Maintaining a constant watch of the arena had been but one facet the Smithy had done since they had located Otis and the time had now come to utilise everything else. Over time, they formed a detailed map of the area, made inside connections, and obtained a limited number of origin beads. Of everything, the beads were been most vital. Otis would have seen similar beads on his way to The Veil or no doubt in his kidnapping. Origin beads held specific coordinates and isolated mana signatures that permitted portal entry through various safety protocols, it was how you got in and out of a secure location. For somewhere like Fortune's Favour, the origin beads had been particularly hard to get ahold of. As an underground black market for slave fighting, the activities of the arena were tolerated but by no means permitted. For this reason, the origin beads were heavily regulated.

  Unfortunately, the blacksmiths had limited means of producing the beads. They had no help, no social kudos, and no money to aid them. The issue stemmed from the day they became part of the core territory within The Veil. Only trusted clans had the honour of volunteering their youths, if chosen it was a moment that separated them from all they knew for years to come. Seen as an honour by all within the bounds of The Veil's larger territory, the rift between the smithy and other guilds was a recent internal divide.

  The first origin bead they had found came from trading in favours with unsavoury individuals within The Veil itself, though this came at a cost. On top of their usual duties, curating bespoke high-class weapons and armour allowed the smiths to ply individuals known to harbour these frowned-upon hobbies. It was totally above and beyond what renting one of these origin beads ought to have cost them but secrecy came at a price. These individuals had the same restrictions as the smithies though being combat-focused they had access to the outside worlds, they were able to scavenge, trade, and sell resources they pilfered. Over time this had allowed numerous front-line members to cultivate all manner of hobbies and collections, some normal others less so. This had given them temporary access to Fortune's Favour but finding a guard that sold "VIP experiences" had gained them a foothold within the arena.

  For the first time, the guild had used all of the beads. Small clouds of dark energy burst and consumed the small groups of smithies, over the course of two hours, each bursting through to an outer ring outside the arena for vetting. The smiths filtered through the various stages of security, alongside the massed crowds. It had been busy but less so than Weyland had seen in previous days. Patrons didn't trust that the odds at Fortune's Favour anymore, most didn't care to see an execution. Maybe the need for more patrons aided their way through security, maybe they were simply fortunate.

  Like many establishments, weapons were permitted within the arena stands. Confiscating mana from every mage was next to impossible and weapons were no less deadly than destructive spells and skills. The arena could have implemented some kind of anti-magic field but it would have been unimaginably expensive and unnerve the patrons. The etiquette was merely to keep weapons sheathed, holstered, or hidden. None of this meant that there weren't other protections in place: scryers were employed to scan the crowds, enchantments alerted guards to intense energy signatures, and undercover guards were slipped into the crowds to enact violent peacekeeping measures if the need arose. Blacksmiths were unlikely to trigger any one of these fail safes. They had size and strength but lacked combat classes, they were also far less likely to mount an assault. Fringe groups, cultists, and anyone with common sense would send small groups of elite combat-classed individuals over their supportive armourers. In truth, even they wouldn't be here either if anyone else had given a damn. What concerned Haekril was that worlds left traces of mana subtly different from many others... they would all have the same trace. If someone noticed, it would attract attention. Just how many people turned up from identical places to an illegal fighting pit?

  Stepping past the last barriers to the various layers of the arena, Haekril was immediately astounded by its size. He knew the place was large but the towering height of the various layers was jaw-dropping. Hundreds of metres high the various floors had loomed over him, large statues and tapestries marking the glory of Fortune's Favour and some of those that had perished within its walls. Enchantments had been laced through the dark stonework to transport them to the most available viewing stations, like those within The Veil. Compared to traversing the security stations and the large outer rim of the arena, the distance to the grandstands was far shorter than Haekril had imagined.

  "Magnus on high... it's bloody huge."

  Abruptly, Haekril and several other smiths emerged on the fourth tier of the grandstands. If before they had considered the height of the arena to be vast the breadth was seen more astounding. Easily the largest stadium any one of them had ever seen, ringed in yet more statues, it wasn't just a stadium but fit to be a theatre of war. Luxurious sandstone masonry made up the walls of the arena. Cracked and dusty Earth covered a truly expansive area, an area currently occupied by a small team fighting of packs of wolves. Haekril had wanted to inspect each individual, to pay reverence to the people trapped within this hell hole, but all too soon they joined an already fallen comrade. A man and two women, torn limb from limb, perish all too soon. Blood soaked the ground as the beasts hungrily devoured meat and bone, only stopping to cough up the shredded metal of their armour. The only thing Haekril recognised was their fatigue, weary from the fight, weary from their enslavement, weary of life.

