A sharp tone cracked through his skull, not heard but felt—like metal scraping against bone from the inside. The same voice echoed again, precise and detached, without urgency or warmth.
SYSTEM ALERT: LETHAL INTENT DETECTED. HOST WITHIN KILL RADIUS.
Azeric's eyes opened to motion. A blur of steel glinted in the half-darkness, already plunging toward his throat. There was no time to think. His right hand surged upward, intercepting the wrist mid-swing. The blade halted, locked in place by brute instinct and the weight of a man who had no room left for hesitation.
The man above him bared his teeth. There was no humor in it. Only hate.
"You'll die tonight," the man said, voice low but steady. "No one will miss you. No one will speak your name when you're gone."
The attacker leaned over him, body heavy with rage.
He knew that face. Blood-smeared, tear-streaked, jaw clenched with the same hatred Fritz once wore.
Roy. The brother.
Roy's grip didn't falter. If anything, it pressed harder.
Azeric could see it in the man's eyes—he wasn't here to win. He was here to kill.
Roy pushed down, knuckles white. Azeric's arms strained as the edge inched closer. Heat spread across his forearm as the blade grazed flesh, drawing a thin line of blood just below the chin. The muscles in his shoulders screamed, but his body locked against the weight.
Roy's breath came hot and ragged. "You should've died yesterday. Just like he did."
The words barely landed. Azeric's focus never left the knife. His legs shifted beneath the weight. He didn't speak.
SYSTEM DIRECTIVE: HOST UNDER THREAT. TASK GENERATED. ELIMINATE ATTACKER. REWARD ACTIVE.
REWARD: STRENGTH +1 | CORRUPTION +2 | ADAPTIVE TRAIT PENDING
Roy shifted his stance, trying to twist the blade. Azeric reacted. His leg coiled and snapped upward, slamming into Roy's ribs with a brutal kick. The man flinched. It was enough. The knife slipped. Azeric twisted his hips, rolling out from under him as the blade clattered across stone.
He didn't go for it.
He went for Roy.
One hand grabbed the front of his collar. The other drove a clenched fist into his jaw. Roy staggered back. Azeric followed, forcing him down. They crashed against the floor, the stone cracking beneath the force. Azeric's knees pinned Roy's arms. Blood smeared between them.
His hands wrapped around Roy's throat and squeezed.
Roy thrashed beneath him. Fingers clawed at Azeric's skin. His body jerked. He coughed blood, spat curses. None of it mattered.
Azeric's grip didn't waver. He kept his weight down, pressed harder until Roy's fingers slowed. His limbs kicked once more, then again, weaker. The light behind his eyes slipped into something empty.
He waited another breath. Then another.
SYSTEM UPDATE: THREAT NEUTRALIZED. REWARD PROCESSING...
Azeric stood.
Roy's neck bent at an unnatural angle. One eye was still open, mouth slightly agape. Blood ran in slow rivulets from the broken nose and down into the cracks in the floor.
Azeric looked down at his own hands. Skin coated in blood, dried and fresh layered together. The smell of it filled the air—iron, sweat, and heat.
He stepped over the body and walked toward the blade that had almost ended him. He picked it up. Cheap make. Dull edge. Poor balance. Still sharp enough to kill if driven hard.
He slipped it into his belt without a glance.
His steps left prints in the blood smeared across the stone. The warmth of it clung to his soles, sticky, dragging. Behind him, Roy didn't move.
From the corridor beyond the bars, heavy boots struck the floor in rhythm. At least three sets. Getting closer. Voices low and fast, distorted by echo.
Azeric didn't move.
Three guards appeared at the gate. One stepped in first, eyes falling on the corpse sprawled across the floor. The stench of blood hit them immediately. Roy's body lay twisted, the neck broken clean. His eyes still open. His mouth frozen mid-snarl.
"Gods-damned pitspawn," the first guard muttered, stepping closer with a scowl. "Couldn't wait to kill each other in the arena like the rest of them."
The second guard kicked the blade from Azeric's belt. It clattered against the far wall.
"On your knees," he barked. "Now."
Azeric obeyed slowly. The knife was gone, and he was already bleeding. Resistance was pointless.
The third guard crouched over Roy's corpse and spat on the floor. "Another mess. That makes 4 bodies in a week. Warden won't like it."
