The weeks pass quickly aboard the Timbergrove. Their traversal through the skies was unfortunately uneventful. No pirates attacked and no pirates to attack- and thus no levels to be gained. Quasi, [Captain] of the Timbergrove that he is, finds the lack of adversity unwelcome.

“When I was a young [Captain] looking to make a name for myself, I also found the empty and safe skies boring. I hated the lack of action.” Myers explains with a smile on his face. The man looks content and happy on the throne, enjoying the sight of empty clear skies all around. “Now though, I’ve grown to relish in peace and safety.”

“Peace is for the weak and safety for the dead. I crave violence, levels, and actual milk. Not that mutant weird fat-free spider milk.”

Lacaranea is a favored meat source preferred by the nobility and wealthy. An insult to all milk drinkers everywhere.

“Fuck the spider chickens and their white pisswater. And their eggs too.”

The old man sighs. “You seem a bit aggravated.”

“You’d be aggravated too if your training involves repeatedly blowing up half your body.”

“Hmmm. I do recall Clay mentioning that you've been eating a lot more.”

“Yea, training has slowed quite a bit.”

“Why?”

Quasi groans and growls at the same time. Like he’s angry at being annoyed. “Partly because the magic training has progressed to the point that failing a spell explodes my arm, and partly because I’m too hard-headed to train with safer, less explosive runes.”

“Sounds like you already know the problem and what you need to do to solve it.”

“Growl.”

Myers chuckles. “Well, your tortuous boredom is coming to an end.” He retrieves a spyglass, extends it, and takes a look. Then he positions it for Quasi.

Looking through the spyglass, Quasi gazes at the island of Glatorius. An actually large magnificent c oval island slightly lower in elevation than their current position. From his vantage, he notes that the island center has a large lake covered in massive farmland. The City, Gladius, is located at the edge of the island and surrounds the tower. Throughout the city, numerous arenas of various sizes numbering in the dozens can be seen everywhere- with the largest of which at the tower.

“The city seems wealthy. The port is crowded and the ships get pretty big. Some of them even look fancy.”

“I’ve never visited Gladius, but it’s a popular place for the wealthy to spend and make money. You’ll find many [Merchants] and [Nobles] frequenting the city.”

“Make money? Like gambling in fights?”

“Yes. The city is an Oligarchy fueled by the fees they collect from those that gamble and those that watch the mindless bloodshed.”

“Oooohhh. Sounds fun. Do you think I could join in on the fights?”

Myers raises an eyebrow. “As a [Gladiator]?”

“No, as a gambler. I doubt they’d let me join in my Fenrimorph form.”

Myers slowly strokes his beard as one would mindlessly a cat. “I don’t actually know. I only know of Gladius, but never visited.”

“Damn. Sounds like I’ll need to figure that out when I arrive.”

______________________________________________________________________

On approach, It is immediately made clear that the ports have a bit of a tiered system in place that just so happens to favor those with power, and thus money. The ports of larger ships are well-cared, well-cleaned, and well-guarded. While the ports for smaller ships are more towards the opposite, with Corvettes placed in the most dilapidated part of decaying wood and rusted metal.

The Timbergrove though, cored that it is, is directed into an area where smaller cored ships are located. This area is of a quality similar to where the larger ships are moored. As the Timbergrove moves into position, it becomes blatantly obvious that the timbergrove really doesn't belong. Both to the left and right of the ship are cored frigates designed not by a [Shipwright], but by an artist who just so happens to have the class.

These are vessels for the wealthy nobles who wish to fly fast and without the annoyance of crew. They are ships whose design and construction loudly speaks of wealth and the willingness to dispose of that wealth for the vainest of purposes.

In moments, the ship is tied down and a bridge is placed. A man wearing a toga arrives and waits at the entrance, a curious wrinkle stands squarely upon his brow. The man is aged, but muscular and scarred. An old fighter if Quasi were to guess.

__________________________________________________

Gond isn’t sure how to feel about the Timbergrove. It’s not a fancily designed cored vessel built for speed and mobility, nor is it one designed for combat- even though the ship is arguably the most armed frigate Gond had ever seen. It honestly looks like a versatile vessel modified to fight destroyers and win.

“Very odd,” he whispers at the Ballista on the ship's prow.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

His reaction only gets stronger when he sees the diverse crew.

As soon as they depart the ship, Gond steps forward and gives a trained bow.

“Welcome to Gladius. I am Gond, a servant of this fair city and the designated caretaker for your ship. Who might be the [Captain] of this fine vessel?”

A cat sitting upon the shoulder of a tall broad-shouldered muscular man raises a paw. “That would be me.”

To most, the sight of a talking cat would make most people pause. But Gond isn't like most people. Life had honed him to react quickly or risk death.

“Then I would like to extend my guiding services to you for the remainder of your stay.”

“I get a guide?” the cast asks.

Gond nods. “Yes. Ships moored at this section are offered such services until they depart.”

“Oh… damn. I was going to find a bar for information, but this is even better. Alright Gond, I accept your offer?”

He bows again. “How would you like me to call you?”

“[Captain] Fluffy, or just Fluffy is fine.”

