After everything that had happened, the words took the air from his lungs just as much as the biting frost. Was that it? or ... how was it possible for a new magical realm to result in a mundane reality? Even if the result wasn't as exciting as he would have hoped, to separate his progress into two such distinct and seemingly exclusive paths was unseemly. It wasn't enough. The pain of Tyr's aggressive healing tore his gaze away without acknowledging the choices offered to him, but they dominated the recesses of his mind even still.

  When Otis awoke from his exhausted slumber only Tyr remained. Thankfully, albeit sore, the searing pain had let him be. He was scarred and sore, though the discomfort reminded him of an unbelievably harsh workout more than having almost been bisected. The hulking giant before him had been the only reason he was alive and yet he couldn't find it in him to say anything at all. He felt hollow, empty, bereft of something he didn't know he had.

  "A flame rises from the embers," Tyr spoke with a joyful certainty, that spoke of more yet to come.

  Trapped within a slave city, beneath the land he would perish, worlds away from everything he had known, the remark was almost entirely enraging. The titan spoke as if Otis wasn't to be imminently executed. Did it matter if embers became a delicate flame if they were stamped down and ground into the dirt moments later?

  "Not for long, I imagine," came Otis' jaded reply, as he struggled to raise himself to a sitting position.

  "..."

  Despite having followed the boy's fate, this was not the reaction to being saved Tyr had thought he would see. Dauntless in the face of his gargantuan frame he had expected more. This confidence would have been admirable in other circumstances but this reaction didn't come from bravery; it was futility. This was not the kindred spirit he had expected. The boy was a husk of what he expected.

  "'Blacksmith' or 'Fighter'? What kind of shitty..." Otis couldn't find the words to express his disappointment. "Could it be any worse? The fuck was this all for?!"

  For many reasons, it was clear that the recently perforated boy was far from home. This was but one, Tyr thought to himself.

  "Choose something else?"

  "There nothing else!"

  "Ahh... there is always another Path... do not listen to the modest imaginings of false Gods."

  Again and again, when Otis thought he had a grasp of this new reality it shifted yet again. It was a tiring state of affairs to be caught in this constant state of confusion. He had placed such high hopes on his stats and journey through his palm, this glimpse into his soul. It was the one fixed quantitative measure that made sense... now, he was being told that this was a false truth, that it too wasn't what he thought.

  "You didn't always rely on that little trick did you?" Tyr questioned.

  It was a simple question but it thrust Otis back within the depths of The Veil, in a forgotten corner of the Smithy. He thought back to how it had all started. The loose nails and scrap metal that had started this journey. It all felt so long ago and yet the feeling of that meditative state still lingered in his consciousness. Emerging from his trance to take in the creation of his little sculpture was perhaps the best he had ever felt, better even than when he had created his first few daggers.

  "No..." Otis whispered in response.

  He had found his Path but that "enlightenment" had come from recently lived experience. What would have happened if some flesh-rending monstrosity had stormed through his wall instead of the automaton? Would he have followed a similar Path as Nightmare? Why had his meditative state resulted in the creation of that first statue? Did the second iteration of the statue build in an element of violence and power because of his fate within Fortune's Favour? There were so many unknowns and shifting variables that Otis both did and didn't have control over...

  He was a metallurgist, he was a blacksmith, he was a creator, a gladiator. At every stage of his development, his Path and purpose seemed to change but what was he now?

  Level 5 was meant to mean something, it was the dividing line between humanity as he knew it and the ascension to something more. The further he sank into these thoughts, the more everything else began to fade away.

  "Forge your own path, Little Flame. Do not let shadows tell you where you cannot go... burn through it all."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Whether the words came from his own subconscious thought or the thrum of Tyr's voice, it all melded into one. Everything seemed to fall away.

  Trapped in the memory of the automaton careering through the front of his student house, Otis felt his muscles twitch in response. Where before he might have wanted to replicate the incredible feat of engineering now he knew he would do so much more. The night of his awakening he had spent hours gaming, sending his horde against 'Space Marines', much like the 'Warhammer 40,000' books Otis had been partial to. Now, he imagined the helm of a superhuman space marine sliding over his own face, standing against overwhelming odds. He would stand firm. Split, broken, and mangled he would overcome.