The first one grabbed Azeric by the arm. "Warden won't care who started it. Just that one of his money-makers got turned into meat."
The second added, "Drag him to the basement. Warden wants a word with him on day break. Said we can't have the other gladiators getting any bright ideas about killing him off before the schedule."
Azeric's ear twitched as he heard that. Damn it.
"And what about the body?" the third asked, standing up.
"Clean it," the first replied. "Burn it. Feed it to the dogs. I don't care."
Two of them hauled Azeric up by the arms. They didn't bother being gentle. One elbowed him in the ribs when he didn't move fast enough. The third stayed behind, muttering curses as he knelt by Roy's body.
As they dragged him out of the cell, Azeric said nothing. His feet left more bloody streaks on the stone.
One of the guards chuckled under his breath. "We should just name that isolation cell after you. You've been in it more than your own quarters."
"So who paid this time?" Azeric asked without looking at them. "Someone's always paying."
"No names," the one on his left muttered. "We're not told. Just orders. But word is, that last win in the pit made you real popular again."
"Must be nice," the third guard said, sneering as he opened the door. "Some of us work for coin. You just lie still for it."
The other guard laughed tauntingly. "He gets paid to be pretty."
Their eyes swept over Azeric as they moved. Hair soaked and clinging to his jaw, streaked in sweat and dried blood. The color caught the torchlight—something between tarnished copper and burnished gold. His tunic was torn again, barely holding at the seams, exposing shoulders hardened by years of pit work.
But even covered in filth, even half-dead, he looked like something made to be admired.
They dragged him down the steps. The scent of mildew and piss thickened with each step. Lanterns lined the walls but burned low. When they reached the bottom, they didn't take him to the medic's quarters. They turned left, toward the smaller hallway.
The isolation chamber sat at the end. A box built into the stone. Too low to stand. Too narrow to lie flat. There was a bucket in the corner and nothing else.
They threw the door open. One shoved him forward. He landed hard on his knees.
"Sleep tight, champion," one of them muttered before the door slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed him.
He stayed still for a long moment. The air was damp, the stone biting into his knees, the bucket in the corner already stinking. The cell was too small to stand. He could only crouch or curl. But for once, the stillness didn't threaten him. No one could reach him here. No blades. No voices. No crowd.
He actually felt safer in this box than anywhere above.
Then came the sound.
A soft ping, too clean for the filth around him.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: DELAYED REWARD PROCESSING COMPLETE.
UPDATED ATTRIBUTES – STRENGTH: 10 | AGILITY: 7 | CORRUPTION: 8
NEW TRAIT: [LOCKED] – ADAPTIVE MUTATION PENDING
Azeric blinked, chest rising once in the dark. The cold hum returned like it had never left. He sat back against the stone wall, breathing slowly as the words hovered in his mind. Mutation. Adaptive.
He raised one hand toward the floating words, fingers slow, uncertain. The air didn't resist, but something in it shimmered when he reached close. The letters flickered, responding like heat bending metal.
He stared for a long second, then let out a dry breath.
"What the hell is this," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes narrowed slightly. He remembered the first time he saw the numbers back in the pit. The system had flashed them across his vision. They were lower then. Strength, agility, something called corruption. He hadn't understood it.
But now, after each fight, after each body, they climbed. Always climbing. Each kill added the numbers.
He shifted forward onto his knees and pressed his palm against the stone wall. He opened and closed his fist, watching the way his fingers responded—faster, more precise, almost disconnected from the pain he should've felt.
Then he drove that same fist into the wall.
The stone shuddered. A deep thud echoed in the chamber as dust rained down from the ceiling and cracks webbed faintly across the surface. He pulled his hand back slowly. Blood smeared his knuckles, torn skin split across three fingers.
He looked around the cell, breath still sharp in his chest. He had punched this wall once before, in this very room, months ago. Back then, it didn't move. It didn't even crack. His hand had split open from the impact, and the pain had lasted for days. But now—
The stone had shifted. It trembled under his strike. Dust fell like the cell itself had flinched.
Was he really getting stronger?
He stared at his hand. No pain. Then ran it once through his hair, brushing the dust from his scalp.
He remembered the words again. Emergency pain suppression.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
If all this was real...
If the numbers, the flickering text, the strength in his arm, and the deadened nerves were real, then he wasn't losing his mind.
"If this is madness," he said quietly, "then let it keep going."