Emerging through the cave ceiling, light assailed his eyes. It was sudden and consuming, forcing tears to bead between Otis' clenched eyelids. The floating orbs of light within the cave had been soft but wherever he had now been transported was like the surface of a particularly bright sun. Standing amidst the unknown, blinded and lost, the world was soundless. As he shifted on his feet the crunch of the ground was the only disturbance he couldn't detect.

"The spectacle! The rarity! The wonder that is... a late bloomer!" the announcement boomed from overhead, permeating the silence.

Such was the sudden intrusion of noise, Otis was desperate to blink away the blindness, in an attempt to orientate himself. Blurred details slowly revealed themselves. The ground was cracked and dusty, like the country paths he had strolled with his grandfather. This time, far away from his own reality, he wasn't flanked by budding weeds and dragonflies. The cracked earth floor sprawled on before him unending and smeared in rough scuffs and gouges. It was difficult not to wonder how many men, women and other things had fought and died on the land he now found himself standing.

"Our first fighter is newly emerged at only level 1! Ladies, gentlemen... distinguished guests, I can inform you he doesn't have a combat class but he is combat-tested. Small though he may be, this one has a fighter's heart. Just to get him here, he evaded death twice and managed to deeply wound an experienced young mage, levels about him!"

Whoever was casting his emergence felt oddly familiar. Not just because they spoke like many of the pay-per-view fight-night hosts but something about the tone. Even still, Otis couldn't help but allow a wry smile to spread across his face, at the description of Eros. His own physical description might have been a little belittling but if Eros was anywhere to be seen he ought to be seething with rage. Given the easily quantifiable strength of mages within this new reality, emphasising that Eros had lost to someone physically weaker and so lacking in levels than himself was an artful attack. Although Otis had experienced little of the magical realms, the emphasis placed on Path and personal strength was highly reminiscent of Earth's own highly regulated regimes. If that reasoning stood firm then the verbal joust was the Earthly equivalent of publically cussing the traitor in open court. Ever since Otis had read about historical loudmouths, like Diogenes, he'd found a liking for damning quips.

Pivoting his gaze, the entirety of the arena for the first time began to reveal itself. Smaller than the immense size of the cave, the spectacle of the massive crowds was only more overwhelming. Thousands of people were gathered in layers of thick rings that rose high above the arena. Fully encompassing the spectacle, the arrangement looked almost Roman. Tall walls, made of a luxurious sandstone, blocked his escape from the arena. Layer upon layer of viewing stands stood atop those walls, bustling with the waiting spectators. Large statues of gladiatorial warriors stood amongst the audiences, carved into the immense structure. Similarities with ancient Rome ended quickly as the arena rose. Far above him, there was no sun, no natural lighting. Floating above the arena were two separate and imposing sights. The first was the announcer in dressed in platinum robes. Against his golden skin, he looked angelic. Only, to Otis the man's complexion sent waves of nausia through him. It was the jaundiced man. Worse yet, behind the swirling black and splotchy reds from the chaotic teleportation loomed. Wherever he had been taken, it didn't look like it belonged to any planet or solar system that should have feasibly existed. He had to be somewhere in between, somewhere separate.

Where Otis found himself was even more secluded than The Veil. In fairness, The Veil's location was still somewhat of a mystery to him but it felt a lot less nefarious than his present location.

"Here to challenge the upstart mage is a man of our own hearts. This young man is an up-and-comer, whose name will be known around the cosmos! We've had to restrain this mage with mana-blocking bonds to even the odds. There's no doubt that without such precautions our dear late bloomer would be torn asunder in an instant. He may be a mage but he doesn't need to cast to be deadly. He's mean, keen, and looking for blood. Temple guardian of Nathel, it's ATROS!

Very little of this made any sense to Otis but it was easy enough to register that he was not the favourite to win, nor were people of his origin well liked.

