[...Error...]
[...Challenger dead...Activating Die & Retry System...]
[...Calculating Challenger's score...]
[STATUS WINDOW: UPDATED]
[???: 1/5]
"Gasp!" Nash heaved heavily as he looked around in terror, remembering the sight of the ground closing in, his forehead making contact with it.
He could remember all too well. His chest was pierced by a massive hole, his heart gone, alongside his skull as it exploded upon contact with the harsh, cold ground. His brain splattered in a grotesque show of blood and flesh, his disarticulated body reduced to a red, pitiful puddle.
And he could still feel it.
The impact.
Nash grunted as he grabbed his forehead and kneeled on the ground, the images of his death replaying in a loop.
The egg. The spider. The hole in his chest. The fall.
The ground.
Death.
Again.
'This is a nightmare. A fucking nightmare...!' The young man's mind spun out of control as he bit his lip until it bled, hoping to wake up from this horrible dream. He coughed, his lungs burning as he uncontrollably heaved, gasping for air, until once again, he remembered why he had to keep going.
"...Phew..."
Nash's troubled eyes suddenly came still, as peaceful as a lake. His labored breathing quieted as his heart slowed down, slowly but surely. The young man remained silent for a long minute, his eyes shut as he made his peace. Finally, he reopened his eyes, finding himself in a simple room. There was nothing in it, just a clock hanging on the wall and a closed door. The walls were of cold white bricks, exactly like the floor and ceiling.
Everything was white, except for the clock and the door. As if to contrast with the rest, the door was of a deep black metal, with the number "1" engraved on it, while the clock was a simple wooden object, ticking slowly, indicating that there was just under an hour to go before reaching noon, or midnight for all he cared. There were no windows, and even though the room was filled with light, the provenance of the latter was confusing, the young man unable to understand where it came from.
Nash dragged himself to the nearest wall, putting his back to it as he sighed deeply. He rubbed his forehead, lost in his thoughts when several notifications lit up before him. The blue window that had gone missing for the entirety of his time in the Citadel was back, bearer of news.
Good or bad, Nash had a time giving it a care.
"...So...Damned painful..." He muttered, his arms wrapping around himself in a feeble attempt to comfort himself.
Dying sucked.
Or so it seemed.
Nash looked at the notifications, reading them one by one.
[STATUS WINDOW: UPDATED]
Those words were highlighted in the first notification tab as if pleading to be pressed on. Nash didn't give it much thought and pressed it, the blue window disappearing before being replaced by a series of different notifications.
[Challenger: Nash Dularfull]
[First Floor - Second version]
[Class: No_Class]
[Passive Skill(s) : Indomitable Will(Innate) // Steel Grip(Blessing)]
[Active Skills: - ]
[Proficiency: Revolver Proficiency - Unranked // Machete Proficiency - Unranked ]
[Curse(s): SYSTEM_LOCK // ??? 1/5]
[SCENARIO: ESCAPE FROM THE CITADEL ALIVE]
[HIDDEN SCENARIO: BECOME THE CITADEL'S RULER]
Nash frowned, finding quite a few things different from how they were back when he first woke up in the Citadel's prison. The first thing was that the name of the Floor had changed, transforming into a "Second version". The other was the new passive skill, Steel Grip.
"...A...A blessing?" He mumbled before looking at his forearms, still finding them to be as powerful as after he ate the strange mushroom. That's what Steel Grip was? A passive skill?
Nash rubbed his eyebrows, his arms weak and lacking strength. He was exhausted and could fall asleep at any moment now, but despite that, he still felt his interest being aroused by this news.
"This is weird...The muscular reinforcement I got was the product of eating a strange mushroom, I would have thought its benefits would have disappeared alongside my...death," He couldn't help but stub on the word, in disbelief of what he was saying. How could someone say they died, and for their words to be true?
"And I died twice, to add insult to the injury..." Nash sneered silently, his eyes sliding down on the Status Window. There was a new item in the Curse tab, but it seemed like he couldn't know what it was until he reached the objective.
"...One out of five... Does this increase with my deaths? Wait..." Nash frowned, before paling suddenly. If the System was meant this way, wouldn't that mean it was expected for him to die more than a few times? Death didn't seem to be rewarded, since the only thing it unlocked is an element of the Curse tab. Nash shook his head as he smacked his lips loudly. The best thing he could do about it was ignore the Curse for now and do his best to not die again.
