[Frost Jarl] Jokull places his hand on Artyom's shoulder, “Úlfhéðnar, your vengeance is near,” he points with his other hand at the city of Amphi. The sprawling metropolis is home to more people than any other in the world. The homes and markets of [Slaves], [Merchants], and [Gladiators] pile helter-skelter, one on top of the other, all crowding around the foot of the Amphitheater.

Even now, during a major war that threatens the downfall of the East, the city continues as though nothing has changed. No walls surround the imperial capital, not even temporary barricades to slow an invader down.

“I don’t like this.” Artyom says, “It feels like a trap.”

Jokull rubs his beard in thought, “It’s possible, probable even, but I don't expect a very well prepared one. If [Slave General] Kael had not been assassinated, we would still be fighting his army for several more months.”

Artyom grimaces when he remembers the [General’s] corpse and the dozen [Assassins] around him, “That assassination doesn’t sit right with me. It was useful, but I don't like it. It feels like my vengeance is being used for a goal.”

“Because it is.” Jokull exclaims, “The West and East are at war and killing Flavion would destroy the east's war effort.”

Artyom shakes his head, “I doubt it. Flavion is an [Emperor], not a [General]. He stays in his comfy city while others make war for him. If he dies, others will take his place and the war will continue.”

Jokull shakes his head. “That is true for leaders of a lower level. A [King] or [Lord] can indeed be replaced, but the death of an [Emperor], especially one at Flavion’s level could very well destroy the entirety of his empire. Though I am not privy to his particular skills, [Emperors] specialize in empire wide passives. Things like more efficient logistics, faster construction, higher food production, accelerated leveling, and anything else you can think of, Flavion probably has a skill directly or indirectly affecting it. It’s said that when [Emperors] die, the earth mourns their passing.”

“Huh… skills,” Artyom murmurs, “I’d never thought they could affect such a large population.”

“They can and do. For example, I have skills that passively give [Minor Frost Resistance] to anyone in my city. It is enough resistance that most of an acceptable level do not even feel the cold.”

Artyom chuckles, a rare smile forming on his lips, “I guess that explains why so many men walk around shirtless.”

Jokull returns the grin, but says nothing else.

Artyom's grim expression returns as the army reforms. He stares at them, his numerous brothers and sisters, covered in heavy enchanted armor that weighs more than a carriage. Where the East relies on their advantage of numbers and the West specializes in class cooperation, the North instead focuses on overwhelming individual power and levels. By now, less than ten percent of his army is below level one hundred.

“It looks like the final battle is coming.” Jokull says.

Artyom nods. “And my vengeance.”

He calls up his aura, his domain, and releases it to the army.

“Forward march!”

At his command, the army roars to life as they enter the city and march on its center, towards the largest structure in all of Orbis.

Towards the Amphitheater.

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Their passage through the city of Amphi goes uncontested. Residents hide in their homes and [Guards] are nowhere to be seen. They arrive at the Amphitheater, the greatest and largest coliseum on the planet, a massive superstructure as large as an entire city.

“They want us to enter,” Artyom says when he sees the door to the coliseum wide open. “It’s clearly a trap.”

“It is.” Jokul says. His eyes scan the coliseum walls. They’re durable, skill enhanced constructs, heavily fortified with a potent magic barrier. Draining walls’ mana via direct attacks would take days, if not weeks. The Northern army doesn’t have the specialized equipment, classes, or skills for a fast siege.

Artyom looks up at the high walls, “We could probably jump over.”

“No,” Jokul shakes his head, “there is probably a barrier. Not as strong as the walls, but strong enough to still take a while.”

The [Hero] sighs, “So, the options we have are a long siege or we walk into the trap.”

Jokul grins, “The decision is yours, Úlfhéðnar.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

Flavion grins atop his throne while the audience cheers loudly as an army waltzes into the coliseum. Big, burly, manly, muscular [Warriors] followed by petite, feminine [Frost Witches] stroll onto the battlefield. Though loosely organized, they still look sexy, powerful and deadly, much to the crowd’s delight.

The [Emperor] stands up from his throne and releases his aura. The aura smothers the crowd and the crowd falls completely silent.

Flavion walks up to the flawless glass window of his box and spreads his arms, “People of Amphi, though a war rages, and many of our best [Gladiators] have been sent to fight, that does not mean the Amphitheater has been lessened.”

