With mana and money all things are possible. Or at least, quickly creating decent armor that leans into my ‘demon queen’ identity is possible. In any case, these clothes are more comfortable, sort of. I have a shirt and chainmail covering my upper torso and right arm. I also have bandages and a sleeve over that arm, to ensure there are no accidental glimpses at the steel beneath. If there are, it will probably look like more armor, but you can’t be too careful. I also wear gloves on both hands, with a gauntlet fastened to the right sporting claws for each finger tip. The left has to grip my weapon, so that glove is simple, textured fabric.

  I also wear sturdy pants, a split chainmail skirt, and boots. All of the chainmail has a slight red stain to the steel. I wanted to enchant it with a circle to gather mana like my limbs and piercings, but I can’t figure out how to suppress the gathering mana if it is not actually connected to my body in some way. Instead, it is enchanted like the bracelet Ember first made me, to simply gather the excess mana from my still present cancer cells. It will help prevent any negative side-effects of having my mana suppressed, at least. To top off the effect, I wear a crown with a single horn protruding from the right side. My hair covers their connection on that side and makes it look like it grows directly from my head. My left arm and midriff are entirely visible. The now useless circle has been covered with new scars and art. The black and purple ‘bird of dawn’ tattoos on my arm and the multicolored tree on my stomach both contribute to the effect I am going for, as does the new navel piercing.

  I have more and higher quality protection than most of the gladiators, but not too much. I can pass it off as an effect of the costume as well as being a free and willing participant. And the work I have put into making my magic circle harder to break over the years makes what skin is visible a deceptively tempting target. They are going to need a lot more force than they realize to leave more than a nasty cut on my stomach. As for my arm, well I will teach them to fear proximity to that. All in all, I look like a proper barbarian demon queen. I look like Lillith. And I can finally breathe a little, although the chainmail still produces boob sweat at rates scientists previously thought impossible. But as a free competitor, I can go in public dressed like this and without the mail. I can’t avoid attracting attention for long, but I can make the attention I do attract expected and normal. I can even use a little light mana to change the color of the tattoos and pretend they wipe off, if needed. It’ll be tricky, but it’ll work.

  In any case, this should solve quite a few of our problems. I can even get to work on my new body modification ideas without causing too much of a fuss. People will simply think I am expanding my costume. Hiding in plain sight. Nothing can go wrong. Alright, yeah, a lot of things can go wrong. But out of my terrible options I think this offers the most freedom of movement, and provides an opportunity to get close to a sage. That’s once I register, at least. As soon as my face is that of a known gladiator, simply cosplaying the extremely smart, pretty, and talented Lillith of Endings, I can finally show my face outside of the inn and the library. For now, however, I wear my cloak over the entire getup.

  I follow Ember as the twins find seats. Apparently, volunteers for the arena are rare. Who could have guessed that? In any case, it is something of a treat for the bloodthirsty audience, and even the, hypothetically, nonlethal test to let me participate is broadcast to the crowd. I guess it’s a bit like American Idol but for public murder. So . . . a bit like American Idol. In any case, they get to watch to see if my plan comes together or comes crashing down around us all.

  We finally arrive at a closed door and Ember knocks far more aggressively than I would have thought was necessary. The prim woman who opens it doesn’t seem to notice at all, however, looking first at Ember and then me. “What is it?” She asks, adjusting her thin glasses.

  “My friend here wants to try for fame and fortune,” Ember intones, and the woman raises an eyebrow at me.

  “No, she doesn’t,” she determines. She’s right, actually, but wrong at the same time.

  “I do,” I insist. “I want to fight.”

  “Kid, you’re a full head and shoulders shorter than just about all the gladiators in this arena. The only people you look capable of fighting are the fodder used in group combat, and you aren’t winning any prizes joining their ranks, trust me. Go home. No one who isn’t forced to should fight here, much less someone who might need a stool to reach the top shelf,” she dismisses.

  “First fight’s supposed to be nonlethal anyway, right? Let me try,” I respond immediately.