That was something he very much wanted to avoid, curse or not. Death was not pleasant.
"...Thankfully, it seems like my memories are a little blurry, so I shouldn't be enduring the full force of the shock...But still," Nash shivered, remembering the height he fell from, his forehead lancing with mental pain. It wasn't split apart like it had been a few moments ago, but the more he thought about his death, the worse the pain got. The young man quickly understood and focused back on the Status Window, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he found the change in the Scenario tab.
"A hidden Scenario? How am I supposed to become the Citadel's Ruler as a prisoner...?" Nash spoke to himself in a low tone, standing up and pacing inside the small room. The ticking of the clock echoed lightly as one second passed after the other, the young man lost in his thoughts.
The only thing that seemed like it could work was doing the Divine Trinity's trials, all three of them, and see what happens. Mazaeth wrote that something should happen when a Heir of the Citadel would complete each of them, perhaps that was the secret?
"No..." Nash mumbled, shaking his head slowly. Doing the Trials wouldn't guarantee him a spot on the throne. He'd still have to get rid of Aethon the Fourth, as well as most of his guards, to rule the Citadel. And between escaping the Citadel and ruling it, one was much simpler than the other. Nash, as a matter of fact, already had an idea to escape from the Citadel, using the Iron Grip skill and his knowledge of the Trial of the Spider.
"I should probably be able to climb down instead of up once I'm out of all those bastards' sight, but there's no guarantee they won't pursue me after doing that...Maybe I could try and rally people to my cause, but how...?" Nash gritted his teeth, stopping in front of the clock and watching the needle tick slowly.
"An insurrection would need a charismatic leader, and I'm far from that...Using the six Pillars?" Nash remembered the six, dread-inducing individuals that had been present in the Banquet Hall for that macabre feast to feed on his supposed mother's remains.
The thought made Nash's blood run cold in his veins, his knuckles whitening from how tight his fists were closed. He grunted and rubbed his face, getting rid of these useless feelings.
"Those were not my dad or mom, they're just...strangers. Yeah, strangers..." He told himself, before sighing heavily and looking at the clock. There was half an hour left until the needle reached noon.
Nash gritted his teeth and willed for his Status Window to reappear, before pressing on every skill to try and develop everything, so he could get a better sense of every weapon at his disposition.
But, strangely, only one window popped, with a warning written inside it.
[...ERROR//SYSTEM_LOCK ACTIVE...SKILLS DESCRIPTIONS: LOCKED//STATUS WINDOW IN SCENARIO: LOCKED...ERROR...]
"An...an error?" Nash muttered as he read the glitched message, before glancing at the [SYSTEM_LOCK] in his Curse tab. This was the reason he couldn't use the status window in the Citadel? Why would he have such a constraint placed on him?
"Wait, so that means the other Curse...is probably something as handicapping. Damn it, I need not to die..." Nash groaned with displeasure, not particularly happy at the news. What was he supposed to do, then? Guess the exact effects of all this stuff? Then what was the use of even having a Status Window if he couldn't use half of it?
The young man sighed once again, before sitting back on the ground, leaning against the wall with his head resting on his knee. He had half an hour left, the best he could do was to use that time to rest. It didn't take long for his mind in dire need of sleep to shut down.
He was probably going to die again. A lot. It will be painful, it will be horrible, he'll want to give up...
But Nash couldn't stop.
He couldn't die by himself, leaving her alone.
----------------------------------------
"WAKE UP!!" A thundering voice shook Nash awake, his eyes struggling to adapt to the sudden brightness. Someone pulled him to his feet and shoved something in his hands, yelling in his ears tirelessly.
"Come on, Foolish Prince! We need you to give the best show tonight!" The man screamed fanatically, Nash stumbling to his feet as he rubbed his eyes. He looked at what he had been given, a standard longsword, double-edged and badly balanced. The quality was horrible enough that even someone who knew nothing about swords like Nash could tell that this was a terrible piece of crap.
The man who woke him up slapped him on the cheek, shouting once again.
