Pag leaned back further against the rough wooden wall, letting the fatigue wash over him. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, but his mind continued to race, strategizing, planning, searching for a way out of this predicament. The rhythmic clang of pickaxes against rock, the steady murmur of voices, the crackling of the braziers—it all blended into a dissonant lullaby that grated on his nerves. The silencing shackles weighed heavily on his wrists and ankles, a constant reminder of his suppressed magic, of his vulnerability in this brutal world.
He focused on his breathing, slowing it down, trying to find a sense of calm amidst the chaos. He remembered the lessons he had learned in the Patala tunnels, the importance of control, of channeling the wild mana without letting it consume him. He needed to conserve his energy, to stay alert, to be ready to seize any opportunity that presented itself.
A sudden commotion jolted Pag back to full awareness. The shed’s heavy wooden door creaked open, admitting a blast of cold night air and the imposing figures of two orc guards. Their heavy boots thudded against the dirt floor, their presence radiating an aura of menace that silenced the hushed conversations and sent shivers down the spines of the weary prisoners.
The guards barked orders, their guttural voices echoing through the cramped space. “On your feet, scum! Some of you are needed elsewhere.” Their gazes swept across the huddled prisoners, their eyes gleaming with a cruel amusement that chilled Pag to the bone.
Several prisoners, their faces pale and drawn, hesitantly rose to their feet. They shuffled towards the guards, their movements slow and labored, their heads bowed in a gesture of submission. Pag watched intently, his curiosity piqued, his instincts screaming at him that something was amiss. He had seen that look in the guards' eyes before, in the virtual world, in the faces of creatures that hunted for sport, that reveled in the suffering of others.
“What’s going on?” Pag asked, his voice raspy from disuse. He directed his question to the dwarf who had warned him about the lack of respawns in the Mines of Mianquoth. The dwarf, his beard bristling, his eyes narrowed, shook his head.
“Fresh meat’s always curious,” the dwarf muttered, his voice barely audible above the guards' gruff commands. “They’re volunteers for the pit.”
“The pit?” Pag’s brow furrowed, the word conjuring up images of gladiatorial combat, of bloody spectacles designed to sate the basest desires of a bloodthirsty crowd. He remembered the orc’s words from his first night in the cell: “One-on-one tourney battles. Winner gets extra rations, maybe even some coin. Losers…”
“Entertainment for the guards,” the dwarf explained, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. “Prisoners fighting each other, sometimes a monster they’ve captured. Sick amusement, if you ask me, but it’s a way out for some. A chance to earn a bit of coin, maybe even buy their freedom. Most don’t last long, though.” He shrugged, his gaze returning to the bowl of gruel in his hands.
Pag watched as the chosen prisoners were herded out of the shed, their shackles clanking, their footsteps heavy with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them, cutting off their muffled protests and plunging the shed back into a suffocating silence.
The pit. Tourney battles. A chance for freedom, or a swift descent into oblivion. Pag weighed the possibilities, his mind racing, his instincts urging him to seek a safer path, a more calculated approach to escape. But a flicker of defiance, a spark of the pyromancer that still burned within him, whispered of a different course of action.
The pit might be a crucible, a test of strength and cunning, but it was also an opportunity. An opportunity to hone his skills, to reclaim a measure of control, to prove himself in a world that had stripped him of everything he held dear. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was a chance to earn a second class, to forge a new path, to rise from the ashes of his defeat as something stronger, something more dangerous, something the Mines of Mianquoth would never be able to break.
Pag watched the heavy wooden door swing shut, the image of those resigned prisoners seared into his mind. The pit. A brutal, chaotic crucible. It was a dangerous gamble, but a gamble he had to take. If he stayed in this shed, his body would continue to weaken, his spirit worn down by the oppressive atmosphere of despair. He had to act now, while he still possessed a flicker of the pyromancer's fire, the resilience of a player who had stared death in the face countless times and emerged victorious.
He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protests of his aching muscles, the gnawing hunger in his belly, the weight of the silencing shackles. He strode towards the door, his chin held high, a newfound determination hardening his gaze.
"Wait!" he called out, his voice echoing through the sudden silence that had descended upon the shed.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
The remaining prisoners stared at him, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity, disbelief, and a hint of morbid fascination. The dwarf, his bowl of gruel forgotten in his lap, raised a bushy eyebrow.
Pag reached the door, rapping his shackled fist against the rough wood, the sound sharp and demanding in the stillness. "Guard!" he shouted, his voice laced with a defiance that surprised even himself. "I want to volunteer for the pit!"
