by Ryan DeBruyn
He got to work. For the next few hours he went through every sword form and kata he knew, using the bedpost as a training sword. Pushing himself hard. After each form, he took a break to stretch.
His skill in swordsmanship climbed, but he knew this was playing with fire. Two issues existed in his strategy. First, he wasn’t going to sleep tonight, which could cause him problems in combat. Second, other than a small water pouch and some dried rabbit meat in his ring, he had very little else to sustain himself.
The more he exerted himself, the more his body needed to recover.
Azrael stretched out and sighed. He was counting on breakfast before the event—a last meal for the combatants. He didn’t think it would be fancy. In actuality, he assumed it would be gruel. He just prayed they would let him eat his fill!
Hours later, he succeeded and clicked the rank up option on swordsmanship.
Swordsmanship
● Swordsmanship skill will help you better wield any weapon classified as a sword.
Weak
● Chance of being disarmed reduced by 12.5%.
Moderate
● 100% more accurate with strikes.
Strong
● 10% increase to penetration power of the edge of any blade you hold.
Greater
● Increased damage by 1% per level in the skill.
Current Rank: Greater level 1.
Azrael smiled, and stretched out again. As he elongated muscles, he ate his single piece of dried rabbit meat and sipped his water slowly, attempting to make the dry meat more palatable.
His rank up gave him a chance, now he just needed to increase it. Azrael stood up, swallowed his mouthful, and got back to work.
Chapter Fifteen
The noises of people waking up and moving around began to echo through the cell block. Azrael stopped training with his makeshift practice sword. His body was drenched in sweat, but he had one final task to accomplish before too many eyes would be on him.
He pulled out his Sovereign Blade. Surreptitiously, he charged the edge with his max Ether pool and released the skill into his Soul Storage.
He managed to drop the sword into his Ring of Holding before collapsing. Azrael felt like a puppet with no strings. The ground rushed to slap him in the face, and he couldn’t even lift his arms to protect himself.
After training all night, with little water and practically no food, the one hundred percent drain of his Ether pool in a single go was debilitating. He gained back a semblance of awareness a few desperate heartbeats later. He tried to remove his cheek from the stone floor. His attempt caused his rear end, currently sticking up into the air gracelessly, to crumple to the side.
He focused on his Ether bar as it slowly ticked up. Was it slower than usual? That could be his imagination—he didn’t often make a habit of watching paint dry.
Slowly he managed to get into a seated position. His tired body fought him the whole way. He performed slow stretches, trying to avoid his body stiffening up in any way. Azrael’s current predicament reminded him of a lesson from Politics class.
Individuals on Gaia were protesting for a change to the way the system worked. If they succeeded, which large complaining crowds often did, then the system would automatically protect individuals from situations like his current one. The notion was to create a small, protected reserve of Ether in the body. In essence, protecting the idiots who couldn’t protect themselves.
I probably am not one to talk. Considering I am planning to do that again in the future.
Would a change mean he couldn’t use ten stacks of Soul Strike? His ability stated ten percent of his Ether pool, so perhaps it would adjust accordingly. The theoretical outcome of the bill was challenging to comprehend, and he gave up.
Once his head stopped throbbing and his body felt less rubbery, Azrael got to his feet. He used the rest of the morning to go through slow stretches and keep his body flexible. The cell door slammed open, accompanied by echoing crashes, indicating many nearby cells were opening. He stood up and placed his hands above his head. Not wanting to give a guard an excuse to abuse him. Again.
No one came into his cell.
He moved slowly to the door and peeked out. Sapients from every race he knew, and some he didn’t, were exiting cells and forming a line in the middle of the hallway.
He followed suit with a deep breath. He walked into a gap between a satyr and a mudcap. Neither one spoke to him. The cell block was silent. Azrael cleared his throat and confirmed that sound did still exist. A door slammed shut in the distance. The boom was loud in the stillness. That loud crash was followed by three more in quick succession.
