The sound rolled out of the golem’s face with a much softer tone than Otis would have expected. It sounded like a tinny speaker, soft tones distorted by grating stone. Better still, the voice sounded young. It sounded kind. From behind the golem, a silhouetted figure gave a slight wave. Whilst the other seemed to bob and sway.
“… Hi,” Otis replied, somewhat stunned by the turn of events.
The golem stayed the same, its stone plates rigid and unmoving as its unblinking orb eyes.
“Hello. I am Bolo,” the golem repeated.
“Uh, yeah, hi,” the figure that had waved sounded out, drawing Otis’s attention.
The two background figures must have thought the golem was a less jarring presence than their own. The first was worse for wear. His skin had intricate runic icons seared across his body. His skin was pale, scabbed, and stretched taut. The second was far worse with severe and recent-looking burns, that had singed off his eyebrows and some patches of hair. Bandages around his left side hinted at a litany of other burns and injuries. Both of the men wore light leather armours, sparsely decorating their person.
“We just wanted to see the new face. If you make it past the first hour, we’ll probably be on the same team.”
“What happens in the next hour?”
“Agh,” the bandaged figure had tried to point to something, having forgotten their current limitations, and stretched their melted flesh.
The small gesture had been enough to guide Otis’ gaze behind him. Above the large door, he’d levitated through not long ago, a light blue screen stretched across the long stretch of wall. There was a number and a ticking timer.
“You should be the one right at the end. You have to be the only one here that’s unranked, so we figure it’s you.”
#5794B - 00:00:56:14
Craning his neck, the number at the end of the long list had a timer of less than an hour.
“You’ve met Bolo, I’m Zlatan, and this is Mooch.”
“I’d shake your hand, but…,” Mooch gestured towards his injuries.
Otis continued to stare up at the leaderboard of names. His name and number were the same, but as he scanned the board others were different.
Rank: #5238 - Gutta!
Rank: #3142 - Masked Stranger
Rank: #100 - Rampage
Rank: #1 - War God, Tyr
“The last guy didn’t seem to know what this place was, so we figured we would see if you knew what you're in for.”
“I- what’s going on?” Otis could imagine what was about to happen but he couldn’t make the leap. It was too sudden, too dangerous.
The two young men shared an awkward glance. They had underestimated how hard it would be to tell someone of their death sentence.
“You’re in Fortune’s Favour. Part of a black market network, it’s the biggest fighting ring within the influence of The Veil. In…” Zlatan glanced at the leaderboard, “In fifty-five minutes you’ll have to fight... only it won't stop till one of you dies. It's a death match. I-I’m sorry.”
At the words ‘fighting ring’, Otis felt his stomach drop. He wasn’t just a slave but a gladiatorial sacrifice. The names on the leaderboard had sounded like wrestler pseudonyms but only now did he appreciate why. He’d been sold to a fighting ring, a coliseum within this fucked up new reality. In the next fifty-five minutes, he would have to fight and take a life or be brutally murdered himself.
“I-I-I need metal. I need a weapon,” Otis stammered.
He’d seen the doors, the enchantments, and the sheer thickness of the construction. Even if he had fifty years he probably wouldn’t make it through; even if he did, he didn’t know where he was or how to leave nor would he make it past the guards. Now, with only fifty minutes all he could do was clutch at straws.
“Oh, they’ll give you a weapon,” Zlatan said reassuringly.
“It won’t be the same. It’s what I do. I can make stuff.”
Zlatan blanched, not a combat focus? Suddenly, it felt like talking to a dead man. ‘5794B’ seemed nice enough but he doubted there was anything they could do that would help now. Nevertheless, he agreed to take Otis to the dump. Imaginatively named for broken and lost weapons and armour that lacked a purpose after the bouts, there would be something there for him. Neither veteran held an iota of belief that the newbie would survive this first round but, if he was going to die anyway, he may as well go down fighting.
5794B, Otis, didn’t have a mind to consider the scenery as he chased after Zlatan. His lungs were on fire. Even Mooch, injured as he was, seemed to glide through the air. Bolo shifted over the terrain. A continuous pillar of moving rocks lifted the golem up, wholly one with the earth it came from. He didn’t need to look to imagine the questioning glances shared between his two sentient guides. How was he going to survive? What could he craft that would help him?
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By the time they had traversed the through the territories, shacks, and denizens within the cavernous space, Otis retched for breath. He hadn’t run so hard in his life. Sweat dripped from his face and back. His stomach churned as he struggled to choke down gasps of air.
#5794B - 00:038:12
He didn’t have time but at least the gargantuan mound of scrap didn’t limit his resources. Stumbling forward, he dropped to his knees and began rummaging.
“Too big… too dense… already mana affected…” Otis whispered as he searched for what he wanted.
Whilst he hadn’t spent long in The Veil, he had used that time wisely. He knew what made for better working materials and what would hamper him down the line.
“Wh-”
*HCCK*
Otis spat coagulated spittle to the side. He might have the charisma of a hermit but he thanked his lucky stars he’d had the stat boost to endurance. It was one of his few stats that looked vaguely impressive and it was paying dividends now.