"SHOW ME SOME NERVE, PRINCE!" Nash looked at his interlocutor, discovering a slender man with clown's makeup, and an exaggeratedly wide, happy smile drawn on his already insane-looking face. His eyes were stretched wide open, his black pupils almost filling the entirety of his gaze.
'...Narcotics? No, wait, this isn't how it started before...?' Nash didn't get a second to continue to think about it that the Clown pushed him forward, cackling nefariously. The young man hurried to his feet, his right hand wrapping tightly over the hilt of the sword. For an instant, a thought passed in his mind as he looked back at the infuriating Clown.
'Should I kill him?'
Nash looked at the man's waist, finding a pair of twin daggers hanging loosely, gleaming sharply under the light of the torches illuminating their way. The young man realized his surroundings were much different from the ones he had found back in his first life. He was in a hallway with chains hanging in every spot of the wall, weapons attached to each of them, some covered in blood, others in rust, and some broken.
They were all tightly stuck in the chains to serve as a disturbing decoration, the chains shaking from time to time from some unknown influence. Nash hesitantly weighted the sword in his hands before getting shoved forward once more. He was almost thrown to the ground but he managed to catch himself at the last second. He glanced at the other side of the wall, finding yet another wall of chains, only there were no weapons stuck there.
No, there were bodies. Lacerated, dismembered, rotting corpses, with flies nesting in their fleshes and maggots digging through their veins. Nash's eyes widened but he didn't get to observe it much longer as the Clown shoved him forward once again, chuckling sickeningly as he stared at the corpses. The young man's eyes filled with fear when he watched the Clown cut himself a piece out of one of the rotting corpses, savoring the meat with an ecstatic expression.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
But the fear soon melted away, to be replaced with an even more intense emotion.
A burning, hateful rage.
'That's another madman I swear I'll kill,' Nash promised himself, grinning wickedly.
'I have multiple lives, I have more than one occasion to torture you, you twisted fuck...'
Before he could continue with his fantasy, the hallway suddenly turned to the right, and natural light came from it. The exit neared closer as he continued to walk in the hallway, the Clown laughing beside him as he pushed him or screamed in his ears again and again. Nash ignored the madman, only concentrating on the light he saw.
He stepped into it, squinting as the brightness blinded him momentarily. He hid his eyes behind his hands, listening to a roar of applause and excitement, shaking the ground he was standing from its powerfulness.
Nash forced a look through his blindness, his jaw almost dropping from the shock. He was in a massive arena, a coliseum with thousands upon thousands of seats, each of them filled with a roaring spectator, screaming his happiness at what was going to happen. A loud clanging sound startled him from behind, Nash quickly turned to discover that the way he had come from had been barred away by a thick metal gate, blocking any escape path.
Nash drew a deep breath, looking at the arena warily. He was entirely alone in it, even though it could probably welcome a few hundred fighters at the same time. The ground, made of red sand, bore witness to the countless liters of blood that had been shed in there. Nash held his sword with both hands, trying to get the best hold he could out of it. There were no questions to ask, he knew what was going to happen. He knew he'd have to fight. Against whom, against what, it didn't matter.
What did was that he could see Aethon, the mad King standing at the edge of the coliseum, a dozen meters above the arena, standing on a massive podium. He raised his hands with a lord's majesty, shutting the whole coliseum with a single gesture. Nash stared silently, all ears.
"My dear citizens, please, welcome our new...Contestant!!!" Aethon announced as the crowd exploded in cheers and whistles. Nash watched him tensely, wondering if he was strong enough to throw his sword straight into the bastard's heart. The spectators seemed incredibly excited as they shouted the same name, over and over again.
"The Fool! The Fool! The Fool!" They called out, all looking at him with crazy eyes. Nash gulped, before looking back at the King who continued to hype the public.
"The one and only, the one who betrayed his family to live only a little longer, the one who somehow defeated the Trial of the Spider, please, a thousand cheers for...Nash Dularfell, the Foolish Prince!!" The King announced with a surprisingly clear voice, not stuttering or coughing a single time. Nash looked at him curiously, noticing that, for some reason, he looked a little younger than he had been during his previous life.