Azrael stuck his head out of line and saw guards checking cells on both levels. Each time they got through with a cell they slammed the door. He had to assume a slammed door meant they were empty.
Peeking to the other side, he saw Torin on the ground level slamming a door and moving onto the next in line. Azrael expelled his air through his nose in a hiss, as he tried to control his disgust. Torin slammed the next cell, and a cry sounded. Someone was still inside, as evidenced by a pleading, “I can’t see well, mister. I can only see in a five-foot dome. If you lead—” A strange blue-skinned man came to the bars of the cell and was unceremoniously punched by Torin, which cut the prisoner’s pleading short.
Torin laughed happily and moved onto the next cell. That interaction told Azrael a lot, especially when combined with the subservience of the people around him. Something desirable, or good, came from this portion of the day. If they were lining up to fight, Torin would have dragged the blue humanoid creature out by his large wing-shaped ears. This was probably the line for breakfast.
Soon all the cells were closed, and the lineup began a slow march. The lineup was filing through the same doorway Azrael had entered through the previous night. Off to the side of that doorway, Torin stood leering at each prisoner as they filed past. Azrael dreaded each step, as it brought him closer to the toad. His body wanted to lash out and release his Soul Storage skill. If he caught Torin by surprise, the toad would be torn apart. Unfortunately, he needed the skill for the upcoming fight later in the morning, and he was pretty sure he would die a split second after the orc in that scenario.
Azrael walked by the Warrior, holding his breath, every part of himself on edge. He stepped through the archway and breathed out, his body relaxing. A glob of something warm and sticky landed on his scalp and neck. The viscous liquid was accompanied by a throat clearing sound. As it dribbled down onto his shoulders, he shuddered.
Torin called, “Looks like I missed a spot yesterday, noobie!”
What was it about Azrael that provoked the orc? He hadn’t done anything different than the others here. He wiped the mucus from his hair and neck. He shuddered again and threw it to the ground with a sickly plop. His eye twitched and he wiped the remnants from his hand onto his loincloth. His body convulsed when his eyes registered the yellow smear his hand left behind on the fabric. He clenched every muscle in his body to stop the shuddering.
You have been through worse. Bide your time.
Azrael’s tensed muscles drew him to an unintentional stop. The line kept moving, and he received a jostle from behind. Sweat broke out on his skin and he leaped forward to close the gap. He was dangerously close to holding it up.
Too late—Torin barked gutturally.
“Noobie! Out of line,” Papi, the Beastkin, shouted, from somewhere in front of the slow parade. Azrael hesitated a moment before his shoulders slumped. He better follow Papi’s order. No point giving the imbeciles an excuse. He stepped to the side. A few people gave him sympathetic looks, but most just sneered at his misfortune. A few even spat on him. He marked those that did. He may not be able to kill a guard yet, but fellow slaves in a battle? No problem.
A Goblin, an antman, an elf, a faerie, and a satyr. He would remember their faces.
As more people streamed by him, he felt his chest tighten. He knew who would be
at the end of the line—Torin.
The yellow fangs grinned at him from the back of the slow-moving group. He considered running, of joining the line again, of prostrating himself, but assumed the Warrior would react worse or the same in all scenarios. His weakened body tried to shiver, and Azrael fought with it.
How dare his body betray him.
Torin grabbed him by the back of the neck, and half led, half-carried Azrael through the halls. Like he was a tiny kitten. He was glad he hadn’t tried to release his skill on the orc; this show of strength was terrifying. He had earned Master rank, after all. Torin didn’t bang him into anything—this time. Azrael’s toes did drag along the rough stone floor, though. He could feel the skin peeling away as the slow trip continued.
Azrael bit his tongue and furrowed his nose. He would not scream or react. This ugly gorilla wouldn’t break him. His resolve hardened, and that small shift of thought did it. He would make anyone who wronged him pay. He was likely the most highly-trained combatant in here. He would be the first to make it out.
