For the first time in too long, news of the boy had reached the smithy. Amidst the silence of expectant, tired hands, Haekril hadn't known how to react to the image before him. The memory imprints were dire. First, atop the sequence, had been the outcome. Struck through the boy appeared to have won the bout but at a tremendous cost. With many more levels such an injury would only require time for Haekril to heal but for Otis, a boy who had awakened so newly, he had neither time nor levels on his side.

  "..."

  The workshop held an expectant silence but the many blackened faces could only watch as the colour drained from their leader. Haekril slid one imprint behind another. He quickly surmised the outcome but the note at the end of the sequence confirmed his suspicions. Otis had won but there had been no news as to whether it had been at the cost of his own life.

  "He won," Haekril's words deserved celebration though they came without a smile. "He won but at what cost we do not yet know. Our boy is injured but not dead, not yet. We... do not lose hope."

  Turning away, hunched over his station the motivation to continue was dwarfed by the sense of impending failure. Since the search for Otis had begun, the smithy had been understaffed. They had worked tirelessly to get ahead of schedule so that, when the time came, they could bring the boy back into the arms of the smithy and no one would notice their departure. Now he was sore, sore and tired, sore and praying it hadn't all been in vain.

  The lad lived but for how long would that be true? How could he continue to do so with such a wound? None of the smiths believed the arena would be a safe place, far from it, but nor had they expected to see the odds weighted so far out of the boy's favour. Haekril couldn't suppress the thought, had all their work just been lost?

  Without any other news, only the images could effectively communicate just how severe Otis' injuries were. Leant over his own workbench, he had left the imprints out for his fellow blacksmiths to see. The emotional drain hurt almost as much as his blistered hands. He had never worked as hard as he had in these last weeks.

  ---------------------------------

  "Eyes open," the gruff voice of Tyr came again.

  It was worthwhile advice, even still it was too tempting to close his heavy lids for but a moment. Gashed open and ran through, the wound was bloody with a hint of entrails. Keeping his eyes open would have been less of an issue if he wasn't afraid of watching his innards fall outward.

  "Check if you got a level," Zlatan whispered, unusually timid.

  Each of his companions knew the hulking form of the frost giant before them. His name stood at the forefront of the leaderboard: Rank: #1 - War God, Tyr. Seldom was the giant exhibited but the raw power of his bouts could be felt through the ceiling that loomed above. Stooped so close, the ten-foot-tall behemoth looked simply vast. Covered in thick ropes of sinewy muscle, the older giant was an imposing sight. More than that his presence held a certain power to it, the air itself became colder. Sparse wires of white hair failed to obscure the light blue hue of Tyr's skin as if ice was baked into his flesh. Only long, rough, beard and hair obscured any of his form. Covered in only a couple of white tattoos and frozen scars, only mana-imbued rope and cloth maintained the man's modesty.

  "Use that heretical palm if you must," Tyr's voice ground out, as the molten metal bead flared to life.

  More dense than before, the eruption of sparks looked closer to a geyser than it had when Otis had first awakened his Path. As was now familiar, the deluge of sparks pooled and coagulated into molten plate metal, that resembled much of the armour Otis now wore. Whilst the plates had been individually scattered across his palm there were now more, smaller plates that interlocked across larger areas of skin. Still, just as before, as they appeared to cool, each was barely discernible from Otis’ own skin.

  'Heretical?'

  The question was on all their lips but no one had dared raise the question. Tyr's only addition to the statement was a dissatisfied grunt.

  ——————————————

  Otis Manning (Class: Undecided)

  Level : 5

  Clan/ Sect : [Slave of Fortune’s Favour]

  HP: 15/18 MP: 5/13

  Status:

  Characteristics:

  Undying Resolve [I], (endurance, will + 2)

  Skills:

  Manipulation (level 3)

  Mana Shielding (level 2)

  Congratulations on surviving. You have begun your fledgling journey and become more than once were. Choose your next steps wisely.