Entering with considerably more dignity, Atros appeared through one of the far walls. He didn't have to endure the sudden change in lighting, his eyes were focused and piercing. There was no doubt in his gaze. To him, this was a foregone conclusion. He didn't fear Otis, he didn't respect him, he didn't like him.

So focused on his new surroundings, the announcer, and his incoming killer-to-be, Otis realised there was no roar from the crowds. He could quite literally hear the clang of his opponent's sheathed sword against his armour. A quick glance at the crowds showed that this shouldn't have been the case. They were jeering, screaming, and hurling spells towards the arena. None of which reached further than a metre into the depths of the arena. Sound and the various projectiles alike all dissipated in seconds, eaten away by an invisible force.

"Which of our contests will have Fortune's favour, today?! Let the bout... begin!"

Snapping his eyes back to his opponent, Otis' mouth suddenly flooded with metallic saliva. Given the spectacle of the place, he'd almost forgotten why he was here and what was about to happen. His opponent hadn't. His eyes locked on to his own. He was a young man but looked grizzled and bitter. Whether he was forced or volunteered to fight, there was genuine anger in his approach. Between the introduction and his opponent's demeanour it appeared that unless you were in a sect, there was an overarching hatred for late bloomers. At least, Otis hoped this was the case and not just a particular disdain for himself.

"You!," Atros pointed his sword out towards Otis, "you die, here."

His tone was resolute but Otis had long since accepted that only one of them was coming out of here alive. He adopted a stable stance, his front leg forward, ready to brace against his shield.

With no combat training, his university module on ancient warfare was all he had to work off. Simple strikes and a lucky shot were all he could work with. He would be a one-man phalanx. He hadn't had the time to practice nor the familiarity with any sort of weaponry to do anything less. Time had not been on his side.

'The commentator said he'd had his mana restrained, somehow, so hopefully physical strength is all I have deal wi-'

Before Otis could finish the thought, the man flashed forward and careered into his shield. Otis was slammed backwards and slid across the dirt. Winded, he coughed but quickly staggered to his feet. Even restrained, Atros' body had been refined into something wholly more powerful than any normal human.

Righting himself, it was the first chance Otis had had to properly size up his opponent. Atros was young but maybe deceptively so. A few choice wrinkles suggested he was older than his mostly smooth skin and pristine black hair would suggest. Everything about the man seemed manicured for the bout, from the thin tie within his long hair to the gleam of his armour. Interweaving plates of thin metallic armour glittered across his chest and limbs. Whether it was his status as a "guardian of Nathel" or a bias to the event it was more than Otis was offered. Maybe the dump was his only opportunity to have chosen, or maybe they knew he'd prefer his own creations... not that he would have turned his nose up at some armour. The scraps of clothes he had on him didn't feel at all adequate now. He felt naked in the ire of Atros. For someone so wanton to extol their wrath, his features were soft and pale and headed straight for him, again.

"AH!"

With a bellow, Atros slammed down on Otis' shield, disdaining to use any technique other than raw, direct, strength. Immediately Otis crumpled under the force of the blow. Pummeled down to a knee, the vibration from the blow sent pain shooting through his arm.

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Unable to raise his shield through the numbness of his arm, Otis watched Atros rose to his full height in front of him. Several inches taller than his Otis, a smug grin was painted across his face, before he unleashed a powerful kick. He was taunting him. Restrained though he might be, he could toy with Otis as he pleased.

Skimming the ground, Otis' chest felt sunken. Reeling from the impact, tears threatened to overspill his eyes, as he gasped for breath. Rasping chokes was all he could manage. His ribs had flexed and bruised but didn't appear to be broken or fractured.

Against an opponent who could so easily ragdoll him across the arena, he was doomed. Atros left him barely able to breathe in just two quick strikes. He was entirely suppressed. Clinging to hope, the clean swipe through his Eros' thigh stained Otis' thoughts. They were still men. They weren't Gods, they weren't invulnerable. They were spiteful and vindictive and he would make them bleed. He just needed to connect an attack.