The reason for the lineup’s slow speed became obvious when they entered a cafeteria. Each individual waited to be scooped a bowl of porridge and took a seat to eat it. Torin stood to the side, still holding Azrael with ease. Once everyone had a bowl of gray sludge, the angry orc shoved Azrael through the area, and he received the remnants. A gray sludge, with blackened flecks adorning its depth.
Torin let him go. “Enjoy your last meal. It’s missing something, I think,” the orc moved to spit into the porridge.
Azrael jerked his bowl away, barely keeping the meal from being spoiled further. Torin walked away laughing. Azrael began breathing in and out rapidly. He could drop the food and attack it from behind…
No, he would wait.
He looked for a place to eat and got his first unimpeded view of the cafeteria. Near the two exits stood guards. Torin walked to one of the groups and joined Papi. They began chatting energetically, and Azrael thought he saw some Crystals change hands. Afterward, Papi walked away.
The rest of the massive chamber contained metal tables and metal benches—nearly every available surface in use. Azrael scarfed down his bowl standing, instead of attempting to squeeze into a seat. Row upon row of seating existed, but at a casual glance, the occupants seemed to grow agitated. Better not to risk it. Azrael had a Battle Royale to compete in later that day.
He almost spit back out his first bite, as it was burnt and spoiled. A debuff floated onto his interface. It had a picture of flies on red meat. He forced himself to swallow a second bite as he read.
Slightly Spoiled Food
● The food you recently consumed was spoiled. While it wasn’t bad enough to poison you, it was still detestably bad.
-1 Stamina, -1 Strength
Time remaining: 3 hours, 59 minutes.
He continued mechanically. Spoonful after spoonful until his bowl was empty. He didn’t have a choice after his night’s activities. Without food, he would suffer the Weakened debuff in the upcoming battle, and Weakened was a far worse debuff than Spoiled Food. According to his teachers.
He placed his bowl onto a growing stack and joined a line-up that began forming near the far doorway. Torin barked again and servants began clearing plates. It didn’t matter if a slave was finished eating. A few refused to give up their bowls willingly. Torin quickly rid them of their resistance.
Azrael was pretty sure the orc accidentally killed one of them. A neck just didn’t bend that way. The bodies were carried out of the room and he thanked his choice to eat quickly.
A lady then separated the line-up with a clipboard and two guards. She would either nod or shake her head as she passed. The guards responded in one of two ways—a nod meant physically maltreating the individual out of line. The shake meant a shove backwards.
Azrael was a nod and felt the guards grab his shoulders, lift him, and deposit him in the new line. After the woman finished this sorting, she checked through the room and shouted, “I am missing a few. Where are Bat, Goran, Heph, and Lito?”
Torin, who Azrael hadn’t seen leave, jogged into the room as if on cue and threw a bruised and beaten blue-skinned creature with the funny ears onto the floor. “Bat, ma’am! The others were disciplined for insubordination,” it reported.
The woman sneered at Torin. “Why is this one so beaten up, Guard? Have you been betting again? Wanting to skew the results in your favor, maybe?” The woman pointed her clipboard at Torin then the combatants all around them. “You heard the warning last time. You want to be one of them?”
Torin smiled at the woman and two guards. “No, ma’am! I bet on that scrawny runt near the front!” Torin pointed its yellow nailed finger at Azrael, and he felt himself stiffen. Why would Torin treat him like crap and then bet on him?
One of the guards beside the woman chimed in, “To die in the first one-hundred, ma’am. We saw Papi place the bet ourselves.”
Yeah, that made a whole bunch more sense. The bag of mucus was trying to hedge its bets after all.
His line started moving, so he missed the rest of the conversation. Azrael now had a goal and knew how to inconvenience Torin. All he had to do was survive. Since that was his original goal anyway, this knowledge fed him resolve. His skin broke out in goosebumps and he prayed to be able to see Torin’s face after the combat.