“Who will I fight in the next round?”
“That’s anyone’s guess in the first round. What level are you?” Zlatan asked.
“One.”
Mooch coughed and groaned, as his burnt skin stretched in surprise.
“ONE? You’re level one?” Zlatan expressed, for the two of them.
“I awakened to it all... it feels like only a day ago, maybe two. I’ve lost track of time, really.”
Otis’ sentient guides stared aghast. Given the rarity of late bloomers, it was obvious why Otis had been taken. The potential that these fabled individuals had was unfathomable. If 5794B could survive, who knew what it would take to stop him?
“They usually try to match it to ability, so maybe it won't be too bad. Fortune’s Favour is all about coin-toss luck, creating the most exciting fights possible. I’ve never seen a late bloomer come through here though. I've never even heard of someone with such a low level in the city let alone actually fighting, ever."
"Till you hit level five, there's not much point though is there?” Zlatan asked, rhetorically.
Otis didn’t need to hear more. He had a chance. At least against someone his level even if he lost he might not lose too quickly.
'Although if the fight gets drawn out longer that means a more painful and slower death', he thought.
The newly awakened mage shook away the thought but worried that such a match might actually pit him against a child.
"It's no fucking Hogwarts," Otis mumbled frustratedly, pushing away angry tears as he threw away more twisted metal.
Again Mooch and Zlatan could only glance between themselves. They had no idea what he had referenced or the surreal magical worlds Otis had been led to believe might exist. Comparatively, this was a cruel and unusual reality, that seemed intent on punishing him mercilessly.
'What would capitalise on his strength?'
He had to think. Already, his fingertips burned as he sorted through the jagged edges of the heaving pile of sheared apart armourments. As he attempted to forget his anger at the unjust happenings within his life, he recalled the girl in the training chambers. Even someone low-levelled might be able to conjure weapons of golden light. How would they act? How could he buy time?
Losing himself in thought, time ticked by but slowly the pile of metal shards began to take shape.
Zlatan and Mooch had mind to leave him to his last efforts but the way the new arrival seemed to slip into his craft was mesmerising. Neither of them could find a reason why, but they couldn’t help but think that maybe he had a chance. They didn’t know how he would do it. They couldn't think of an opponent who could let it happen. It wasn’t feasible for someone without a combat class to rival an opponent who did… and yet they were compelled to believe in otherwise and just maybes.
#5794B - 00:00:04:58
“5794B, make your final preparations.”
Otis’ audience of two had been reluctant to disturb him but the announcement for the upcoming bout had no such qualms. Sweat beading his forehead, the newly anointed mage didn’t seem to notice. There was still so much more to do. Technically he had created what he wanted, but only in the basic sense. He could do better, he could do more! If he had more time to prepare it would have been concentrated, sharpened, and reinforced. Without time to research, this would be a trial by combat in more ways than one.
As the timer struck zero, the newly awakened mage looked like he had already fought. A powerful grasp snatched him from the air. Surprised by the sudden ethereal grasp, he had almost dropped his newly minted weapon. Still, he couldn't help but stare in disappointment.
It wasn’t enough.
Newly forged a sturdy mace was clasped by his dominant hand. The spikes that studded the spherical head were sharp, menacing, and whined for violence. Across his other arm, a round shield was securely fastened with thin metal braces.
Whether it was historical or virtual, a good offence was often more useful than an impenetrable defence. His heart beat manically in his chest. He hadn’t finished. He needed more time.
‘Why be good, when it could be great,’ the words drowned out his tolling pulse.
Otis had fashioned the mace first. Without it, he would be beaten without any way of retaliating. In such a scenario it would only be a matter of time before his arms lowered in exhaustion and he lost his head or a slow reaction splintered his ribs.
Frustrated, Otis slammed the mace pommel into his shield. He needed more. It needed to be thicker, stronger!
“ARGH,”
“ARGH,”
“ARGH!”
Each swing of his mace marked the ascent toward the cave ceiling and growing determination. Venting his frustration, Otis felt it in his bones. He would survive, he would win… whatever it took.
Still, the cacophony of city noise rang out below Otis as he was lifted skywards. His determined shouts defused into the sounds of the city but there were those that took notice of the boy who refused to accept his fate. Zlatan and Mooch were consumed by the spectacle but far from the only onlookers.
From a distance, thousands of metres away a looming figure stood well above the average height of the cave dwellers. Deep sea eyes focused on Otis, 5794B. Tyr, war God ranked #1, saw the young mage arise. He had felt his presence in the cave erupt from nowhere, a speck amongst the denizens but a new flame he had not seen before. He saw the burgeoning warrior drift ever closer to his first duel. The scene reminded him of home, of his childhood. How many years had it been? With a snort, his weathered crow's feet creased from a subtle smile. Memories flooding back, he couldn’t help but brace his herculean muscles, such was the call of a kindred spirit.
“ARGH,”
“ARGH,”
“AR-” the cries died in his throat as the cave opened up for him.
‘Holy shit.”