They threw him in like a sack of meat.
Azeric hit the stone floor shoulder first, the rest of his body dragging in after, heavy and unmoving. The door slammed shut behind him, iron on iron, and the guards' boots walked off without a word.
He didn't rise.
He had expected the system to respond—like it did during his first training, triggering recovery. But nothing came.
The other gladiators didn't care if one of them had fallen and he was left there as night fell. The floor stayed cold under his back. His breath rattled in his chest as the darkness engulfed him.
A lone guard doing rounds through the training yard passed and accidentally stepped on his body. He prodded Azeric's body with his boot—heel pressed hard into Azeric's ribs to test if he was conscious. Azeric didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just lay there like stone, unmoving beneath the pressure.
Luckily, that guard has enough humanity to drag him back to his cell.
SYSTEM ALERT: VESSEL DAMAGE CRITICAL.
INITIATING REGENERATIVE SURGE PROTOCOL…
PAIN RECEPTORS OFFLINE. CELLULAR RECONSTRUCTION INITIATED.
TIME TO STABILIZATION: 00:05:21
His eyes were closed, but the numbers glowed behind his lids.
Regenerative.
He could see the countdown, seconds ticking in clean white light.
He muttered under his breath, lips barely parting, voice dry as ash. "Took you long enough."
He felt like he'd been dropped into the abyss. The floor beneath him was no longer hard. The sounds outside the cell were distant—muffled by something thick, like water.
As time passed, the timer drained.
When it reached zero, the first sound that pierced the numb silence was the faint clink of a plate—metal against wood.
He opened his eyes. Pain carved up his spine.
He turned his head slowly, vision blurring as he caught movement. The crude table inside his cell had something on it now. A small bowl. Bread. Meat. Water.
And something else. Movement.
He grabbed it before thinking—reflex alone.
A sack?
No.
Cloth.
He held it up as it squirmed.
A face appeared beneath the folds. Wide eyes. Blue. Filthy cheeks. A thin trail of snot from her nose.
A child.
He'd seen her before, wandering near the lower tunnels, slipping between the cracks like vermin. They called her Rat.
"What are you doing here," he asked, voice rough.
The girl flinched. She didn't speak. Just trembled.
He narrowed his eyes. "Talk."
She squeaked, barely louder than a whisper. "I… I smell food." Her head lowered. "I want to eat."
His gaze shifted to the table, then to the girl.
It was lined with food. More than usual.
He thought about kicking her out, just tossing her like the rat she was, small and trembling but something in him held. She had the same eyes, wide and pale, that impossible shade of blue that haunted the memory of Artemis.
A name he never uttered for a long time.
He put her down without a word and turned his back. Walked to the corner and dropped to the ground again.
She wasn't worth his time.
Or so he thought.
He tried to sleep, but the sound of chewing grated on his nerves—sharp, fast, like a rat gnawing through wood. He cracked one eye open and saw her crouched by the table, devouring food with both hands as if someone would snatch it away at any moment. She choked once, coughed violently, then shoved a piece of bread down with a gulp of water.
He watched her for a while. Dirty, snot-streaked, but fast. Clever.
Someone like that could be useful.
His strength wasn't enough to stand against Adol—not yet. But he could use her.
He sat up slowly, body still sore from the reconstruction, and asked, "Can you slip to the southern side of the arena?"
The southern side contains the cells for the champions. He heard that the cells there were bigger and the food are better.
She froze. Her fingers stiffened around the bowl. She set it down.
"I can," she said slowly, eyes wary. "For the right prize."
He gestured to the food. "You ate my meal."
She shook her head. "Not enough. I could die if they catch me."
Azeric smirked faintly. She may have looked like a rat, but she wasn't stupid.
If she got caught, she'd be executed on the spot. Head clean off. Or one of the champions might kill her first. Either way, that side of the arena was death.
However that didn't matter to him.
"If you want payment, then tell me what it is," he said.
She blinked at him, as if deciding how much to risk. Then: "I want Jat to stop bothering me."
Jat. The name clawed through his memory.
A skinny mole of the warden's, pretending to be a gladiator. Azeric had seen him once, slipping out of the warden's office. A snitch. Dangerous.
It was risky. Interfering with him might draw attention.
But if Azeric wasn't caught, it could work.
He smiled without warmth. "You go and tell me what Adol is doing, his weapons, his movements. You understand?"
The girl nodded once.
"How about Jat?"
"I'll take care of him,"
He laid back down and tried to sleep but the sound of chewing picked up again. Irritating.
"Take the bowl and go," he muttered.
She snatched the food and vanished like a shadow.