  Class Selection:

  - Blacksmith

  - Fighter

  ——————————————

  Within the void, that beautiful number had appeared. He had done it. Level 5; the level shrouded in mystery. If he lived to tell the tale this would be his crowning achievement.

  "le-vel... fi-ve"

  It went beyond simple discomfort to speak. The sheered muscle of Otis' abdomen cut through any revelrous thoughts with unsurprising brutality. Only now did he begin to grasp the severity of his situation. 'Congratulations on surviving' felt far too presumptuous, as blood rose in his throat. 'Don't fucking die' had sounded so much simpler without a hole through his midriff.

  "Nice..." Zlatan winced, as he watched blood spatter from Otis' lips with each gasped syllable. "Maybe don't speak though... in hindsight ya know."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Hargh"

  A sudden cold permeation sent tendrils of tension up through Otis' neck. Even in the muggy air of the slave city, everyone could feel the radiating chill that bloomed out from Tyr's hands. In moments the cold stemmed the bleeding, forming multiple points and rivers of coagulated blood. Miniscule snowflakes drifted from Tyr's hands as he directed this cold form of mana.

  "Bare the chill, little flame, it too shall pass" were the giant's only words, and that was all Otis could do.

  The permeating chill was suffocating. Cold, chilly, icy, frozen, every notion Otis had for the sensation was insufficient. Far from the sharp frost that bit at his fingers, ears, and nose, through the winter months, it was like an ice age had taken root on his stomach. Like a vicious hive of mutant bees were infesting him with acidic venom that formed deep ravines of ice within his intestines. Already difficult to breathe without pain, the sudden invasive force made the usually trivial task impossible. Relief from suffocation only came from accidental intakes of breath as Otis writhed on the ground.

  "Gah-goh ukh"

  "What are you doing to him?!"

  None of them stood a chance against the War God of Fortune's Favour, but equally, it looked as though he was killing their friend.

  "The winds of the Hrímtursar are healing but tough. Even the youngest of my people endure such healing."

  ——————————————

  "There wasn't..." came a phlegmy gasp for air, "time...He... lives."

  Haekril's old apprentice brother, Weyland, slammed his palm onto the workbench in front of him, with both exhaustion and purpose. Steam rose from the beet-red man, as sweat rolled into his prestigious titian orange beard. Smithies weren't like scouts or rangers, their high endurance was based on repeatedly applying their strength and will it did not supply any competency to maintain speed over a distance. Worse than the man's dishevelled appearance, Weyland's sudden and personal appearance within the guild alarmed the smiths more than any message could.

  "Brother!" Haekril strode across the workshop, slapping his own colossal hand into his former apprentice brother's arm.

  Pasted across the workbench, the stolen poster affirmed that the news was tragic.

  "A day?!"

  "He fights. In day," Weyland confirmed, gasping for air. A hacking cough was all Weyland could offer after that. This was all the information he had and right now it was hard enough to stand let alone speak, as his lungs turned against him.

  The word travelled through the guild, as though they shared one mind. Each and every blacksmith had long since been ready for this day. Not one person needed instruction. Every man and woman dropped tools the very moment the words left Weyland's mouth. So often left alone, the Smithy hadn't bothered to hide much of what they had prepared. From under every workbench and out of every cupboard, blacksmiths pulled gleaming hammers, armours, and axes. The guild was going to war.

  How the boy had survived was beyond Haekril but they were coming. They were coming for their boy and Magnus help any fool who stood in their way.

  ——————————————

  Otis had never been a fan of the cold, after the life-saving chill of Tyr's healing touch he liked it less. When the Frost Giant finished saving his life, the boy was positive that death would have been far kinder. If even the youngest of his kind withstood that torture for every injury, he couldn't begin to imagine what kind of stats his race was born with nor what Tyr had gone on to become.

  Despite the exhaustion that left his head swimming, the vertical wound was too enticing to look down at. Frozen closed with scars of frost trailing out from the wound, it reminded Otis of the metal school gates in the middle of winter.

  "It won't fade," came the thrum of Tyr's voice.

