Chapter 97

"No!" My mind screamed in protest, but the voice remained unaffected, almost apathetic to my anguish. Why wasn't it more upset? Why wasn't it railing against this injustice with me? I couldn't fight the inertia any longer, my body sinking toward the ground as if gravity wasn't just pulling me back to earth, but drawing me in like instinct draws a salmon up stream. I surrendered to it, collapsing into the dirt, all my fight draining out of me. The spinning in my head worsened, and I was left with nothing but the misery. Oh, the fucking misery.

To have come so far. To have gained so much. To have felt the power of the suit coursing through me, only to lose it in an instant. It was a cruelty I hadn’t prepared myself for. Even through the haze of my spinning thoughts, I appreciated one thing: I was still wearing the suit, maybe for the last time. That realization stabbed through me like a knife.

Maybe... maybe Lance or Gideon—likely Lance—would win. But maybe they would die or be crippled in the next year or two. I was still young. I could try for the Choosing again. If I could afford the bribes, if Baltizar still had his fingers wrapped around the throat of power... there could be another chance.

But then the image of Dodge City crumbled through my mind. Destroyed. The bet lost. My family’s ruin. I could see Harold’s face—his steady, silent devotion, that look of concern when he talked about Father—and in that moment, I didn’t care if I ended up destitute or working in some mine, laboring the rest of my life away in darkness. The thing that hollowed me out most was that these might be my last moments in the suit, feeling the power, the enhanced senses, and the brightened world that only the suit could provide.

I surrendered to the suit’s sensations for a moment, just let it all in. SCENT flooded me first—mostly the stink of my own vomit and bile, but there was more. Sweat. Blood. The smells of battle—somehow not vile, but vital, vibrant, charged with the importance of life and death. I could smell the crowd too, waves of sweat and food and beer washing over me. And beneath it all, the strangely clean scent of the arena dust, kicked up by armored feet.

HEARING took me next, a storm of sound. The deafening crash of power-armored feet stomping in the dust, the movement of contestants nearby, standing before the crowd. Their screams were not the disappointed boos I might have imagined at my defeat. They were screaming. There was rage there. It sounded more like a riot than an audience. Then I let it fade, receding into the sound of my own blood rushing through my veins. It was loud, almost like a womb, of the mother I had never really known, cradling me in bitter grief. For a moment, it drowned out their fickle cheers.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Then came SIGHT. I opened my eyes, fearing the pain that might come with it, but desperate to see—just once more—through the heightened clarity of the suit. This might be my last chance to see the world like this, before the priests took it from me forever.

I won’t lie—I thought of fighting.

Griidlords went rogue on occasion. The suits were theirs—neither the priests nor the tower could control them once they were claimed. Sometimes, men with the powers, and often the delusions, of gods, would carve out their own path, wage their own wars. Madness, like Joel and Danefer, was often the motive. They could last a while, maybe years, before the attrition of battle took them down. The suit could self-charge, but it couldn’t self-heal. Once rogue, they couldn’t return to the cradle of the tower to mend. Little by little, the wear and tear would build up, until their suit failed them.

Would I trade a few weeks, months, or years of this power for in lieu of the rest of years? It was tempting. Gods, it was tempting. But I pushed the thought aside. I would see what happened when Mario put his hand out to touch my neck, his face finally triumphant, see if he was allowed to keep that hand.

I let SIGHT consume me, let the world flood back in through the enhanced lenses of the suit’s vision.

The light seared through the haze. It was too much for a fractured mind to handle. Figures moving nearby weren't enemies, they were my teammates.

For a moment, this power made me feel like a giant again. Like a living god. But it only deepened my sorrow to know that I had let it slip away.

My SIGHT found the vid screen, the action replaying.

I saw myself like a stranger. I didn't know that man with the blazing sword, cutting down both his rivals at once. He was a strange and powerful being.

Tears touched the corners of my eyes. I saw how utterly defeated Lance and Gideon had been. I had been a bear, toying with cowering foxes. I had come so close...

And then the screen showed it. Leona surging behind me. My own Arrow. Her arms catching me, pinning my own to my side. Theo stepping in, almost reluctant to be playing the executioner like this.

Why? Why had she done it? She'd be executed for this. This was a violation of the Choosing. In plain view. What pressure could have driven her. Even Lance had been disgusted at the dishonor.

Watching it unfold felt like torture. The strike came like a thunderbolt. His weapon cleaved into my head with all the force and power of type advantage. My body crumpled under the impact. The blow lifted me from Leona's grasp. It flung me like a ragdoll in a way that defied belief. The kinetic energy of his attack snapped my head to the side with a crack.

I saw my own body roll and tumble, limp and lifeless, before it finally came to rest. The screen changed to the reaction of the crowd. The perfect stillness of my form had left them stunned. But that quiet shock quickly erupted into murderous rage.

They could undo it? That was blatant cheating... They could give me back my place.

But it was a lie. It was an immutable rule of the arena that all outcomes were final. It was the will of the Oracle that played out here. It might also be the will of the Oracle that Leona be hanged or beheaded.

There were no backsies.