"YEAH!!!!" The coliseum filled with the shouts of the spectators, an invisible pressure pressing on Nash's shoulders. The young man corrected his hold over his sword, giving it a few trying slashes. It'll have to do, no matter what he was going to face.
He wasn't dying again anytime soon.
"Today, as is the tradition, I'm giving the Foolish Prince the chance to save his life!" Aethon shouted, his face flushed red with liveliness and excitation, a disturbing contrast to the old wreck he was back in Nash's first attempt.
'Things have changed...Too many things...Shit, even though I MUST not die, I have to take notes of all these changes...What caused them? They said I passed the Trial of the Spider... Do my previous attempts influence the ones that follow?'
That was the only explanation Nash could find, and it led him to wonder about a particular question. What would happen if he completed all the Trials? Would the "Scenario" change again? What would he have to face then?
And like the Steel Grip blessing, what advantages would he get?
'I need to think about the long term...' Nash knew that this wouldn't stop on the First Floor. It wouldn't be the first of anything if there was nothing after it. He had the opportunity to die again and again, at a price, to grow as much as he could, get as many benefits as possible, and become strong enough to rip anything in his path.
"This is the Trial of Strength, a Trial where only the strongest survives! If you survive the ten warriors I sent to you, you shall leave the Citadel with your life!" Aethon raised his hands graciously toward the crowd and the sky, grinning as a thunder of applauses welcomed his announcement. Nash gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening over the sword's handle.
'I...I just need to kill ten guys. But then, what's the benefit of the Trial of Strength? What's the God of Battlefields' magic mushroom?' The young man's eyes darted to the side as he looked for anything similar, but nothing grew on the dull stones of the arena, not even moss. On the other side of the Coliseum, a massive steel door creaked open, letting something Nash had no problem recognizing.
With a small body of pale green skin, a plumb belly, thin limbs, and a vicious, toothy grin, a humanoid that could only be compared to the goblins of classical fantasy games walked in, shrieking under the crowd's shouts of excitement. Aethon continued to do his job as the worst announcer in the universe, excitedly commenting on the upcoming fight.
"The Foolish Prince's first opponent is the fruit of pure evil, a being so disgusting it doesn't deserve its place in the Citadel... This is the...Plain, goblin!!!" Aethon roared, the crowd following in an almost maddening joy. Nash's nose creased as he looked up and down at the creature. The size of a child, with a dirty rag wrapped around his waist and a long crooked nose. He was armed with the same longsword as his, rusty and worn-down.
The young man had a hard time not looking down on his foe. It wasn't even a human, and from his experience with the double-headed goblins back on Earth, they were barely intelligent enough to be vicious. The strength of the monster's blows was not to be underestimated, since he had a weapon, but besides that, it didn't look really that threatening.
"This is the first of ten waves, we needed to find something as close to the Prince's strength as possible, after all!" Aethon mocked, laughing loudly, followed by the public. Nash shook his head slowly, his eyes stuck on the goblin as it stumbled forward, dragging its sword behind him. The creature's eyes weren't filled with the same level of comprehension as the one from the twin-headed goblin but still contained an incredible amount of bloodlust.
The goblin salivated as he accelerated little by little, soon running to charge at Nash, the creature's sword making a metallic noise as it was dragged along the sand ground. The young man coldly stared at the creature, before aiming and throwing the sword like a javelin. The goblin's eyes widened and he hurriedly scrambled to the ground, dropping his sword as a result.
"I won't apologize for that," Nash muttered as he lunged at the goblin, using the moment it was reaching for its weapon to grab him from behind, his right hand clasped over the child-sized neck. With a cold expression, he used the strength brought by the Steel Grip passive skill to crush it into a bloody pulp, breaking both bones and flesh alike. A gargle came out of the goblin's mouth, echoing loudly in the now silent arena, the public, and Aethon unable to utter a word in front of Nash's terrifying show of strength.
The goblin reached for his throat with trembling arms, the life soon snuffed out of his eyes. With a stone-still face, Nash threw the corpse away, not sparing it another glance before picking the two swords up, planting one on the ground while keeping the other in his right hand, ready to be used.