  It felt as though it had been such a long time since he departed his life on Earth that Otis couldn't remember if he would have thought he was disfigured or that the scar was uniquely cool. Letting his eyes roam over the Frost Giant's own physique similar scars could be seen, though most were considerably smaller than his own.

  Nothing was left in his system after such an ordeal. With heavy lids, Otis couldn't manage a thumbs up or even a bitter grimace. With a sudden limpness, he collapsed backwards without another thought. He would have to sate his own curiosity when his body could stand to be conscious again but that would have to wait. From side to side, he ached, gut, skin, and everything in between hurt, and yet even the pain that remained couldn't have kept him conscious a moment longer. As the intensity of Tyr's magic faded the heat of the world returned.

  Standing even above the inert Bolo, Tyr rose to his full height before turning to Otis' comrades.

  "I will watch over the boy."

  It was an irrefutable statement of fact.

  "Why?"

  The question had been on all their lips, though it was Mooch who spoke up. Out of everyone he had struggled to cope with their situation the most. Why would this being, Royalty within the slave city, put himself on the chopping block for Otis? They were all trapped but at least Tyr stood a chance at eking out his days in relative comfort. It was all any of them could hope for.

  "A kindred spirit means more than living in solitude. An act of rebellion means more when it does nothing in the face of injustice. There are innumerable reasons why, youngling. I do so because it pleases me... it is worth their displeasure."

  Despite Tyr's constant monitoring of the surrounding slave city, each of the four companions turned their heads in unison. Against the name in last place stood two things: a name and a countdown. Otis would fight in less than two days.

  ——————————————

  Bereft of the trust she once had, Tiera had spent more time with the healers but they weren't much fun as they took on the burden of The Veil, chronically overworked as they were. It was too hard and she was tired. Tired of being lied to; tired of fighting; tired of wishing her world was something else. Tiera struggled to drag herself to the smithy. Another rejection was sure to face her but it was something to do. Being frozen out felt awful but it wasn't mean-hearted, she understood the guild's lack of trust. It was her people who had abandoned Otis. It was likely her people were responsible for Otis' kidnapping. Still, each rejection had taken its toll.

  Tiera hadn't bothered to utilise the enchantments to speed up her travel. For some time now, she had found comfort in the nostalgia of simply walking, navigating the depths The Veil hid within itself. Occupied by her thoughts, the echo of her steps rang out methodically. Each moment of her journey was punctuated by her lonesome footfalls, echoing her own sense of emptiness. The closer she got to the smithy the louder they appeared to be. The more frustrated she became.

  "Where..."

  Tiera couldn't even bring herself to finish the sentence. It was pointless, she was alone. The din of the smithy was replaced with a cold silence of inactivity. There were no fires in the furnaces, no materials moved, not even a blacksmith in sight.

  "Haekril?!" Tiera shouted.

  In truth, she hadn't expected a response but the way the sound fizzled into nothing told her she was alone. Suddenly, the only thing Tiera could hear was the sound of her own heart. They had found him! Of that, she was certain. The Smithy had been planning for weeks but now the time had finally come to act. Staggering further about the room, the Knight finally had access to the only place that might have the information she sought. She didn't have to search very hard.

  Pasted to one of the frontmost workbenches, a poster revealed all. The picture is of an armoured gladiator ran through, atop a wounded opponent, an infant fell hound dead in the background. The victorious gladiator had bracers fitted with hidden blades bloodied and poised to strike again. Obscured, the covered face revealed little but firey eyes, a gashed open cheek, and a spittle-spewing scream. Far from the boy they had found on Earth, there was almost nothing recognisable about the gladiator. Even still, Tiera was sure, this was the boy: this was Otis.

  Charging through out of the Smithy, Tiera let the enchantments activate and shuttle her through the inner sanctum of The Veil. In her wake, only the scything metal of her prosthetic arm blades could be heard slicing through the air. The image had been seared into her mind. The words screamed at her to move faster.

  "Death Day : Fate's Favoured Son. No bets taken."