Otis had almost wept when he recognised Haekril as a member of the smithy, having come to save him. Moments from his orchestrated death and suddenly fate spun. Members of the guild weaved through the stands before they too landed around them, kicking up a thick haze of dust. It wasn't the dust that stung Otis' eyes, as the shields formed around him.

  "Good to see you, kid."

  "Didn't think we'd leave you, did you?"

  "Aya Boyo, time to go home."

  As the blacksmiths surrounded him, the mass of greetings, brotherly pats, and a sense of belonging filled Otis entirely. The aches and pains that had been a torment seemed to disappear. Furrows and tensed muscles finally eased, after much too long. Finally, they had come for him. He tried to reply, but a quivering chin and a lump in his throat had been the only thing that he managed to achieve.

  Unfurling their own shields, as they surrounded him, the guild coalesced into a testudo formation. It was a Roman technique Otis' was very familiar with, though it was vastly different being shrouded in one than it was reading about it. In position, the smiths pulled dark beads from their pockets. Each was almost identical to the one that Eros had used to kidnap him. This would be it. In a moment, they would all vanish and spiral far away from this place. Leaving his friends would be rough but with the force of The Veil behind him, he was sure they would be freed too. The thought of leaving them was heartbreaking, even if it was necessary.

  "...two... one... Return!"

  Haekril's shout to return to The Veil fell embarrassingly flat. Nothing happened. Otis felt his world crushing in on him as his long-awaited rescue crumpled in on itself.

  ——————————————

  Elation had turned to anger and disbelief faster than Chrysos could recall before. He had been distracted for all of five minutes before his guards had found a way to let him down. Not one man had alerted him, not a single message of distress. Even choking the life out of the last VIP, the Overlord hadn't felt any better about the situation. In no uncertain terms, he'd been invaded and he was powerless to stop it. Saturated mana blocked his telepathic attacks. Where even several attackers would have been possible to subdue, the swaddled cacoon of mana-imbued shields formed an undisruptable blockade. Worse yet, though the horde master had unleashed his pale abominations the invaders were wildly capable of grinding them down. To combat this, he would need more. More guards, more firepower, more luck. This battle would be won on small margins. A single overcommitment and their formation would be toppled. A chink in the formation and guard might be able to pass an arrow into the formation. For now... for a man capable of picking up the slaves from the depths of the underground city, the stalemate was insufferable.

  Each time one of the shielded invaders lashed out, obliterating pale flesh, Chrysos would strike. They would tire and then the shields would rotate their positions. Again, the cycle continued. For whatever reason, the invaders managed to take and give an absurd level of punishment. Just what kind of combat class were they? Unrelentingly, the more basic amalgamations of twisted, sinewy, flesh and the far stronger monstrosities continued to throw their weight at the bunker of shields, despite the lack of success. Worryingly, these invaders were surviving and so was the boy.

  ——————————————

  There were no guards. Not one uniformed member of the arena in the entirety of the surrounding outer grounds or through the security entrance. There also weren't any bodies. If the blacksmiths hadn't slaughtered their way to Otis, they had attracted enough attention to pull every guard within the isolated pocket of space to them. Already flying through the air, Tiera redoubled her efforts forcing the ethereal golden wings to become a shade more corporeal.

  Even before she had made it to the transport hub, after the security checkpoint, the sound of combat was incredible. Even at such a distance, through massive stone walls, Tiera could pick out the vibrations of creatures of incredible weight and size, atop a buzz of other activity. It sounded like a full army stampeding across a battlefield. She had an inkling that this had a decision.

  'Finally, a good decision,' she had thought.

  After so many red herrings and misplaced trust, she would finally be able to help. , it felt as though what she was doing something.