'...Nine rounds left. I need to spare as much of my stamina as I can. I can't risk using both swords at the same time when I barely understand how to hack and slash with a single one...' Nash coldly calculated as he wiped his bloody hand over his clothes, dirty rags that were already tainted with filth and dirt. It was, somehow, worse than what he wore back in the prison. The glance informed Nash of an interesting detail. He hadn't felt much of a difference, but his body looked a little less scrawny, not by a huge amount, but he certainly had a bit of meat between his skin and bones now.
One of Aethon's aides, the man wearing red flannel, the Crier, hurriedly stepped forward when he saw his King's confusion, roaring new directives.
"The Foolish Prince slayed the evil beast! His strength is unmatched, as is mighty for witnessed!" He shouted sarcastically, the crowd soon laughing and shaking their disbelief off, convincing themselves in one way or another that this was normal. Anyone could do what Nash had done, provided they had a bit of strength in their hands. The goblin's blood soaked the red sand, feeding it with even more crimson to taint it.
Nash sat on the ground, using the momentary break to rest as much as he could. This was a marathon. His opponents would all be freshly rested and ready to fight, but he, on the other hand, was going to get progressively tired. He had to use any spare time to gather his strength back and consume as little stamina as he could.
"Bring the second warrior chosen by King Aethon the Fourth!!" The Crier screamed, Aethon finally waking up from his stupor. He looked at the Crier with a dark look, before taking his place back in the spotlight, staring down at Nash with a complicated expression. He scratched his white, dirty beard with wonder, his eyes lost in the distance.
Nash coldly stared back at the King, before redirecting his attention to the massive steel gate opening up once again, letting a new opponent in. It was no monster this time, no, it was a man almost as starved as he was, his cheeks hollow and his eyes glassy. He was bald, with a few hair lost here and there, as if the rest had recently fallen. He was wearing low-quality leather armor, with iron knees and elbow protections, so rusty the sun wouldn't even let them gleam. He was armed with a spear with three blades, a trident, as well as a net.
Nash stared at his opponent, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the prisoner's eyes.
There were no differences between them and the ones the goblin had. They were filled with fury, hatred, and bloodlust, but most importantly...hunger.
The man was staring at Nash as if he was the most delicious-looking snack, each of his bones ready to be sucked out of their bone marrows, while all of the meaty parts would be bitten and chewed off. The prisoner stepped forward, salivating with crazy eyes as he ran like a beast toward Nash. The young man brandished his weapon forward, a cold sweat running down his back.
'I...I need to kill a...a man?' His vision blurred as the trident-armed gladiator ran toward him, soon crossing the distance between the steel gate and him. Nash shook himself awake, his hands almost crushing the handle of his sword as he stared at the approaching attacker. He gritted his teeth and threw his sword once again, aiming for the gladiator's chest. With a quick swoop of his trident, the gladiator deflected his throw without stopping his run, the light in his eyes suddenly changing, a wicked smile appearing on his face as he went to stab Nash's chest.
The young man jumped back while pulling his other sword from the sand, slashing upward to try and deflect the trident. The gladiator only stepped to the side and used Nash's lack of balance to raise his trident over his head and go for the young man's neck. Nash froze and hurriedly blocked the trident when he saw the three blades slide off his sword effortlessly before planting themselves into his right foot.
"ARGHH!!!" Nash cried in pain, lowering his guard and remaining unable to defend as the gladiator headbutted him, making him fall back with his foot still pinned to the ground. The young man screamed in suffering, the torture intensifying when the gladiator pulled the trident out of his foot. In an instant of clarity, he rolled to the side, avoiding a deadly attack that should have pierced his chest before forcing himself to stand. His foot gave up under his weight, the pain unbearable and he kneeled in front of the gladiator, his blood soaking the red sand alongside the blood of many others.
Nash felt it then, amidst the pain, the adrenaline, the blood, and the sand.
It was fear.
Fear of dying.
But why should he fear it?
Technically, he could just come back to life, and try again, right?
Die, and retry, like the difficulty's name said.
So why?
Why was he so afraid of death?
The young man rolled back as the gladiator pierced the spot he was kneeling on a second ago, before rushing back to him. Nash gritted his teeth and blocked the oncoming trident with his sword, his good foot digging into the sand as he kneeled, the gladiator pressing down with a strength that shouldn't have been possible for such a frail man. With an evil grin, the gladiator twisted his trident, Nash's sword escaping from his hands. The young man looked at the sword sliding on the ground, his heartbeats freezing for an instant.