He looks at the silent crowd intently listening to him, “Nay, it opens up the coliseum for new champions to make their stand. A new, greater level of combat that’s never ever been seen before.”

Flavion pauses, grinning to the crowd, “Today, my citizens, We bring you WAR!”

The crowd goes wild, screaming their hearts out in excitement.

They fall silent once more when Flavion flexes his aura. He lowers his hands and points at the waiting Northern Army.

“Behold the [Frost Jarl] of Jotunheim, comes with an army to do battle in this very Coliseum.”

Magical lights flicker from throughout the coliseum, creating floating holographic images of Jokull looking confused.

“By him stands the Úlfhéðnar, the strongest champion of the North and an actual [Hero]!”

At the mention of Artyom's class and the images forming above, the crowd cheers wildly and excitedly. Other than the two female [Heroes] trained by the Amazons, the crowd has yet to see what a male [Hero] can do.

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Like before, the cheering stops quickly. The crowd is on their feet, their eyes alite with excitement.

“Against such a formidable array, it has occurred to Us that mere [Gladiators] would not give a proper fight to these powerful Northerners.”

Flavion licks his lips and raises a hand, “So, to make this fight more fair and enjoyable, the Amphitheater will have the Northerners fight…” he pauses, the crowd waits silently for his next word.

“Monsters!”

The entrance to the colosseum slams shut behind the Northern army and the crowd cheers, if possible, even louder than before. Around the arena, hundreds of smaller gates open and monsters swarm out. Dire wolves, griffins, weavers, wyverns, and many, many more charge onto the arena floor. At the center of the stadium, the ground collapses and giant monsters, hydras, and a basilisk crawl up from the pit.

The monsters know no friends, but the Amphitheater is special. An aura of control dominates them and keeps their hostility focused on the Northerners

With the crowd cheering and the battle commencing, Flavion returns to his throne to watch the carnage happen.

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In most cases, [Soldiers] aren't trained to fight monsters and beasts, they are trained to fight other [Soldiers]. They train in formation, level in classes and skills that support the group. In essence, armies are built to fight other armies.

Thus, if you pit them against a horde of monsters, you don’t expect them to win.

Unless, of course, your army was forged in the far North.

With excited grins on their faces, Artyom's army meets the monster charge with a violent roar. Axes, swords, and hammers strike into monster flesh like a [Butcher] cleaving meat. With the Northerners’ great physical strength, the beasts’ natural defenses are moot. Thick bones are crushed, armored scale is penetrated, and hardened flesh is severed.

The [Frost Witches] create a fog of frost over the army that freezes any flying monsters that go through it. Those undeterred find their limbs frozen and coated in ice before violently crashing to the hard sandstone ground of the coliseum.

The crowd revels at the spectacle of bloody carnage. They scream and yell, roaring even louder when Artyom punches the basilisk halfway across the coliseum.

Only for the cheering to grow louder still as the Basilisk, a monster known for its durability, stands back up and opens its mouth. The beast's granite scale body shimmers as violent arcs of electricity race across its hide towards its mouth. Energy coalesces in the monster’s maw for a moment, then the basilisk twitches and the ball of charge is released in a lightning strike.

In that instant, Aryom punches the ground. The colosseum shakes as earth explodes upward. The lightning strike discharges its wrath into the raised stone and disperses harmlessly into the ground.

The basilisk charges up another strike, the electricity arcing like before towards its mouth. Before it can fully charge, the mass of stone that had absorbed its first attack, a mass larger than its own body, rises off the ground.

Under the rock, Aryom growls as he lifts the stone into the air and then hurls it at the Basilisk. The stone arcs through the air and the Basilisk quickly abandons its attack. It slithers out of the way, narrowly avoiding the mass of stone.

The stone rises again.. Artyom, never having let go, growls as he leaps after the lizard and then slams over a hundred tons of dense, hard rock directly onto the Basilisk.

The audience screams in approval. Basilisks are reputed to be some of the most resilient monsters, and the one Artyom just killed is a powerful adult of its kind.

Not that it was the only one.

Two more basilisks crawl up from the pit, not as large as the former specimen, but just as deadly.

At the end of the coliseum, in a raised box sits Flavion. He stares at the battlefield with a growing grimace. The Northerners are doing very well, far better than he’d ever expected. Most [Soldiers] lack experience fighting monsters, so when attacked they die in droves. Formation and organization alone isn’t going to do crap against a ten ton beast barrelling into your formation.