  Careening into the grandstands, harsh light and sound disorientated Tiera, momentarily. She shrugged off the effect of the sudden change quickly, given her combat experience, but what awaited her was astonishing. Before her, a conflict of epic proportions was unveiled. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of flailing pale bodies, each just as warped and deformed as the last. There were guards littered about the stadium and fewer whole bodies than there were piles of shattered limbs. There were four distinctly different bodies of creatures buried within the piles of mutilated pale flesh, that stood out to Tiera's enhanced senses but this too was inconsequential. Huddled against the furthest wall of the arena, she saw them. The smithy guild pitched against a wall of twisted flesh. Unendingly, Tiera hoped that somewhere within the metal shell Otis resided relatively unharmed.

  ""

  Every Knight of The Veil who held a high enough ranking was given access to a formation that gave them the ability to summon 'Will of The Veil'. It was this link that Tiera called on now, channelling what power she had available to her. Her voice took on a vibrational quality, that thundered and bit through the air with the momentous Will of all those who belonged to The Veil.

  Regardless of the noise around them, all parties involved could hear her shout, as the message permeated through the mana in the available space. Will was generated by sapping a tiny fraction of mana from members of the organisation. Hence, the more powerful the sect or clan the more power imbued individuals were able to exert. Similarly, higher positions within the organisation would entitle you to use more power. Traditionally, this imbuement helped various powers negotiate, intervene in conflicts, and subdue isolated groups of people. Considering Tiera's minor position within The Veil, her voice truly dominated the space.

  Tiera knew the man lording over the arena likely held the most power within this establishment and the colour draining from his golden skin told her she was right.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "" The golden-skinned man spoke back, his own voice fueled by the thousands of slaves beneath them.

  "Tiera responded her words leaving no room for interpretation.

  "

  Telekinetic force shot out from the golden man the moment the last word left his mouth. Compared to the legion of shielded smiths, Tiera was vulnerable to attack. In close proximity the Overlord was able to crush the armour of his guards whilst they remained inside it, at this distance he could only pull her closer. The same was true for even some of the more powerful slaves but there came a time when they could either no longer resist or it wasn't worth the aggravation. Unfortunately for Chrysos, he underestimated the zeal of a Knight, he had given her too much room. Embroiled in war for decades, Tiera had experienced a range of mentally channelled powers. Through trial by combat, she had developed an incredible sensitivity to changes in ambient mana around her. She could read intent, as a physical manifestation of her opponent's Will. Better still, Tiera had long since developed the ability to move fluidly, reacting to projectiles and debris the man might throw at her. Tiera had honed all of these abilities since she was a girl, before she had lost her arm, before she had lost her parents.

  Darting around the arena, the Overlord wasn't combat proficient enough to make effective countermeasures. As with all complacent generals, Chrysos had long since lost his edge. Only his rare skill set saved the man now.

  ——————————————

  Any one of the pale entities could have singlehandedly transformed Otis into a rapidly congealing paste, with little effort, and now they surrounded him in their hundreds. When attacks connected with the shield wall they sounded like old Howitzer artillery guns. The difference in strength was simply staggering.

  In the fragments of space between the smiths' shields, Otis took in quick glimpses of the horrors around them. The twisted aberrations, that seemed to make up the masses of foot soldiers, were exactly as the others had described. Until their attacks landed on the shield wall, it was difficult for him to believe they were as powerful as Zlatan had described and yet the blacksmiths' attacks tore through their flesh with ease. The pale flesh seemed to part before hammers and axes before they even made contact. The larger monstrosities, made entirely of twisted limbs, suffered similarly. Deep wounds tore through them before they too were cut down. Despite their ancillary focus, the blacksmiths had devastating effectiveness against the horde. Designed to manipulate esoteric metals, flesh so weak couldn't withstand their attacks.

  The sudden reverberation of Tiera's empowered voice had alerted all of them to her sudden appearance. In truth, Haekril had expected the girl to find them. He hadn't hidden the poster showing Otis' location and given how closely she tried to monitor the smithy she was bound to discover their disappearance soon. It wasn't an easy decision to exclude Tiera, he'd known her for so many years now. Still, he couldn't take the risk that she would trust someone else with their information, it had been a threat to them and to Otis. Her appearance now, however, was much appreciated. Haekril was sure they would have outlasted the horde but it was much nicer to have the backing of a combat-classed Knight of The Veil to help cut through the chaff.

