[Debuff canceled.]

[Relevant Skills upgraded.]

[New Ability gained: Mana Steal]

[Class Evolution complete. You are now a Culinary Rogue.]

The cold evaporates from my arm like it was never even there. With a surge of energy, I twist the knife and yank my arm away. The ice shatters in a hail of fragments, and the candidate stumbles back in surprise.

I flex my wrist, looking down at the cleaver. It no longer feels awkward and unbalanced in my grasp. It feels familiar. Solid. Like I’ve been using it for years. I toss the knife in the air and catch it with my right hand, then flip it back. I grin.

The candidate raises her hands, forming several more spheres of ice. I jump at her before she’s even finished, slashing the knife through each accruing block of ice. She snaps her hands away before my weapon can cleave them off, and the ice falls to the ground, shattering on impact. I press my attack, rushing after the woman even as she stumbles back. Suddenly, our roles are reversed. I’m the one on offense, and she’s the one fighting for her life.

We dance up the steps, the crowd scrambling out of the way of our fight. Elation courses through me as I rush after her, reveling in my heightened reflexes and skills. I’m so buoyed by these feelings, I almost don’t stop to consider what I even want to achieve here. I want to stop the candidate from hurting others, of course. But what’s my end goal? Do I hurt her? Kill her? There’s been so much death today already; does another person need to die?

Maybe. She wants to be one of Widengra’s Champions, after all. She’s the same ilk as him. Killing her would be removing one more senseless worshiper of death from the world. And it might level me up. It would make me stronger.

The thought startles me even as it passes through my mind. Is that the kind of person I want to be? I might want to kill the gods, but would I stoop to killing other people to climb that mountain?

Would that be exactly what Shirasil wants?

I hesitate, faltering as I swing my blade. The woman notices and seizes the opportunity, launching several balls of ice my way. I flick my wrist, blocking two of them with the flat of my blade. The third catches the edge and deflects at a bad angle, sending a spray of ice into my face. I rapidly blink the melting shards away as the woman spreads her hands wide, opening herself to an attack, but summoning dozens of shards of ice in the air before her. If I hesitate, she’ll unleash a volley of blades onto me. It’s me or her.

I take aim and snap my wrist forward, launching the cleaver at her chest.

The air between us cracks. My knife flies off to the side, embedding itself in the wood benches, as I’m blown back. My back strikes a seat, sending a shock up and down my spine.

[8 points of Bludgeoning damage sustained.]

I gasp in a breath, rolling onto my side as my ribs throb with each pained inhale. Widengra stands where I’d previously been, a bloody whip around the candidate’s wrist. She’s looking up at him with a shocked expression. Behind him is a second candidate, also being dragged along by one of Widengra’s living red tassels.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

[Timer expired,] Echo reports.

“Congratulations,” Widengra says to the candidate. “You have secured one of the two open positions to become my Champion by default. It seems the other candidates were not worthy.”

The woman starts to say something, but Widengra ignores her, turning to me instead. The two candidates are dragged behind him as he steps down the stadium seats and I scramble to my feet.

I raise my fists, and one of his tassels snaps out to grab my wrist—then stops at the last moment, hovering before my Noxious Gauntlet. His nose flares in distaste.

“What’s this?” he demands. “Who gave this to you?”

Seeing as I’m not dead yet, I use the opportunity to back up.

“That blessing,” he says. “Which god bestowed it?”

“Screw you,” I say. As much as I hate Shirasil using me, I hate Widengra a whole hell of a lot more.

His eyes narrow, and then I feel a familiar mental tweak. [Check,] Echo says as my stats abruptly appear in my vision.

Widengra visibly balks at what he finds. “Champion?! When did this occur and who—they’ve obscured it.” His voice has devolved into a growl, his tassels of blood snapping back and forth with his mounting rage. “How dare they. This is sedition against the gods!”

He storms toward me as I flinch back, raising the Noxious Gauntlet defensively before me. Once more, his tassels falter before they land the killing blow.

“You are lucky, mortal,” he seethes. “Extremely lucky. If I were a less honorable god, who did not respect the pantheon’s code as rigorously as I do, you would already be dead.”

“Go to hell,” I spit.

Widengra’s mouth splits into a snarl, then he takes in a breath, and to my surprise, takes a step back.

“You are in a unique position to assist the pantheon,” he says. The aggression isn’t gone from his stance and voice, but now it’s more controlled. “You do not understand the weight of the consequences your kind has brought into this world. If you cooperate and tell me which god has given you this gift, I will be merciful.”

I grit my teeth. Why do I remain unconvinced of Widengra’s capacity for mercy?

As much as I hate Shirasil using me like some kind of chess piece, I’m not about to do Widengra any favors either. And if Shirasil really is the only thing stopping Widengra from smiting me on the spot, there’s no way in hell I’m going to give him what he wants.

“But make no mistake, mortal,” Widengra continues when I remain silent. “Just because I am forbidden from slaying a Champion doesn’t mean my acolytes also operate under such restrictions. So this will be the only chance I give you to save yourself. There will be no second-chances. To which god are you loyal?”

At that, I can’t help but laugh. “Loyal? I’m not loyal to any of them.”

Widengra’s mouth twists into a displeased grimace. “Is that your final answer?”

I bare my teeth at him. “No, my final answer is fuck you.”

Widengra’s mouth curls in distaste. “It is unwise to speak to your betters that way. Best hope your blade is half as sharp as your tongue when my Champions find you again.”

He glances away suddenly, as if someone invisible is speaking to him. Then he hoists his two champion candidates from their feet as casually as a boy snatching up kittens. His tassels come alive, swirling around him like dozens of writhing centipede legs.

“My time in the mortal realm has expired,” he says. “You have chosen your allegiances poorly, child.”

“I’m not allied with anyone!” I object.

The tassels close around him and his Champions, encasing them in a shell of red. The bloody sphere swirls, and I raise a hand to the mist that threatens to spray me as it grows smaller, spinning faster, with every passing moment. It shrinks to the size of a bush, then a melon, then a marble, until it quietly blinks out of existence entirely.

And with that, Widengra is gone.

A hush goes through the stadium. The previous screams have died out, replaced by a confused and concerned murmuring. Then shouts for help. Calls for a healer. Sure, now they aren’t a fan of bloodshed.

I groan, sinking back against the seats as I thunk my head on a wooden bench. The sting of Shirasil’s mark still pulses against my wrist. I hold up my hand, and mentally deactivate the Noxious Gauntlet, faintly disgusted with myself that I started using it almost immediately after telling Shirasil I’d never become his pawn. Am I really so easily manipulated by desperation? Are my convictions so meaningless?

What happens when the next god comes along to make demands of their own?

I stare up at the sky, exhausted, irritated, defeated.

“Just leave me the fuck alone!” I shout.

The gods don’t answer.