Pushing down the taste of bile, Otis shakily got back to his feet. It took him a full 15 seconds to fully right himself, onto his unsteady legs, but Atros allowed it. He was savouring the experience. Both to protect himself and settle his nerves Otis restarted his shield bash, taunting his opponent. It would be difficult to modify an already mana-manipulated surface but if he could repair any damage or strengthen it further, he might be able to take one more blow.

A strategy had formed in his mind and it was enough to force out a smile. Atros didn't see Otis as worthy of speaking to any further but the sneer he'd worn mutated into an angry snarl at his opponent's seeming lack of fear.

'He dares?' thought Atros.

To the seasoned mage, this newly awakened whelp should have cowered before him, begged him for his mercy. This was more insulting than the boy's existence, itself.

Flicking his sword in ritualistic preparation, Atros surged forward. The expectant thud and disappearance of his opponent, as he was flung away, brought out a cackle unbecoming of a guardian of Nathel.

"That... all you... got"

Breathless within a cloud of dust, the phrase had left Otis' mouth before he had thought it through. The effect was immediate.

"You insolent..." Atros trailed off as he breathed out a calming exhale.

The insult had slipped through Atros' stoic front. Being restrained as he was and his honour besmirched by such a weakling, his pride couldn't take it. In his world of magical dominance, this sort of behaviour just didn't happen and couldn't be allowed to happen.

Before Otis could peer through the dust a flat palm collided with the side of his face, sending him into the dirt once more. A harsh buzzing noise disorientated him as he tried to steady himself, something warm was trickling from his ear and down his face. Otis felt his stomach drop as he realised he was bleeding.

Atros strode forward, lacing thin sword strokes across Otis as he tried to recover. To the temple guardian, this was a foregone conclusion. He would end this fight now.

With a flick of his sword, the temple guard readied himself to run the boy through.

CLANG

Atros' body skittered across the dirt floor. Although he couldn't hear them, Otis saw the audience still. No one had expected him to return that attack. Having defied the expectations of the masses a hopeful wry smile bloomed across his dirtied face. He had done it. He had returned an attack.

'I can do this,' Otis thought. Pushing down his feelings of pride and ego, he drew back his mace ready for the next clash.

Quite literally blue in the face, as his mana toxicity continued to overwhelm him, Otis hadn't noticed the toll the last hour of manic crafting had taken on him. Atros, now seeing the blue hues was further enraged by the sight. It was an impossibility to the Temple Guardian that someone so inexperienced, so irresponsible, had actually managed to land a blow. A quick glance at the crowds showed that his reputation would be in tatters if he didn't strike him down in the next instant.

Stood in eery silence, Otis listened to the slight grating of Atros' armour as he inspected the damage, the armour across his left side had been punctured. Through the bicep was a small hole. Blood smeared the finely polished armour and continued to trickle. Bewildered, the man before him stared at the blood for a moment longer. Not only should the boy not have been able to hit him but, with his strength, none of the pathetic weaponry should have had the ability to wound him. Worse yet, now he had registered the wound it stung. The sensation rubbed salt into his wounded ego, which was now significantly more damaged than his arm was.

It was only a moment that Atros had been distracted but in less than a second later he had rushed forward again. Judging from the man's expression, he couldn't fathom why he was returned to the dirt only a moment later. He was stronger. He was faster. He was struck fiercely in the sword arm.

"Ahh!"

Otis had been made to bleed first, but he had drawn the first scream from his opponent. This had been a gifted opportunity for the temple guard but now his dignity was in ruins. Although Otis' second attack had been less controlled than the first, his uncoordinated limbs had been difficult to predict. Less protected than the bicep, Atros' inner forearm had been met with an upswing from Otis' mace. The condensed metal had a considerable weight to it and its true wrath was merciless; designed to puncture armour and pummel bone the weapon had done just that. Atros' inner forearm had three bloody wounds gouged into it. The internal damage was yet unknown but the limp hanging of the sword in his opponent's hand suggested that further damage had been done.

