The gates slammed behind him.
Azeric didn't look back—not at the pit, not at the blood, not at Adol's limp weight being dragged through the opposite exit by three armored guards. Somewhere above, the crowd still screamed, feeding on victory like vultures at a feast.
Gladiators leaned forward as he passed, the corridor thick with sweat and tension.
"That was a damn fight," someone muttered.
"I lost silver on it," another growled.
Azeric ignored them.
He moved fast, slipping past the barracks where fighters sat nursing wounds. Past the bruises, the stares, the whispered awe. Straight to his cell—the only place in this arena not built for show.
Because of the floating text.
Kill Status: UnconfirmedExecution Denied — Target Vital Signs Stable
Rewards Granted:• ENDURANCE +1• AGILITY +1
Skill Note: [PULSE STRIKE] — Cooldown InitiatedTrait Update: [Emotion Null] — Override lifting… Neural pressure decompressing
WARNING: PAIN FEEDBACK RESTORINGPrepare for delayed trauma response.
Azeric clenched his teeth.
That last line said everything.
He shut the door behind him and leaned hard against it, breath hissing between his teeth. Pain surged—not in fragments, but all at once. Like floodgates bursting open.
He barely made it to the edge of the bed before his body collapsed inward. Every bruised inch lit up again—like old wounds reignited. His muscles trembled. Not from strain. From the weight of everything returning.
A groan tore from his chest—low, guttural, forced from cracked ribs and bruised lungs.
SYSTEM ALERT: CRITICAL PAIN THRESHOLD BREACHEDWARNING: Neural stress exceeding safe parametersHost Integrity Risk: HIGH
Override Protocol Initiated• [EMOTION NULL] — FULL OVERRIDE• [PAIN FORGED] — Limit ReachedTriggering Emergency Dampening Measures…
No interface this time. Just the voice—flat and final.
He lay still, staring at a crack on the wall while the fire in his nerves dulled to a slow burn. Not gone. Not healed. Just receding, like a tide drawn back by force.
And then the line that unsettled him most:
Kill Status: Unconfirmed
Adol was still breathing. Maybe.
He stared at the rewards the system gave him. One point of endurance. One point of agility. Scraps. Not even a confirmed kill.
He didn't feel relief.
He felt cheated.
All that pain, all that fire—and the system treated survival like a footnote.
Time passed. He didn't know how long. Just the ache in his limbs, the bitterness in his jaw. Then the door opened. Someone sat across from him—quiet, composed.
Kestel.
He didn't speak.
Kestel did.
"Congratulations," the man said, voice easy, lips curled in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That was a beautiful fight. The best I've seen in years. You filled the pit. Even the nobles stood."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"'The Prince of Death.' They're already calling you that outside the arena. You should hear it. The way your name drips from their tongues. Gold flowed like wine tonight."
Azeric said nothing. His pulse throbbed under the surface—still, silent. But seething.
Kestel didn't notice. Or didn't care. He kept talking like Azeric was a product finally polished enough to sell.
"So," he added, voice casual, almost bored, "what do you want for it? Woman? Food? You've earned your pick tonight."
Still no answer.
Kestel stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. "Keep this up," he said, heading for the door, "and maybe you won't need to entertain clients anymore."
The door clicked shut.
Azeric's fists curled until they shook.
More than pain. More than exhaustion. This—this was what truly churned inside him.
Disgust.
Later, when he stirred, he heard the faintest sound.
Bare feet.
A hand touched his.
"Are you dead?" said a small voice.
He let out a short breath—a dry chuckle pulled from somewhere too deep to be real.
"Little Rat."
He reached to his waist and handed her the pouch.
She opened it.
"Blue flowers," she murmured, a smile in her voice.
"You planning to poison someone?"
"Dried. Like herbs," she said, huffing as if insulted. "They don't look like much, I know. But they keep well when dried right. Hold their strength. Crush them. Boil them. Chew them. They still work. I'll give this to Malley."
His brow furrowed. "Who's Malley?"
"She works in the kitchens. She's pregnant. That flower's good for pregnancy."
Azeric studied her. "How do you know that?"
She shrugged. "I learned when I was small."
He squinted. "You sure? Adol doesn't seem like the type to stash herbs for pregnant women."
Little Rat scoffed, sharp and indignant. "It's not just for that. It stops bleeding. Numbs pain. Soldiers use it when wounds are too deep to stitch. Maybe he kept it for himself."
Azeric gave a dry smile. "Sure," he muttered, not caring. Not about Malley. Not about kitchens. Not about anything she was trying to save.
She lingered, looking at him like she expected more.
"You owe me for that," he said, voice low.
She nodded. "Yes."
He flicked his fingers. "Go."
But before she turned, she pulled something from her pocket—a bundle of bitter leaves. Shoved them toward his mouth.
"Eat," she said. "It'll make you feel better."
Then she was gone.
He chewed without thinking.
Bitter. Sharp. Earthy.
The kind of taste that clung to your tongue like dirt and smoke.
He didn't know why, but he finished every leaf.