The line moved fast. Azrael filed into a circular room with a domed ceiling and numerous enchanted wood grates. One massive grate let in actual sunlight, and the sounds of the mob beyond.
In the very center of the room stood a handsome elvish man, wearing gold-brocaded leather armor, two beautiful gladiuses, and a red cape. His stance told of confidence using the weapons, and his threaded leather kilt told of his lack of a fashion sense. Azrael scanned the room to find numerous posters adorning the walls. Mr. Gladiator, in the center of the room, was featured prominently on one. He instantly disliked the elvish man.
“My name is Octorian, and I am the highest-ranking combatant, currently! I just passed the eleventh challenge for the eighth time. One day you can all grow up to be strong and—yeah, I am not reading this garbage!” the man exclaimed as he looked over everyone’s heads. Azrael followed his gaze to find a script hanging from the ceiling.
Octorian looked back down at the scared thousand or so individuals below him and stated, “You can never be as good as I am. I don’t see the point of lying. However, if you’re one of the last two-hundred surviving members in this entertainment—you will live until supper time. I would wish you luck, but if you don’t die here, you will likely die tomorrow, or the next day.” He pointed to a picture of a massive black mammoth covered in scars. “If you don’t die from the lesser mobs, you will one day face him.”
Octorian jumped down after his motivational speech and walked from the room. Well, that was melancholic. Even the strongest person here feared the final challenge of this place.
Azrael adjusted his earlier plans. He would find a way out of here, even if he had to dig every centimeter with his bare hands.
Chapter Sixteen
The thousands of different races stood around, shifting from foot to foot after the champion left. Azrael took the opportunity to look around the circular staging area. His entrance gate wasn’t the only one, as multiple other entrances and exits dotted the domed walls. Octorian walked through the only open one, and a grate fell from the ceiling behind him with an ominous crash.
Azrael’s eyes fell on Jophiel across the room, and he blinked. His heart crawled into his throat. He thought she had some form of diplomatic immunity. But she was going to take part in the Battle Royale as well?
He threaded towards her but noticed a guard strangely close to the woman on the other side of the nearby gated entrance. The two were clearly talking through the grate of enchanted wood. He had never seen this man before, but he looked to be a member of the arena guards. Their interaction made his feet stop and he froze. He backpedaled a bit, choosing to keep his distance and obs
erve instead.
Jophi made an indication to the man in his direction, and Azrael felt his eye twitch. Was she talking about him? He hoped she knew better than to tell others about his heritage. Oberan already knowing was bad enough.
He tried to fade back into the crowd and stopped again. His heart began trying to break out of his chest. He growled at himself to reduce his body’s reaction. Verimy stood at another grate, waving both hands at him. Azrael slowly moved to the entrance to join his former trainer. His heart refused to calm down.
Verimy could be the one who betrayed you. Trust no one.
“How is it that you are here?” Azrael asked. Looking past Verimy to find numerous combatants behind the man.
“This is where they brought Dara and I after they captured us. Still can’t figure out why the army was out there.”
Azrael thought about telling Verimy about Ogma and Jophi, but figured it was less important than surviving the upcoming battle. “Why did they let you all out of your cells?” Azrael asked.
Verimy shrugged and pointed to viewing ports set along the wall behind him. “They let us watch the combat, it seems. All the new combatants go through a Battle Royale. Dara and I went through ours a day ago. More importantly—do you have a strategy, kid?”
Azrael checked the people behind Verimy again. No Dara. He scratched his forehead and looked at the floor. “Kind of an obvious one. Try not to die!” He felt terrible about being flippant as soon as the words left his mouth, and he moderated, “Sorry I wasn’t there when you and Dara got taken.”
Why are you apologizing? He knows that. Idiot.
Verimy waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t be stupid! There was nothing you could do—we were glad you were away at the time. But in the end, you got caught anyway. Ignore that for now; we will talk later. Right now, you need a strategy to survive what comes next. My suggestion is to clear an area of combatants and hold that ground. Preferably a space near a wall.”