  Otis gasped against an imagined pain as he remembered his own stabbing, his clawed face, the batterings, the slicing tip that had carved so many scars into his skin. The imagined pain was tolerable but the thought that this suffering had been for something so mediocre was enfeebling. Absorbed within his own mind, the pain directed his resolve. He would not yield. Even against the impossible odds he was sure to face, his resolve firmed; death would not take him without knowing his wrath.

  His first meditation had drawn forth his desire for change. Now that he had that power, he wouldn't allow himself to be stopped; he couldn't.

  Tyr watched the boy's bloodied face find a trace of calm. He could sense the war within and the victory that would come. Marred in dirt and blood, this small figure held a fire within that the frost giant had long since missed in himself and the memory of his clan.

  "I."

  "WILL."

  "NOT."

  "YIELD!"

  The scream tore from Otis' throat, such that he tasted warm iron, as his gaze challenged the Overlord far above and out of sight. Tyr's presence had brought a hushed quiet to the surrounding area but Otis' roar brought silence. Unbeknownst to the boy, still projecting death ever-upward, fires of rage and rebellion were stoked within the hearts of the nearby slaves. Where there was lethargy and submission, there now blossomed hope. Magnitudes higher in level, even Tyr felt his blood churn with renewed vigour.

  ——————————————

  It was easy enough to count the hours since his last bout. Less than two days after becoming a shish kebab Otis had felt the sudden tug of the Overlord. This time, there was no gleaming armour, no hope of winning and yet he had stood ready and waiting. Otis had been embarrassed that he had screamed so defiantly the day before, though now he channelled that same rage.

  Concerned more with healing and finding the limits of his new physiology, there had been little time for crafting. Whilst Tyr stood guard, the others hadn't been idle. Like a militia not to be messed with, Otis' companions had scoured the metal wasteland, that was the dump. Every metal they thought would be useful for their young compatriot they had taken. Unlike last time, they refused to send the boy to his death with nothing but a weakened hammer. After sifting through the swathes of piled precious metal, Otis rose now with a gleaming war hammer. Completed to a fine polish, the war hammer looked ceremonial. Across its dark shine, Otis stared at his reflection. Buried within the war hammer glinting highlights buried throughout its entirety spoke of a quality greater than anything previously created by the young smith. Still, the shifting light of the slave city revealed a far greater feat hidden within the compressed metal, as a reddened hue glinted softly from the weapon.

  Although Otis saw the tome lodged within his palm as traitorous, in light of its meagre class offerings, Tyr hadn't had time to teach Otis how to access his true Soul Tome. Still, the embers that had formed his new stat sheet burned within his mind.

  ——————————————

  Otis Manning (Class: Battle Forge)

  Level : 5

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

  HP: 30/30 | MP: 20/20

  Status:

  Characteristics:

  Undying Resolve [II], (endurance, will + 4)

  Skills:

  Manipulation (level 4)

  Mana Shielding (level 3)

  ###(Undiscovered)###

  ——————————————

  Otis was far beyond what a mortal man could be capable of now, even if his stats refused to develop further. The improvement to 'Undying Resolve' (now in the second stage of an unknown sequence) had increased his and to another stratosphere. Combined with the improvements to strength and agility, the newly christened 'battle forge' was a mage transformatively changed.

  Unlikely to ever be revealed, the most intriguing development within Otis' new class was a new undiscovered skill. It was crushing to know that he was on the verge of unlocking yet more power before his execution. Worse yet, Otis wouldn't get to enact his vision for his 'battle forge' class. The name itself was pulled from his subconscious and it encapsulated Otis' thoughts perfectly. He was a creator, a force capable of moulding his surroundings and making arms to amplify his power, but he was more... he was a gladiator... a merchant of death.

  As he peered at the reflection of his face, he knew even in death he would leave his mark.

  The crowds would remember him: the slave who refused to die. A whisper that would stain the walls of Fortune's Favour for as long as it stood.

  "Kill them!"

  "KILL them!"

  Looking down at the distant figures of his unlikely allies, the best friends he had ever had, it was a struggle to keep his composure. Zlatan had dealt with his departure the worst and lacked the same sense of shame as he screamed up to Otis. The emotion was clear in his voice, as he trailed off. Even from this distance, he could see the man fall to his knees.

  White light coated his ascending figure, as the arena opened up before him. The lasting image of his friends fuelled his hatred for his soon-to-be executioners.

  KANG

  KANG

  KANG

  Starting a drumbeat, Otis brought the war hammer down against his poorly repaired shield. They would pay for making his brother cry.