  Churned-up earth and dust intermingled with shafts of fleeting light. Rapid beats that sounded and felt like missiles careening into the ground shook Otis to his core. Drawn back to the day he met her, flashbacks to the strewn-about creatures and corpses reminded him of the intense differences between ancillary classes and combat-specific ones. 'Battle Forge' blended the gap between an ancillary and combat class but the power of one specialised individual was staggering. He was magnitudes more capable than when Tiera had saved him before but to her and everyone around him Otis was like a child.

  Quickly, aided by Tiera, the activity within the shield formation became more controlled and less reactive. Glimpses caught through the shield wall showed golden spears quickly conjured and thrown with devastating effect. Larger, more complex entities were able to take more than a single hit but didn't fare well. Despite his limited perspective, there were several animalistic forms constructed from twisted limbs that Otis had seen weakly writhing or dead against the ground. Though these attacks were less effective against hoards of smaller entities, this wasn't a limited factor for the airborne Knight. Glowing runic inscriptions helped Tiera channel a sheen of ethereal golden mana through the prosthetic sword arm. When Otis was able to spy Tiera flying low to the ground, swathes of fetid flesh formed a fog behind the Knight's speeding form. Mutilated limbs flowed like water as paths were cut through the endless hoards.

  "He best be alright in there," Tiera yelled, as she cleaved through a batch of place abominations close to the blacksmiths' formation.

  She was too fast to feel threatened by the constructs and far too agile to get caught. Otis couldn't help but reflect on his own Path. He could see it now, more clearly than ever, the silent wall of armour cleaving through an unending tide. Bloodied and battered, his armour would instil fear in his enemies as Tiera did now.

  ——————————————

  None of this had been planned for. Despite the increasingly unlikely odds, the boy had to die today or the powers that threatened Fortune's Favour would leave him wishing for death. Chrysos had limited options to choose from now. The Knight of The Veil was too fast and experienced to isolate and eliminate, not now. The others were somehow skilled at reducing the effectiveness of his mana, this other force be susceptible to collapsing the stadium onto their position. Still, killing them all would only pain him. He already had a target on his back from one powerful faction, adding another wasn't something he was willing to do. Comparatively, killing the boy alone would be a cleaner outcome. If he did nothing and couldn't escape, allowing the boy to live, he was as good as dead anyway. The Fate's were not kind, not now.

  There was only one strategy that gave him a way out. Opening the floor before risked his stock of champions getting killed as collateral... now that his life was truly on the line, this stock meant nothing to him. Leaving with his life was the only thing that mattered, for Chrysos. Fortune's Favour wouldn't survive but if he could find a way to disappear now, he might still live.

  'So be it,' Chrysos thought, as he issued a mental command before channelling his mana into an origin bead stowed within his pocket.

  ——————————————

  Only a small gasp had left his mouth when the arena floor opened up beneath him. He had grasped out for the other blacksmiths but he hadn't reacted in time. He had expected the sudden loss of hope. Without a means of survival, nothing mattered anymore. Otis basked in a nostalgia for life that only came when it came to an end. He didn't realise how much the myths and legends his grandfather had told him meant. He suddenly appreciated the silent nights, when he had walked home from late-night library sessions. It had come at the cost of his freedom, his comfort, and his life, but, in this place, he had found friendship and purpose. It felt like he had a real family, one that had helped him, at a detriment to themselves... and now he'd never get the chance to repay them. Otis couldn't help but think of all that this place had given him.

  "HAHAHAAAA!"

  From nowhere, a hand looped under Otis' armpit and latched onto his battered chest plate. His descent slowed rapidly, before levelling out. Somehow, he had been saved from leaving a fusion of flesh and metal on the floor of the slave city.

  "Fuck, this place, man," Otis sighed as he breathed a sigh of relief.