Beyond the invisible barrier, outrage exploded in a hail of insults and abilities. If Otis had the energy to raise his gaze from the new opponent, he would have seen the crowd disappear behind a wall of reverberating mana as the invisible forces struggled to contain the amalgam of different energies.

  "HEATHAN!"

  "THIEF! THIEVES!"

  "MURDERER!"

  Cries of outrage merged into one unintelligible hubbub of voices. Introducing a new opponent like this was sacrilege to the arena's own ideology; it was money taken from gambler's pockets; it was orchestrated murder, not fated survival. Whether the boy survived or not, no one cared, but it wasn't fair. The arena, for the first time in its history, showed itself to be rigged.

  Above the Arena, the situation was no different. The VIP clientele were outraged. Chrysos stood with his back to the men and women behind him, flanked by his two personal bodyguards. If it weren't for the bloodthirsty aura that seemed to emanate from behind the helmets of the two guards, the guests might have taken their upset to violent ends.

  They could be outraged, Chrysos didn't care anymore. He had been painted into too tight of a corner to allow the boy to live so easily. If those mysterious forces weren't satisfied it didn't matter that he had the most exclusive arena within the territory of The Veil, not as a dead man. Through gritted teeth, he had introduced the guardsman sent to finish the job Fell Hound failed to complete. Even now, his arms shook with the force he bore down upon his lectern. It had been close but not nearly close enough. Even through the heat of his anger, Chrysos struggled not to be impressed by the feat. The boy struggled but overcame the beast in a way that higher-level combat-focused classes would struggle to achieve. If he didn't have to perish so soon, Chrysos would have enjoyed marvelling at many more seemingly impossible feats the boy may yet bring. Perish though the boy must.

  Amidst the rampant support for his survival, Otis stared towards his new opponent, unaware of everything. The man before appeared rugged, trained in combat, but depressingly fresh. There wasn't an unpolished surface on his jet-black armour. His pauldrons and several segments of side armour were highlighted in gold so bright he appeared to be missing portions of his physiology. There was no doubt in Otis' mind that this was an execution, that every moment he wasn't dead was granted only at the whims of the man before him. Against the shine of the Na'tan's armour, a mana-restraint should have been easy to spot but there appeared to be nothing, not even a feeble band.

  In moments, the guardsman had advanced within striking distance, his face stern but not much older than his own. A disarming strike sheered through the remaining debris that made up Otis' shield. A bloody arc trailed after the sword, that remained blemishless. In the path of absolute strength, there was no possible way of defending. Time seemed to slow in that moment, so as to almost feel still. From start to finish, the soldiers' brown eyes never left his own. The stinging vibration from the head of his war hammer shattering against the blade of his opponent felt like nothing even as the shards cut his face. His opponent was immovable, unrelenting... simply better. Otis barely registered the movement before he felt the sudden impact.

  "Uh."

  It felt as though he had been punched in the gut and, in effect, that's exactly what had happened.

  --------

  Na'tan had been aware that his involvement in this fiasco was dishonourable, that his opponent had won against already weighted odds, but they had been orders. There was little room for negotiation as a guardsman. When he had emerged from the tunnel, his distaste for the situation only strengthened. His eyes never left the target but his senses were more then sharp enough to detect the outrage of the fans let alone the state of his opponent. The boy's defences were in tatters, he was clearly exhausted, and he had thick wounds gouged into his cheek. The Fell Hound was a beast known for its unending endurance, without time to rest there was little risk of sufficient retaliation from the boy. There was no honour here.

  Whilst he pitied the target, he had been given a job to do. His advance had gone unchallenged. The boy had a crafting class so there was nothing for him to do. There were no spells, no pets or summons, no arrows. Still, even if this had been the case the level disparity suggested that any such confrontation wouldn't present many meaningful challenges.

  Dispatching the boy's defences was easier than battling a child. If his shield hadn't been in such a state of disrepair maybe it would have been harder, though he had cut deep into the meat of the slave's forearm in a single strike. There was no doubt in Na'tan's mind that this wouldn't last long. Even still, the boy's ability to take such a blow and attempt to return with one of his own had been surprising but easily dealt with. His own armaments were the likes the smith would have never seen before. His armour and sword were at the disposal of the arena, they were made for more than a level 2 blacksmith. The hammer had erupted into shards of broken metal, the moment his blade dug into the inferior material his opponent had been permitted to use. Further injured and fully exposed to his calculating eye, Na'tan could have skewered any number of vital arteries or organs. Piercing the boy's gut was trivial and lacklustre but this was a show and he wanted explicit command to be given, lest he be blamed for killing the boy without consent. Chrysos would take the blame for this death.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Looking up at the VIP box, the golden skin of his employer shone brightly. The moment his eyes met the Overlord that familiar pressure descended. Whilst he only needed a momentary nod of affirmation, he knew Chrysos wanted to distance himself from the outcome of this fight too. Perhaps gravity would remove the issue for both of them if the boy collapsed on the blade.

  Staring towards the VIP box, Na'tan was certain the boy had been disabled, he was weak, run-through, bleeding, and heavily fatigued. The guardsman was actually somewhat amazed the boy hadn't fallen already. Hopelessly outmatched the boy could have grown. It was such an immense waste of talent.