Time slowed down as he looked back to the gladiator, his eyes following the direction of the trident, that was aiming straight for his throat, the gladiator's mad smile reflecting on the trident. Nash realized then, that the trident was in too good of a condition for it to be a normal weapon. The seemingly frail man was no weak man, no, he was probably one of the strongest gladiators in the arena or an excellent fighter under Aethon's service.
It didn't matter, what did was that he was going to kill him. Nash roared ragefully as he jumped forward, skewering himself on the trident. The gladiator didn't get the time to be surprised that Nash grabbed him by the shoulder, a bloody, wicked smile drawing itself on the young man's face.
"You're going nowhere!" He spat through the blood as he crushed the gladiator's shoulder with Steel Grip's help, before using his free hand to grab the gladiator's head. He squeezed as hard as he could, feeling the gladiator resist as best he could by shaking his trident, before dropping it and trying to force Nash to let go.
Giant spiders couldn't force him to let go of the wall he was climbing on. How could a man, a normal guy, get out of his grip?
Nash felt something break under his hand, and at that moment, he knew. He just had to clench a little harder, not much, just a little bit, and the bone helmet that protected the brain would crack open, letting its outside flow out. The young man gulped as the mercenary froze, his eyes bulging out of their sockets as his arms weakly dropped by his side. He had lost consciousness under the pressure.
The young man heaved, unable to go through that last step. No matter how logical it seemed to take revenge on the man who tried to kill him, he simply couldn't do it.
Killing a man was different from slaughtering a goblin. It was taking a life away, taking a future away, stealing a fate for himself. He coughed more blood when he felt the blades of the trident suddenly rotate in his guts, the gladiator back from his unconsciousness desperately wrecking him to try and get out of his grasp. Nash roared painfully, that last string he protected to keep himself to a moral code snapped.
He clenched the gladiator's head, who screamed painfully, ignored the cries, and squeezed.
Crunch!
The gladiator went limb, only held up by Nash's Steel Grip. The young man let go of him quietly as he took a step back, pulling himself off the trident. The corpse fell, bleeding on the ground and joining the countless victims the arena had made previously. Nash gasped, struggling to breathe as blood filled his lungs. He kept his hands on the wounds of his stomach, doing his best to try and stop the blood from leaking, or anything else that might try to escape from his body.
But no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't stop it.
That's when he felt it.
His guts squirmed alive, inflicting him with a sundering pain, while the wounds in his belly burned with the heat of a maddening fire. Nash fell on his back, heaving a small breath after another, his eyes wide open. The pain was so immense, that he couldn't even scream to express it.
Suddenly, a blue window flashed open in front of his eyes, startling him. He had all but expected for it to show up, after its reluctance to appear in his previous life. Nash squinted, trying his hardest to read its contents.
[Trial of Strength - Rodraxos Blessing: After paying the price of a single drop of blood, the Arena will feed the Heir for each opponent he defeats. Scenario-limited Blessing]
'...F...Feed...?' Nash struggled to think, the pain increasing in intensity. What did that mean?
"Arghhh!!!" He heaved as he rolled on the ground, his hands grabbing at his stomach in pain. Suddenly, it disappeared, like a bad dream. Nash clenched his teeth, hesitating to move even a single inch to make the pain come back. After a few seconds, he looked down at his stomach, finding his tunic completely tainted with blood, with three holes in the fabric. It stuck to the skin, making it impossible for him to see anything. Nash forced himself on his knees, gasping for air as he pulled the tunic off. He looked at his belly with amazement, finding three, disgusting scars where three holes should have been.
"...Feed...Feed...Feed..." Nash repeated, a hopeful smile slowly dawning on his face. He stumbled for a few steps as he stood up, looking at the silent crowd, enjoying the shock on their faces, almost as much as the sudden emotion that had appeared in Aethon's eyes.
Fear.
The King was afraid of him.
And Nash knew why. Because he didn't feel weaker, even though he had just bled to death.
No, he felt stronger. Stronger than ever.
The Arena was feeding him.
And Nash was going to eat all the food he was going to be served.