  “Emphasis on ‘supposed’. The sage won’t order your death, and your opponent will be instructed to use nonlethal force to encourage surrender, yes. But no one will be punished if you die in an accident, and many of the people here will enjoy putting you in your place. If I had to bet on you surviving, I wouldn’t put money on it,” she explains.

  “You’re not convincing this idiot of anything. Just wasting our time,” Ember cuts in. The woman gives her a sharp look, but refocuses on me quickly. I nod, and she closes her eyes and begins to rub her temples in exasperation.

  “Fine. Come in,” she orders, standing to the side and allowing us to enter. We walk into a comfortable but humble office where she sits behind a desk and pulls out a blank sheet of paper. “What’s your name,” she asks.

  “Call me Cordelia,” I answer cheerfully. She sighs.

  “Call you? Is that your name, or isn’t it?” she asks.

  “It’s my name,” I lie.

  “Alright, Cordelia. As I’m sure you know, our gladiators always have an alias and persona. Sometimes based on past sages, sometimes on past criminals, other times on legends or fairy tales. These are usually assigned after a few fights, but free gladiators are allowed to choose their own. I’d make a recommendation but we don’t have any famous bean sprouts in fact or fiction, I’m afraid,” she continues. I lower the hood of my cloak, giving her a decent look at me for the first time.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Lillith,” I smile. “Demon Queen Lillith.” She gives me a blank look for a moment before her lack of amusement weighs her lips down and adds ten years to her face.

  “Sage’s grace,” she whispers, writing a few notes on the paper. “Well, if you survive you’ll certainly make a name for yourself quickly. And if not, well. At least the sage will find it amusing to watch you lose. Alright. I’ll see if we can’t make room for you today. Usually a few fights end more quickly than we’d like. There will be room in a bit. When you head out there, wait for the announcer to mark the beginning of your match. You can surrender at any time, even before the fight starts. I strongly advise you to do so when you see your opponent. If you feel fear, that’s for a reason. Your mind is telling you that you are in over your head.”

  I nod. “Thanks, you’ve been a huge help,” I answer. I could quip back at her, but honestly she was genuinely trying to help me. I look like I am eighteen or nineteen, and I am in fact almost a full foot shorter than the other woman I saw competing. Even without grief she was putting effort into sparing my life and I’m not getting persnickety over that. Now, over her choice of job? I have some comments. But those would look pretty obviously suspicious in my current position.

  It’s maybe an hour before they have a moment for me, and the weary woman leads me through the gate inside, past the other gladiator’s cells, and to the waiting area just inside my gate to the inside of the arena. I left my cloak and, regrettably, my hammer in her office. Apparently giant warhammers aren’t allowed in supposedly nonlethal fights. She didn’t seem to believe I could use it effectively anyway, considering its size. I get a few whistles and crude comments from the rowdier gladiators I pass, but most can’t be bothered to even look. I ignore them for now, and my escort secures mana suppression cuffs around my wrists and neck. I feel immediately sick and my artificial limbs almost collapse from under me, but as I suspected, these work like regular cuffs less than the more intensive riot spikes. As such, mana quickly flows back into them, the sickness recedes, and I am able to stand.

  “Sure you’re up to this? If you are feeling woozy, follow that instinct,” the woman tries one final time. I nod anyway.

  “Oh, I am ready,” I insist and she sighs.

  “Fine. The announcer is getting the crowd excited for the fight now; when that stone by the entrance lights up and the gate begins to open, walk out so he can introduce you. Good luck, try to surrender before there is nothing we can do.”

  I nod again, and she shakes her head, then turns and begins the trip back to her office. Well, that was easy. It’s pretty gross how easy, actually. The only real barrier was the woman who walked me here trying to talk me out of it. Well. Whatever. This arena won’t be around when I am done with this place anyway.

