Azeric sat still, legs sprawled in the dirt, arms resting on his knees. His breath dragged slow from his lungs—not depleted, but close. He'd pushed his body for days, burning through every ounce he could spare. But not everything. He couldn't afford to collapse. Not tonight.
He flexed his fist. Fingers curled tight, slow. The tension remained in his muscles. The ache crawled through his limbs like fire under the skin. The numbers had moved—but barely.
Strength: 12
Agility: 8
Endurance: 4
Corruption: 8
His jaw tensed.
That last one hadn't budged. Corruption. The others crawled up like molasses, but that one held. No matter how much pain he poured into the dirt, no matter how many hours he bled under the sun.
He sighed through his nose, low and sharp.
There was only one way to make it jump again. He could feel it. That same pulse beneath the surface, like a rope tied around his spine, pulling toward the same answer.
Blood. Not training. Not repetition.
His eyes narrowed.
He could test that theory tonight.
He stood, slow, spine cracking under its own weight. The guards were pacing the yard again. One scratched his jaw. Another barked at a gladiator too slow with the sandbag. Azeric barely looked at them. He scanned for one face.
Jat.
He spotted him just past the edge of the barracks wall, half-hunched over in conversation with two others. He laughed at something, sharp and nasal. The others joined in, but their eyes flicked to the ground as they chuckled, as if embarrassed.
Probably mocking someone. Probably someone already dead.
Jat liked to twist the blade after it hit the gut.
Azeric's lips pulled into a dry smirk.
Better keep laughing while you still have your tongue.
He'd seen it before—gladiators talking too freely around him. Then dragged out the next morning. Beheaded by noon. Warden claimed it was for disobedience. Azeric knew better.
Jat was the reason.
The mole.
He moved like he belonged here, but Azeric knew the truth. He was a gladiator by name only. He had his own private cell, untouched by the filth of the others. Some said he was a bastard of a noble, slipped into the arena as punishment. Azeric knew that was just noise.
He had that cell because he was useful to the Warden.
Azeric thought grimly. Like me.
Azeric had studied him. Days of watching, tracking. Jat trained just enough to keep the act alive. Then he'd slither between conversations, talking with anyone stupid enough to think he was one of them.
When the sky went red and the sand cooled, Jat slipped into his cell and when the torches were lit, and most men were too tired to move, he'd sneak to the Warden's office.
Like clockwork.
Azeric watched the man now—same routine. Same wormy grin.
His hands clenched again.
Tonight, that grin would cost him.
He waited for the noise to die down, then carefully walked toward the hallway to the east. When he went to the Warden's office last time, he noticed a stretch where the light from the torches barely touched. That's where he stood now, a simple sharpened piece of wood in his hand.
He waited. And true to his routine, Jat came—draped in a robe, his face cloaked in shadow. But Azeric knew. That walk. The left foot heavier, dragging just enough to mark him.
He slowed his breathing, stayed still, eyes closed, listening. The sound was sharper here, like the shadows deepened it—every footfall magnified, every scrape a signal. His world narrowed to that rhythm, that drag-step cadence.
When the footsteps reached his side, Azeric moved.
His left hand clamped over Jat's mouth before a sound could escape. He pulled the man's body against his own, and in one precise motion, drove the sharpened wood into his neck.
The gurgle of dying breath filled the corridor. Wet, ragged. It clawed at the walls and echoed faintly down the dark stone. Jat's body twitched once—then stilled.
Azeric felt the man's weight sag into him, heavy and final. His fingers were slick with blood, the warmth still pulsing between his knuckles. The scent rose quick—metallic, thick, unmistakable.
Azeric lowered the body slowly, silently as the faint metallic ding rang again.
SYSTEM UPDATE: UNSANCTIONED TERMINATION DETECTED
ANALYZING MOTIVE…
He looked around before slipping back toward his cell before the blood could even finish pooling.
Back in his cell, he took the bloodied stick and fed it to the flame of a lamp, watching it blacken and crack as it burned away to ash. There was no hesitation and no pause to reflect. His movements were methodical, detached.
He checked the display, but there was no update.
He crouched by the basin, hands moving on their own. The blood clung stubborn to his skin, seeping into the cracks of his knuckles. He scrubbed until the water turned dark, then tipped it out the narrow cell drain. Refilled. Scrubbed again. Not a smear left.
Even when the stain faded, the heat of it lingered beneath the skin.
He set the empty bowl down, aligned it perfectly with the wall. Then sat. Still. Waiting. Watching the last ember of wood collapse inward into dust.
Then another faint metallic ding rang in his ears.
His gaze snapped toward the source. A glowing string of text unfurled in the corner of his vision, stark against the dark. Then came the voice—low, clipped, and toneless.
SYSTEM UPDATE: UNSANCTIONED TERMINATION DETECTED
MOTIVE ANALYZED.
HOST ACTED WITH INTENT. THREAT CLASSIFIED: INDIRECT. OBJECTIVE CONFIRMED: TACTICAL ADVANTAGE SOUGHT.
REWARD ASSIGNED:
+1 AGILITY
+3 CORRUPTION
TRAIT SEED UNLOCKED: [SILENT ELIMINATION]
PROGRESS: 1% – PRECISION PATH INITIATED
NEW PASSIVE DETECTED:
[SHADOW HAND] – MOVEMENT SUPPRESSION ACTIVE UNDER LOW VISIBILITY. +25% STEALTH EFFICACY WHEN UNOBSERVED AT NIGHT.
STATUS: DORMANT UNTIL HOSTILE CONTACT RESUMES.
NOTE: PSYCHOLOGICAL DETACHMENT FROM UNSANCTIONED KILL NOTED. MUTATION COMPATIBILITY INCREASING
He was right.
Killing was the key.
He looked again at the floating text. "Unsanctioned," he muttered, eyes narrowing. So the system recorded it—watched him. Monitored even the kills it didn't ask for.
He smirked. Let it watch, then.
His gaze flicked over the numbers. The corruption increase was less than when he fought Fritz, which had given him +4. But more than Roy—only +2.
Why?
He didn't know. Was it because of how clean the kill was? Because it served some hidden tactical layer? Or maybe the system measured something deeper.
His eyes moved to the new trait—Silent Elimination.
"Good," he muttered.
It aligned with what he did tonight.. A clean death. No noise. No mess. Something that would help him kill more—stealthily, precisely.
He read further. Passive.
That word again.
If it was passive, then it meant... what? He read on the text. Getting the grasp of it.
He sat down more comfortably, shoulders loosening for the first time. So it worked without command? Not something he had to summon or speak aloud. Just there—woven into him now, like instinct.
"Got it," he whispered.
Then another word blinked at the bottom.
Mutation.
His eyes narrowed again. Another word he was probably never taught but that was fine. He'd learn what it meant—probably after the next kill. The system liked blood, and blood seemed to be the answer to everything.
He lay down, and the floating text dissolved—as if the system itself knew he was finished.
Azeric grinned into the dark.
Somebody was watching him.