He'd known that the Northerners would have experienced fighting monsters, since the North is infested with them, but he’d not expected them to hold their ground. With their great strength, they are overpowering the beasts. Even the strongest monsters are no more than trophies for the Northern [Warriors].

Granted, some do die when they make a mistake, but the veterans, the hardened older [Jarls], are slaughtering beasts with a smile.

Thankfully, Flavions supply of beasts and monsters number in the millions. Under the coliseum, a grand warren of tunnels descending several miles underground holds all the beasts, [Gladiators], [Prisoners], and [Slaves]. Though the Northern [Warriors] are an army of monster hunters, no mortal’s stamina is limitless.

Flavion’s confidence wavers as the barrier on his viewing glass lights up from the impact of a direwolvf’s corpse, followed by another, a third, and then the corpse of a Basilisk. All of them are stopped by the barrier, though blood and guts do stick until they’re slowly removed by the self cleaning enchantments.

The [Emperor] frowns down at the [Hero] chucking monsters at him. His effort is futile, for the barrier is powered by the entirety of the Coliseum, but it is still annoying.

_______________________________________________________________

“Jokull,” Artyom lands beside the [Jarl] in the midst of crushing a monster's skull, “We can't keep this up forever. We need to get to the [Emperor] as soon as possible.

Jokull kicks the monster's corpse aside and grimaces at the potent magical barrier surrounding the glass. Draining such a barrier is not an option, they need to overpower or bypass it.

“Do you think you can use that strength of yours to overwhelm it?” Jokull asks.

Artyom expands his domain to the barrier. Information floods his mind in a potent stream, too much information to consciously comprehend. Instead, Artyom flexes his muscles and imagines himself crushing the barrier.

“I can do it, but I need leverage. The glass is too flat.”

Jokull grins as he turns to the eighth head of a one headed octa-hydra. The one remaining head glares at him while seven others struggle to regenerate from frozen wounds. Only the timely intervention of a maddened daeodon distracted Jokull enough for the wounded hydra to retreat.

He points a finger at the frosted serpent, “The fangs of a hydra can disperse magic. You could try to penetrate the barrier with them. Just make sure to do it immediately, the magic lasts only a minute after the fangs are removed from the body.”

“I’ll get it done.”

Artyom jumps towards the Hydra with a hop that cracks the ground. The Hydra opens its mouth and sprays poisonous fog.

The Russian spreads his arms, then claps with enough force to blow the fog away.

Panicking, the Hydra strikes, lunging forward with mouth wide open at the [Hero] as he lands.

When Artyom's feet touch ground, he grabs the two arm-thick fangs before they penetrate his body. The Hydra attempts to bite down, but Artyom ignores the monster's struggle with ease. With a shift of his position, The [Hero’s] muscles flex, followed by the breaking of bone.

The Hydra retracts its head in agony as blood and magic stream from the broken fangs. Artyom ignores the beast. The [Hero] bends his legs and causes an earthquake when he jumps. His body barrels toward the barrier, where he slams the broken fangs into the shield protecting Flavion. The fangs, to the [Emperor’s] horror, penetrate halfway. Automatic regeneration activates and attempts to repair the wound, but the embedded fangs disrupt it.

With a roar, Artyom yanks out the fangs and jams his hands into the cracks. His muscles bulge with a strength level that Hercules would approve of. The barrier struggles, the glass cracks, and with a final roar, everything shatters.

“[Royal Guards]!” Flavion screams in terror as Artyom climbs through the opening.

The [Royal Guards] swarm into the room and pit themselves against Artyom, but the [Hero] easily dodges everything and throws them, one by one, into the coliseum..

When the last [Royal Guard] is practicing their ability to fall, the [Hero] turns to Flavion, still sitting on his throne.

“Look, there is a misu-,” Flavion attempts to speak but the sound of knuckles cracking shuts him up.

Artyom stares at the [Emperor] with hate.

Pressure building, Artyom walks up to Flavion and raises a fist. The [Emperor] pleads for his life, but Artyom does not listen nor hear. His only thoughts are on the memory of Alissa’s dead body.

He punches forward and feels no impact.

Zeek holds up an index finger in front of Artyom's fist.

The old man burps with the smell of alcohol.