The door creaked open, revealing the sneering faces of the two orc guards. They looked down at Pag, their eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
"Well, well, well," one of the guards chuckled, his tusks glinting in the dim light. "The little mage wants to play with the big boys, does he?"
"Thought you were too good for the likes of us," the other guard sneered, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. "Too busy dreaming of fireballs and incantations."
"I've changed my mind," Pag said, meeting their gaze with unwavering determination. "I'm ready to fight." He knew they were mocking him, underestimating him, seeing him as nothing more than a scrawny mage, stripped of his power, easy prey for the brutality of the pit. But their underestimation was his advantage. He would use it against them, fuel his determination to prove them wrong, to survive, to rise.
The guards exchanged glances, their smirks widening.
"Don't come crying to us when you get your pretty little robes ripped off," one of them said, stepping aside to let Pag through the doorway. "The pit doesn't care about magic. Only strength."
Pag stepped out of the shed, into the cold night air, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He had made his choice. He had embraced the chaos. And he would not back down.
The guards slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the cavern, a finality that marked the beginning of his new path. The path of the pit fighter. The path of survival.
The orc guards shoved Pag forward, their laughter echoing through the cavern. They marched him through a labyrinth of tunnels, the air growing colder and damper with each step. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal grew louder, punctuated by roars and shouts that sent shivers down Pag's spine. He realized with a jolt that the sounds he heard weren't just from the prisoners mining; they were the echoes of the pit, the symphony of brutality that awaited him.
They emerged from the tunnel into a vast, torch-lit cavern. The stench of sweat, blood, and something unnameable assaulted Pag's senses. Roughly hewn stone steps led down into a circular pit, the floor a churned mess of dirt and sand stained dark with what Pag could only hope was mud. A raucous crowd of orcs and goblins, their faces contorted in a mixture of bloodlust and drunken revelry, packed the makeshift stands carved into the cavern walls. The energy of the crowd was palpable, a wave of anticipation and morbid excitement that washed over Pag, tightening his chest, stealing his breath.
The guards shoved Pag towards the edge of the pit, their laughter echoing in his ears. He stumbled, barely catching himself before he plunged into the chaotic melee below. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, to focus his mind amidst the sensory overload. He needed a plan, a strategy, a way to survive this ordeal. But his thoughts were scattered, his senses overwhelmed, his body screaming in protest from the exhaustion and the lingering pain of his injuries.
"Get in there, mage!" one of the guards roared, shoving Pag towards the steps. "Show us what you're made of!"
Pag hesitated, his gaze sweeping across the pit. Two figures, barely visible in the dim light, were locked in a brutal struggle at the center of the arena. One was an orc, massive and muscular, wielding a crude axe that gleamed in the torchlight. The other was a human, smaller and wiry, his movements quick and desperate, armed with nothing more than a sharpened piece of rock. Pag's stomach churned as he recognized the human; it was the dwarf who had warned him about the lack of respawns, the one who had called the pit 'sick amusement.'
"Looks like you've got some competition," the other guard sneered, nudging Pag forward with the butt of his spear. "Unless you're afraid of a little blood, eh?"
Fear was a familiar companion, a constant presence in the ever-shifting landscape of Ludere Online. Pag had learned to dance with it, to use it to sharpen his senses, to fuel his determination. But the fear he felt now was different. It was visceral, primal, rooted in the undeniable reality of his situation. This wasn't a game. There were no respawns. Death here was final.
He could refuse, try to fight the guards, but he knew it would be a futile effort. They outnumbered him, overpowered him. And even if he managed to overcome them, there was the crowd, the bloodthirsty mob baying for entertainment. There was no escape from the pit.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable. He adjusted his tattered robes, the weight of the silencing shackles a constant reminder of his suppressed magic. He had to rely on his wits, his instincts, his years of training in the virtual world. He had to adapt, to improvise, to survive.
"I'm coming," Pag said, his voice barely a whisper, but the words carried a weight of determination, a hint of the pyromancer’s fire that still flickered within him. He descended the rough-hewn steps, each step a commitment, each clang of his shackles a death knell echoing in the silence of his heart.
The crowd roared, their cheers and jeers washing over him, their bloodlust palpable in the thick, humid air. He entered the pit, the gate slamming shut behind him, the sound echoing like the closing of a tomb.
He was trapped. He was alone. But he was not broken.
He was Pag, the player, the survivor. And he would fight.