  The sudden shifting of the weight on his blade was the only warning the guardsman had that something had changed. There ought to have been a downforce caused by the blade trying to cut through the metal armour the boy wore. Instead, there was only a slight up-and-down motion. Sharp as it was, the blade cut through flesh and gut without exerting any pressure.

  Only the vastly superior reflexes he had cultivated saved him. The first twitches of Chrysos' widening eyes, the shift of the light at the edges of his vision, the dirt beneath their feet crunching. At level two the boy had no right to mount an attack and yet Na'tan's heart grew cold.

  It had been child's play to bat away the spiked stump of the hammer's handle, even so close to his face. So certain of his victory, he hadn't expected the real attack to pierce his eye. Twisted back by the sword's parry, the boy's wrist sheered back effortlessly as the handle was knocked from his grasp, likely causing some a severe sprain. The mana-imbued blade hidden within the bracer shot out from beneath the wrist. At such a close range, there was little he could do but blink. Albeit harder than Otis' own, the eyelid was still too weak, too thin, to resist mana-imbued metal. Pierced through the eyelid, the blade continued through Na'tan's eye.

  Otis didn't know whether it would be possible to penetrate the bone that formed the eye socket. He knew there was every likelihood he couldn't break a femur or rib... but he made the gamble anyway. He didn't know that the eye socket had an average thickness one hundred times less than the femur, he didn't know that he might be able pierce through the optic nerve. This was a final assault, a last-ditch effort, and in Otis' mind: it was cool.

  The hidden blade ensconced within his bracer shattered the last thin layer of bone with a pop before lodging itself in soft grey matter.

  Na'tan went still, his thoughts slowed. What he should or could do never came to him. The two opponents fell to the ground with a thud. Even without the invisible shield around the arena not a sound would have been heard. The crowd were silent as they watched the Fates dispense Fortune.

  Otis slipped on the polished, armour as he reached mouthfuls of blood. Each of his hidden blades, one jutting out from each bracer, cut at Na'tan's face as he clambered atop the man, who lay desperately confused. The man who didn't even look like he was in his thirties was emotionless, as the twin blades entered both of his eyes. Despite the reflexive twitching soon the swordsman lay still.

  ---------------

  Silence had taken hold of the encampment for the entirety of Otis' bout. It was lasting longer than anyone had expected, although a sense of impending doom for the boy suggested he may never return.

  "No way..."

  When the ceiling to the arena opened up and the first pin-pricks of light shone through only Zlatan dared to vocalise what they were all thinking. Eventually, the hole of light opened enough for them to see more clearly.

  Straining to peer into the harsh light of the arena, Mooch's shallow gasp was the first indication that what they were about to see what monumental. As a ranger, his optical senses were the keenest. Otis bled heavily from his gut and face, droplets falling from the angled tip of a sword piercing through his middle. The body of an infant Fell Hound fell listlessly through the air but another body hung elevated next to Otis. The man had the armour of the guards that was being peeled from his body. When it was removed, he too fell into the depths of the slave city.

  "No way."

  Rage echoed Zlatan's words but the sentiment was wholly different. There was no excitement, no elation, only horror.

  -------------------

  A set of blue eyes raged as they took in the sight before them. The boy was a , the likes of which even his tribe would recognise. Still, he lives. Skewered, bloodied, and beaten but alive.

  The fates had kept him alive, but for how long? Injured, how much longer could the boy hope to live? He had watched his kindred spirit rise but this was how he had been left. 5794B, Tyr remembered this flame well. The crow's feet grew tight around his deep sea eyes, as they too became dark. The frost giant hadn't moved from a throne of warped shields since his last bouts, that must have occurred many moon cycles ago now. Rippling with power, his popping joints rang out like wood on a bonfire.

  If he wasn't to die now, the boy would perish soon. That was not a warrior's death and not one he could permit.

  --------------------

  "They put him against a guard?! Did you see a collar? I "

  No one answered Zlatan. None of them had seen any sort of restraint on the man or the beast. The odds ought to have been insurmountable and it appeared they almost were. Before Otis descends too far the sword in his midriff pulls back through his body and ascends above the arena. There was no way either the armour or sword could be relinquished to the slave city. The quality was good but it was the principle, a dividing line between the slaves and everyone else.

  "Shut up about the odds, what can we do to save him? Valruck won't help and even if they would do you trust them?"

  In and out of consciousness, Otis hung limp as he descended. As much blood loss as it was fatigue, he couldn't bring himself to move. The world blurred before him, tricks of the light played with his mind. The twirls of smog were captivating as he drifted down. Layers and shacks spread out in a way that looked pixelated with his blurred vision. Odd hues of blue felt like they were getting closer, almost like an oasis in the desert.

  "I've got him!" Nightmare shouted as Otis began a carelessly fast descent. The Overlord had dropped him from far higher than usual and far higher than was safe.

  Tearing flesh and popping bone sounded out, as Nightmare allowed his back to transform. Bloated skin would have been more unpleasant if Otis had been alert, though it was certainly better than a face full of dirt. In fact, as his motion stilled, it was comfortable. So very comfortable.

  "No time for rest yet, little flame," the voice rumbled like thunder.

  'It's the blue hue,' Otis thought weakly as he struggled to obey the voice. It was just so hard to keep his eyes open...