Otis stayed silent as his opponent breathed heavily. He had never been particularly good at trash-talk but right now his opponent looked dangerously unhinged.

"AHH!"

Enraged Atros screamed an angry assault. In the little time he had to react, Otis managed to shove most of himself behind his shield as he met the attack head-on.

"FUUCK!"

Twirling through the air, Atros' sword embedded itself in the cracked earth of the arena, a shimmer of blood drooling down the length of its blade. Having struck wildly against the shield, the pain of such heavy contact with his wounded arm had been agony.

Having glanced at the sword, Otis new the blood that was beginning to soak the dirt below the sword was his own. He hadn't made it far enough behind his shield. Adrenaline numbed him for now but he had been wounded, he was sure. He could only hope to finish his now disarmed opponent quickly.

Ators stumbled back, clasping his forearm. His expression screamed that this couldn't be and judging by how he held his arm, the pain streaking through his injured limb said that it was. The temple guard wasn't a swordsman, he a mage; even the announcer had said he was mage but now it was clear just how unused to close combat he was and how little he knew its intricacies. He likely knew little more than Otis himself but couldn't see past his ego.

Otis didn't let his opponent's confusion and pain go unpunished. It was a dark reality but only one of them was going to leave here alive and it couldn't be the man in front of him. He swung the mace back before bringing it over his head and slamming it down onto Atros, it was the most powerful blow he had landed yet. Pounded face-first into the ground, Atros' shoulder splintered under the oncoming force. Blood oozed out from the armour, coating the mace in thick blood.

With a foot against his downed opponent, Otis heaved his weapon from Atros. His mind felt numb to the reality of what was happening, of what he was doing. He stumbled back from the sudden release ofhis weapon and refocused on the battle at hand. Atros wasn't yet dead.

Scrambling away, the previously pristine figure was mangled, bloodied, and unkempt.

"No, no, no. It's not- Leave me be... Please. PLEASE! Someone help me! Help me! I'm a Guardian I c-can't. HELP ME!"

Perhaps the first time a guardian of Nathel had begged so openly for their life, the spectacle was disturbing for all too many reasons. Tugging at a small collar, Atros yanked and pulled but to no avail. Desperate to win, he was trying to release his restricted mana.

"PLEASE," he begged the unmoving collar and crowds, alike.

Atros was faster than Otis but he was slowing down quickly. Blood loss and exertion didn't make for an efficient fighter. If the man hadn't believed himself infallible this fight might have ended differently, now it felt like a foregone conclusion.

Otis dragged the head of his heavy mace on the ground, as he stalked towards the man. His own forearm felt like it was on fire having to carry the weapon. The man's last pleas for life were heart-wrenching but he couldn't allow the man time to recover. Atros would only have done so to prolong his suffering if the tables were turned, it was clear mercy was unwelcome here and in this magical realm outside of his own. Spraying spittle from his exertion and expletives, his arrogance had been squashed.

By the time Otis had caught up to Atros, he'd switched to his left hand to carry the mace. Atros was too exhausted to be a threat, too focused on keeping his distance, and his shield arm benefitting from not being raised too. The chase would be over soon. Back against the wall, three hundred metres from where they had started, the fight was nearly over. Reverting to his previous fighting stance, Otis felt the soreness in his forearm return immediately. If he had had to put up a more laborious fight he'd have lost after exhaustion weighed his striking arm down. Thoughts of improvement and 'what if's aside, Otis made the final few steps forward. With a heavy heart, he let the mace perform another backswing before raising it over his head to end the match.

In his last moments, Atros surged forward. A trapped animal against the wall. He had nowhere to go but forward. The mace came shuttling towards him but he was maddened and going for Otis' throat. The mace missed its intended target and shattered the man's back; a non-lethal blow. Wheezing from clenched, blood-soaked, teeth and gurgling from the punctures that penetrated deeply through his torso the man lay, too exhausted to continue. The final blow was a mercy killing and popped his head like a melon.

"AND IT'S ALL OVER," the announcer cried, as Otis retched at the sight.