  I can’t make out the announcer’s voice, although I am closer than many of the audience members. It must be intentionally muffled here, in case they want the crowd to be excited about something the gladiators are unaware of. I wait for a few moments in the eerie quiet until the stone lights up with red mana, creating a flickering red path for me to walk on. The gate slowly slides open, and I walk forward as instructed. The sounds collapse on me all at once, cheering, laughter, and the announcer’s voice. I feel so cold.

  “Aaand here she is! Our first volunteer in nearly six months, and with a chosen persona straight from the third plane! Competing against the Rogue today, in her debut match, hoping to qualify to fight her way up the ranks, we have a contestant wearing a name you have all heard! A name whispered by your children as you check beneath their beds, and a name shouted from podiums and plastered on posters across the Republic! As prophecy foretold, today we will witness the fearsome, the evil . . .” The announcer trails off as the sun touches my skin and the illusion in the air reveals my face. My black hair and ruby eyes. My colorful body art. My angry glare. “The Demon Queen Lillith!”

  The crowd erupts into cheers, laughter, gasps, and every other flavor of reaction. I look at the man waiting for me in the center of the arena. He is larger than me, but smaller than most other gladiators. He wears a mask and hood but no shirt. There are scabbards for various missing knives strapped to his body in multiple places. His eyes carry hate.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” He shouts, his voice amplified for the crowd. “I will make certain you regret it.” I lift my hand to the back of my neck, cracking it instead of responding. I lift my fists and spread my feet, getting ready for combat.

  “Looks like our demon queen is ready to go!” The announcer says. “Now remember, this is a nonlethal fight, but that doesn’t mean it's nonviolent! Anything your opponent can survive is allowed, but nothing with the clear intent to kill. As both combatants are ready . . . Begin!”

  The moment the final word is said, my opponent is moving. ‘The Rogue’ is fast. Considerably faster than I expected. The gap between us closes in the blink of an eye and his boot is colliding with my chest, knocking me not only off my feet but a few paces backward. My head collides painfully with the dirt and stone. I think of the past. I let the momentum carry me, lifting my legs and rolling backward and onto my feet again. He clicks his tongue at me as I ready myself. Again he charges, this time swinging an angry fist into my cheekbone. I breathe in the pain. He clearly expected me to fall to the ground again, pausing for a brief moment as my sharp eyes cut into his. It is only a moment, however, and he swings his other fist into my solar plexus.

  My thicker skin there takes a huge amount of the impact, but he isn’t a gladiator for nothing, and he knocks the air out of me easily. When I stand through that as well, he grabs my shoulders and drives his knee directly into the same spot before lifting my torso, moving his hands to my head, and forcing my face into the same knee. I feel my nose crack and taste blood as he grips my hair in both hands.

  He yanks once, then twice, then three times. Trying to throw me to the ground, each time failing to move me. I continue to glare daggers at him as he widens baffled eyes. Finally, he grabs both sides of my head and rams his own into my already aching nose. He does this two more times to daze me before picking me up by the throat and throwing me onto the ground. The world blurs around me. I drink in the pain. I own it completely. He kicks me. Stomps on me. Screams at me. Every blow takes me back to the past. To the moment when I earned each one.

  I don’t know how long this goes on. He must kick me dozens of times as I lie on the bloody stone. He keeps going until blood fills my mouth and bruises decorate my body and face. Eventually, he must come to the conclusion I am unconscious, because he stops, turns, and begins to walk away. The announcer is saying something, but I don’t care. That was enough. That was enough for today. I’m not cold anymore. I’m slow. I’m deliberate. Each movement hurts, but I climb to my feet. The Rogue and announcer pause at the same time, and the former turns to look at me.

  “Just give up so I don’t have to kill you,” he orders. “It would be a waste, oh ‘demon queen’, of what might be a pretty face under that hideous costume.”

  I spit into the dirt, leaving a new spatter of blood next to the others. He sighs. Again he closes in on me in an instant. Again he swings at my face. This time, I catch his arm with my right hand, and swing my left once, hitting him in the head. I don’t use all of my strength, but I use enough. As I hold the unconscious man up by his arm, I look toward the crowd. For a brief moment, the arena is completely silent.