol's side. But the brute was fast—faster than his size promised. The axe came up just in time, parrying the strike with a resounding clang that vibrated through Azeric's wrist. Bone met steel. Sparks burst between them. Adol grunted, unmoved.
Azeric twisted away, landing hard, boots grinding into sand. The jolt throbbed up his arm, but he gritted his teeth and jumped back further, creating space. His wrist ached from the parry—but not as much as it could have.
Good.
The cloth he'd wrapped around the handle had cushioned some of the impact, kept the blade from rattling loose in his grip.
The axe came down like thunder.
He rolled.
Metal screamed past his ear. Sparks. Wind. Death inches away.
He kicked off the wall, used it to launch forward, hand sweeping the sand into Adol's eyes. It bought a second. Nothing more.
But a second was all he needed.
[Pulse Strike – Activated]
He drove his sword forward—angled low, thrusting the tip straight into Adol's gut. The blade bit through flesh with a thick, grating resistance, the shock traveling up his arm as if he'd stabbed into stone wrapped in muscle. Blood splattered, hot against his forearm. Adol's body folded slightly—not in defeat, but in recoil.
Azeric blinked, stunned—not from hesitation, but from the feel of it. It was like stabbing a tree. Not a man. The resistance hadn't been soft flesh, but something dense, unnatural, as if the blade had hit something grown from stone and war.
Then the axe came.
It swung up and Azeric barely saw it through the blood and grit. His instincts screamed. He jumped, twisted midair.
Steel hissed past his jaw.
It missed.
Barely.
But it cut through the air so close that several strands of his hair floated loose, drifting down like ash.
The crowd went wild—voices colliding in a storm of madness. They were shouting now, howling for blood. "
Cut his head off!" someone screamed. Others took up the chant.
"Off with it! Off with it!" The bloodlust was no longer theatrical. It was rabid.
Adol laughed.
The sound was guttural, soaked in blood and madness, like a beast too stupid to die or too cruel to know when it should. His hands still flexed around nothing, and his ribs leaking with blood but he stood tall, eyes lit with a fevered light.
"You're good," he rasped, voice thick with amusement. "Good for a whore."
Azeric smiled back, slow and cold.
"Glad you're enjoying yourself," he said, circling. "Though I should warn you—your hair's thinning. Must be all the rotting inside."
The crowd gasped and barked laughter. Adol's smile twitched. For the first time, it looked like a mask slipping—but only for a moment. He exhaled through his nose, steady, and the wild gleam returned.
The two of them stilled—each in a mirrored stance, weapons drawn, breathing heavy but eyes sharp. Sand shifted underfoot as they circled, the crowd screaming for more blood. Then they moved.
Azeric surged forward, boots tearing through sand. Adol charged from the opposite end like a battering ram loosed from its chains. The pit narrowed between them like a throat tightening for the kill.
They closed the distance like drawn arrows loosed toward the same point. Adol's swing came first—a brutal, arcing slash that promised to split Azeric in two.
But Azeric expected it. He ducked low, his own sword flashing up from below, aimed clean for Adol's waist—
—but Adol twisted, leg lifting, and drove his boot straight into Azeric's chest.
The air punched from his lungs.
He flew backward, hit the wall hard enough to rattle the bones in his back.
He couldn't breathe.
Adol was already moving, smirking like a wolf scenting blood. The giant didn't pause—he raced forward and rammed his full weight into Azeric's body, slamming him once more against the wall, crushing bone against stone.
Ding.
The chime rang clear in his skull, crisp as steel. Then the voice followed, low and absolute.
"[Emotion Null]: TRIGGERED. System Override Initiated."
It hit like ice—sharp and sudden—driving through his chest and flooding his veins. Azeric gasped, not for air, but at the shift inside him. His heart slowed. His thoughts narrowed.
Heart rate stabilized at critical threshold.
His panic dulled into static. Every movement became intention and his mind, clouded, became quiet.
He dropped to one knee, chest heaving. Adol came again, charging with blind momentum, ready to drive him into the wall a third time and end it there.
But Azeric's fingers moved first.
They closed around his sword's hilt, still slick with blood.
He pivoted on instinct, shifting just enough to avoid the full brunt of the charge. As Adol's leg came in range, Azeric thrust upward—aiming for the knee.
Adol saw it.
Too late.
His eyes widened, and he twisted mid-run, trying to shift the angle—but the motion only saved him from a full pierce. The blade sliced across the joint, a deep, meaty nick.
Blood sprayed.
Ding.
The voice followed again, a calm, neutral murmur inside his skull.
System Alert: Joint damage confirmed. Structural weakness detected.
Tactical advisory: Exploit left knee for maximum efficiency.
[Repetition Stack – 1]
Adol hissed through clenched teeth, staggering back a half-step, then barked out a laugh. "You're full of surprises. Pretty boy's got teeth."
Azeric rose to his feet, chest still tight, breath dragging in slow through his nose. If he hadn't had the system—if he didn't have that clarity now—he'd be dead. Simple as that.
The tremors in his body had dulled. The pain was background noise. His mind sharpened to a single, cold line.
He tilted his head, voice flat. "And you move fast for someone built like a barn. Guess miracles happen."
Adol's grin twitched, uncertain whether to laugh or lunge.