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***Velin***

Everything is so annoying, I thought as I went back to my cell.

I signed a contract to become a gladiator a few months earlier. I frankly thought it would have been different.

It’s my fault for expecting anything else, the slaves here were good fighters, but they weren’t chosen, like me. There was no logic in giving them good food or nice bedding, and it stood to reason that you’d need to whip them harshly — how could they ever amount to anything otherwise?

I was different, though.

The Class I received when I was fourteen, on my First Blessing, was one of the common ones; it wasn’t anything strange.

There was always a story or two about exceptional people getting rare and powerful Classes, but it was all just bogus.

I had been born in a Noble house, though — one of the most ancient in the world — and we already had our ways of unlocking the best Class. I was also sure I would become one of the most powerful Ashen Warriors of my lineage. I was destined to be above common people.

Everything would have been perfect if only my House hadn’t suddenly been hit by misfortune. Those damned rebels struck right after the end of the war when we were at our weakest.

Our House had been at the frontline of the conquest against those tenacious fools of the Duchy, and it was the one that had been hit the hardest by the rebellion.

We were now barely holding onto the seat of Oligarch.

I was just the heir right now, and there wasn’t much I could do with my current power and connections.

I could prepare for the future in the meantime, though, for when I became the head.

So I became a gladiator.

Gaining glory as a champion in the arena was one of the best ways to get recognition and fame.

It wasn’t something that my family ever needed in the past, but in preparation for when I become the next head, to raise our status back to where it was in the shortest time, I had to gather all possible advantages.

And everyone loved these games; the fame one could gain here was significant.

It would also affirm the power of my house once again.

I just wished I could avoid getting into a gladiator’s school and just participate in the matches.

I hate this place so much.

The food, mingling with the slaves, getting beaten and berated by slaves — because whatever they thought, lanistas were still slaves, even if they had a bit more freedom.

And then this damned cell.

I opened the door and looked around the small space, bare of anything except the straw bed. Nothing to do here, except having an uncomfortable sleep. They would also come to lock the door later, ensuring I was inside.

No entertainment of any kind could be found in this miserable place.

It was tradition, and law, to be treated like a gladiator if you wanted to participate in the games.

It was nonsense.

Why would I even need to eat disgusting food and live in a cell to have the right to fight in a game?

It certainly wasn’t to become strong. Their training was just marginally useful to me. I could gain much more by just pushing my level up with my family’s specialized training.

At least, they seemed to understand to a certain point, since they let me train my Skills how I wanted to.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I already signed the contract, though, so I had to grit my teeth and bear with it for the moment anyway. Despite how much I hated it, another few years of this torture awaited me.

I’ll just have to endure, and then life will be all smooth sailing, I thought, as I fell asleep. I had to repeat myself that almost every day.

The silver lining in all this was that I at least found a new hobby and pleasure.

I came to realize that seeing people despair, cry, and beg was addicting.

Whether that was inside the arena when they were in their death throes, or outside when they knew they couldn’t do anything else but bow to me and accept my orders.

It was exhilarating.

Too bad I didn’t have enough occasions to enjoy it.

And so life continued in almost the same manner every day, excluding the occasional fight in the arena.

I always won, of course, and my name was spreading. They knew who I was, everyone did.

Everything was going as expected, except for one thing.

Lately, there was someone that people talked more than me. It was a thirteen-year-old boy named Silvester.

The fighting prodigy, they called him.

He appeared in a few matches already. Mostly people who had their Class recently reset and converted to Warriors. They were easy opponents below Level 10, but they still called him a genius.

Just because he didn’t have a class yet.

I was here to gain glory — a glory that I rightfully deserved — and people cared more about a little slave fighting Farmers.

What is there to praise about? There’s not that much of a difference before level 10 anyway, whether you have a Class or not.

The slave also had a nasty temper and a small brain.

“Hey little gladiator, how did your last fight go? Did you win against that Farmer? Should we call you the Great Farmer Slayer? Maybe we’ll give you a hoe instead of a sword?” I asked when I saw him during dinner.

He looked at me and said, “Mind your own business.”

Really an ignorant slave. He should learn his place like everyone else.

“Shut your mouth kid, and bow down when Lord Velin talks to you,” said menacingly, one of the gladiators following me.

I had promised them a position among my family guards in exchange for making my life easier here, by helping me when I required it. They gladly accepted since they had some sense, contrarily to this kid.

“You shut your mouth, doggy. Go bark somewhere else,” rebutted the kid.

“You little—” said one of the guys behind me.

I stopped him with a wave of my hand.

“You have no sense in that small head of yours,” I said with a cold smile. “If you weren’t so valued, you’d already be dead after speaking like that to me. But how long will that last? They call you a prodigy just for defeating a Farmer or two. When you get your Class, you won’t get easy opponents. After they see what you’re really made of, do you think they’ll still protect you?”

The contract prohibited killing and fighting without permission in the school, but there were ways around that. If the owners of this school weren’t so well-connected, he would already be dead.

Unfortunately, offending powerful people for just this slave wasn’t worth it.

That doesn’t mean that I can’t hurt him, though, I thought as I walked away, followed by the other gladiators.

I just had to find the right method. It would give me some satisfaction while waiting for his momentary glory to recede.

The right idea came to me a few weeks later.

I was eating the usual disgusting slop alone at my table, the others keeping a respectful distance, when an old man came to disturb my meal.

He was a burly man with white hair and a short, neat beard.

“Ehi kid, we need to talk,” he said, as if he had all the right to approach me.

“And you are?” I asked, signaling the other gladiators to stay seated.

He frowned at them.

“Just an old man. I want to ask why you keep bothering Silvester,” he said, turning his gaze to me. “From what I know, you’ve been pestering him for a while.”

I then gave a better look at his face.

Yes, I remember him. I saw him a few times while he was eating with the slave boy. They seemed to be close.

“And what gives you the right to ask me that?” I asked.

“Ah,” he said, rolling his eyes, “Why would I need any right to speak to you? Until you leave this place you’re a gladiator like the rest of us, it doesn’t seem you got it in your head yet. Now, tell me, why do you keep bothering the kid?”

Really. Just because you live in the same space as them, slaves let it get to their heads.

“I just like tormenting him,” I said, not caring about masking anything. “What can you do about it?”

He frowned again.

“You’re a really nasty kid. Doing that won’t let you be seen in a good light by anyone here. Aside from those few asslickers you like to bring around,” he said, glancing at them.

As if I would care about that.

“Why would I need to be liked by you slaves? Those that follow me at least have a lick of sense in them. You lack even that. Now disappear, and don’t show yourself in front of me again. My patience isn’t infinite.”

I signaled for the old slave to be removed, and the others stood up.

The old man didn’t linger, which meant he at least had some small amount of intelligence.

“I already talked to the lanistas so try to contain yourself if you don’t want to be confined to your cell,” he said as he left.

I cared nothing about the warnings of a slave, but I was still left contemplating after he left.

I told my gladiators to investigate him, and a few days later I gathered enough to know what I needed.

A war slave from the Duchy, competent enough to survive until now, but not sufficiently to gain recognition and freedom. The best he could do was to give a good show and surrender at the right time when he was outmatched.

He had become quite close to the little bastard in the last few months, and he was the only one that always chatted with the kid during meals.

He was also someone no one would care enough to keep alive.

This will be fun.

I couldn’t help but smile.

One needs some entertainment to live well, after all.

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