  Shocked by the sudden violence, so different from his own lived existence, Haekril couldn't fathom how their young friend had survived. Exasperatedly looking to the heavens, the arena's overlord screeching above dominated the sky alongside hidden VIPs. That man would undoubtedly be the greatest challenge they had to overcome but it was the scene behind that sucked the air from his lungs. Haekril shuddered at the expanse of black and red swirling pattern that went on to nothing. This wasn't just a hidden dimension; it was a pocket between the physical realm and the void. Haekril had known this but seeing it was something else entirely. They could have covered this reality from their fighters, instead they were forced to face the reality that there was no escape. The slaves were trapped, enslaved, and fighting for their lives. There was only survival. It wasn't just physical entrapment that Otis was enduring but the mental acknowledgement he and everyone else would escape. Even if everyone but the slaves perished, they too would soon starve and be left till only dust remained.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

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  Tiera moved at a speed that would have a normal human unconscious if not violently ill within moments, such was the sudden speed and intense forces as she rounded corners. She hadn't heard of Fortune's Favour before but she knew two or three delinquents who just might frequent such a place.

  She exploded into the scouting guild without care for etiquette or decorum. Tiera didn't have a scouting skill but after years of combat and highly honed senses, she homed in on the bastard she was looking for: Regis, a long, thin, thief of a man. He was the kind of man with whom you would count your fingers after shaking hands. If there were anyone who had the resources to purchase an origin bead that got her into Fortune's Favour or at least knew who might have one, it would be him.

  "REGIS!"

  Despite the scout's quick reflexes, Tiera was already barrelling towards him before he could react, not sat down as he was. Luckily for him, even with the prosthetic sword arm scything toward him it didn't look as though she was about to use it on him.

  "Origin bead to Fortune's Favour, I need it now."

  "Wha-"

  "I need it now, I don't have time for games," Tiera said inches from his face, looming over the man.

  "I sold it, alright. Some fucker in the smithy wanted it," Regis flinched back, recoiling at the intensity he was being grilled with.

  "There has to be someone else. Please, Regis, we can talk payment later. I need it now."

  Out of principle, Regis would have told Tiera to do one. Storming into his guild, making demands, it was a cardinal sin within The Veil. The moment she mentioned payment though... his wrinkled, snarling, face smoothed. It was a rare thing to have a Knight in your debt, let alone Tiera. Regis licked his lips, tasting the precious commodity already.

  "Nasir or... Eros, I-" Regis didn't even have time to say 'think' before Tiera had turned tail and blasted off towards the Rangers guild.

  Traversing The Veil once more, Tiera stormed through the ranger's guild before sprinting towards the archery range. Nasir was fair and particularly well-muscled for an archer but it was his eyes that made the man memorable. He most piercing eyes of anyone within the guild. It hadn't been a surprise to anyone when he awakened with a skill for ranged combat.

  Negotiations were significantly less peaceful this time. Without even turning to her, the archer continued to loose his bolts of condensed mana.

  "Look I don't know what you're talking about," was the last thing Tiera could be bothered to entertain and perhaps the worst thing he could have said.

  Nasir sensed something amiss and turned to see the fury with which he was regarded, milliseconds before a boot kicked his square in the chest. Wings bloomed out from behind Tiera as she shot after the man. Scrambling away there was little the man could do, except paw for a defensive item. With only a stray table to block the inevitable assault, Nasir gulped as Tiera's only fist blasted through the reinforced wood before grabbing the man and throwing him into the nearest wall. Three more hooked punches landed against Nasir's ribs before he found a moment to breathe.

  "Give me the origin bead," Tiera ground out, failing to hide her contempt.

  Looking down point of the sword arm, there was little for the archer to do but relent. There would be no compromise, no reward, and certainly no thanks for this... he could only hope to avoid more of a beating now. Upsettingly, there was little he could do at such close range.