“Of Course, [Captain] Fluffy. What services do you require of me?”

“Information. I need access to the central tower where the barrier is located. I heard it’s blocked off or restricted?”

“You heard correctly. The central area of the tower is used to house the top [Gladiators]. None but the fighters and their guests are allowed within.”

“I… see. Boriss, want to fight in an arena again?”

Boriss grins like a child who was offered chocolate. “Da. Is long time since I crack skull. Vhil be fun.”

“Gond, looks like my buddy here wants to show the [Gladiators] how to properly fight. Where can we sign him up?”

Gond looks Boriss up and down, and what he finds is a body who looks as though it belongs in the coliseum. “Is your fighter below level twenty-five?”

“He is.”

Gond nods. “Then, if we hurry now, he can be signed up for the base class qualifiers.”

“[Captain], I wish to join him in combat. It has been weeks since I have tasted the flesh of those fallen upon my claws.”

Gond hides a grimace as Nepenthes reveals her mantis blade-arms.

“Only Humans, Wolven, and Gemma are allowed in the under twenty-five tournaments. Phytonids and Insectoids are forbidden from joining any fights.”

The cat frowns. “What about Buxon’s?”

“Buxon are no longer allowed in the under twenty-five tournaments.”

Boriss crosses his arm as a vein pops on the side of his neck. The man is actually upset. “Vhy? Bug and plant is not fun: like punching tree and squishing bug. But break bone is good fun, yes?”

Gond blinks, even going as far to have a slight smile. “We used allow Buxon in the under twenty-five tournaments, but the Gladius bosses got tired of seeing mostly Buxons in the finals. It was uninteresting and generally bad for profits.”

Boriss spits to the side and into the depths of the planet. “Cowards.”

The man suppresses a chuckle. “I’d have to agree. But those are the rules and all must abide by them. Now, before I lead you there, do you have any more questions?”

“Where can we bet on these fights?” Cillian asks eagerly.

“You can legally bet at the betting house within any coliseum.”

“And illegally?” Cillian questions.

Gond Shrugs. “I hear the city gangs tend to avoid paying taxes and fees on their winnings. But that’s just a rumor. Any more questions?”

“Where can supplies be bought?” Irmgard asks.

Gond points at several nearby stores. “We have quality supplies nearby, but if you are strapped for coins, then I recommend you roam the city. Gladius lives on trade and great deals can always be found. Are there any more questions?”

“Are there any nearby taverns?” Myers asks.

“Upper or lower class?” Gond asks.

“More towards the middle.”

“Same as the girl, then. Gladius has a tavern at every corner and a fight in every other. Travel the city and you’ll find them everywhere. Any more questions?”

“None,” Quasi interrupts before Cillian can raise his hand. “Just take me and Boriss to where we need to sign up,” Quasi tells Gond. He then looks at his crew. “Enjoy the city and try not to start a scene. Irmgard, I’m leaving you in charge while I’m gone.”

She nods.

“Good. Now, Gond, onwards!”

______________________________________________________________

It’s a generally long trek through the city with many twists, turns, and crowds. Gladius is a massive hubbub of activity, hiding a much larger population than is expected.

Eventually, we arrived at one of the larger coliseums. Not the central one, but not the smaller ones either. Entering through the white stone doors, we are met with the smell of blood and sweat. Numerous men stand about with bulging muscles strained under a single toga. They glance at us before returning to what looks like weight training. Further in, a small arena reveals the reason for the blood. Two men are going at each other, one in a toga and padded fists, and another wearing what looks like leather armor.

The two go at it with fists, but it’s quickly become clear that the guy with padded fists is a far superior fighter. The other guy swings randomly with little skill and poor footwork. It doesn’t take long before an uppercut knocks the armored guy into the floor.

“A good showing, Florence. Just like I taught you.” Gond walks to where the small arena is at. the fight with padded gloves immediately recognizes the voice.

“Gond, you old fart. What are you doing here? I thought the bosses have you guiding money to the pits.”

Gond chuckles, “you’re not wrong on that.”

“That a friend of yours?” Quasi asks.

“Did that cat just talk?” Florence asks.

“No, you’re just dealing with brain damage and are hearing things.” I answer.

Gond shakes his head. “[Captain] Fluffy, Florence is in charge of testing anyone who wants to join the tournament. It would be a good idea to show him a bit of respect.”

The cat rolls its eyes. “I am a cat. A majestic being of extravagance that all other species pale in comparison to. The fact that I even dein to acknowledge anyone's existence is a kindness few of my magnificent kind would ever give.”

Gond sighs while Florence chuckles. “I like him. What are you here for?”

Gond ruffles his toga and extends an arm at me. “[Captain] Fluffy wishes to enter his crewman into the tournament. I’m taking them to the [Receptionist] to sign up.”

“Then back to me for testing. Gotcha.”

The man in leather armor starts groaning beside Florence. “Oh, looks like my partner woke up. Gond, since you’re heading to the [Receptionist], tell her the last guy she sent doesn't get the discount.”

“I will. [Captain] Fluffy, Boriss, please follow.”