  "It's in my sleeping quarters, there's a false bottom to the bedside draw," Nasir sighed.

  Without a word, Tiera left at a ludicrous speed, though this didn't stop Nasir from miming the movement of drawing a condensed bolt of mana and loosing it towards the retreating Knight. It would have been easy enough to land the shot, though not worth the consequences. Sighing the man grunted before picking himself back up. The simple movement confirmed that the bruising across his ribs had already set in. If he were lucky there wouldn't be any more serious damage.

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  "SURROUNDED BY EVER GREATER MONSTERS OF CARNAGE THE LATE BLOOMER WILL FALL. BARE WITNESS AS FATE'S FAVOURED SON IS PUT TO THE TEST. WATCH AS WE CONTROL FATE!"

  Steeped in the artificial light of the arena, Otis steeled his nerves. The floor closed up beneath him and his feet touched the earth. As the overbearing shouts of the Overlord gave way so to did the blinding quality of the light, revealing four beasts. Each one looked deadlier than the last but for once Otis didn't care. He didn't have to care. It would be one of these beasts that killed him. It was a scary thought but he would not let them see his terror. They would remember him, the man who refused death. He would show them his wrath. Even his war hammer seemed to gleam a slightly darker shade of red.

  "THIS IS HIS TRIAL. HIS GUANTLET. EACH BEAST HARDER THAN THE LAST. HOW FAR WILL HE MAKE IT?! WITNESS THE END OF A LATE BLOOMER!"

  The booming voice of the Overlord drove Otis' anger into overdrive. He had been right about the beasts each looking deadlier than the last but his correct assumption didn't relieve the growing sense of anger and injustice. The sensation rose from his gut into his chest before it began to burn his throat. He didn't want to be sick, he wanted to be heard.

  "I."

  "SHALL."

  "NOT."

  "YIELD!"

  Just as he had when he found his Path and it found him, his throat burned with hot iron. More than a shout, it was a battle cry. It was a bellow that stilled even the movements of the beasts chained to the arena floor. It was a cry so powerful it hurt to expel.

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  Setting eyes on the lad for the first time in too long didn't feel real, it didn't feel right. Despite the size of the arena, the boy had Presence. Ramrod straight, as he pounded a freshly made war hammer against his shield, there appeared to be no fear in his eyes not even for a moment. Flanked by four chained beats, declared soon-to-be dead, covered in only tattered armour and stabbed through less than two days ago none of the smiths could fathom how such a display of defiance was possible.

  Much of the boy's armour was clearly salvaged from the previous bout. Withstanding the need to heal, there simply wouldn't have been enough time for the lad to work on creating new parts. Still, badly repaired or shoddy replacement pieces would be functional though ineffective. Albeit defiant Otis was a sorry sight to behold until their eyes fell on his war hammer. Condensed to a fine polish, the subtle fleck of colour shone under the harsh arena lights. Appraised simultaneously, by the trained eye of many hooded smiths, they all saw Aspect. Somehow, without assistance, the boy had managed to sink an Aspect into the weapon. It was likely some sort of emotion or sensation but it was baked into the atomic weave of the weapon. 'Aspect' was a loose and generic term but each of them knew it was the beginning of forging a formal grade of weapon, a watershed moment for any smith. The first step to imbuing a weapon with power and eventually... sentience.

  Each of them knew the plan, mere moments from enacting a carefully orchestrated assault, when they heard Otis' battlecry. Beyond the smiths of The Veil, the audience as a whole was struck by the scene, by the sound. From someone so low in level, to elicit such a response was incredibly rare and yet it had. Bellowing cries sounded out from every layer of the stadium, warriors of old, fathers, mothers,

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  Tiera couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief as the black bead shook delicately within its hiding space, the false bottom of the draw now splintered against the far wall. Ranger or not, helpful or not, the bead was contraband and went against everything The Veil stood for. Tiera wouldn't feel guilty for throwing the thin piece of wood. If she heard of Nasir stepping out of line again she'd make sure the next beat down was his last.

  Wrenching the bead from the hand-grooved divet it sat in, it was only a fraction of a second before space was wrenched apart in a twirling mass of black. Tiera didn't know how long the blacksmiths had been gone but she was coming in hot. If this fighting pit didn't release Otis voluntarily, she would enjoy tearing through whoever stood in her way.