"THE LATE BLOOMER BEATS THE TEMPLE GUARD! AGAINST EXPERIENCE THIS IS THE POWER OF FATE THIS IS... FORTUNE'S FAVOUR"
The announcer's voice was deafening loud, compared to the total silence within the arena. The effect was surely for the audience, who were in uproar. The man who had been here with him was stronger, faster, and more capable than anything or anyone Otis should have had any possible hope of defeating. Yet, only one of them had brains inside their skull and it wasn't the man formerly known as Atros.
Covered in the aftermath of his final swings, Otis stood limp. He was exhausted, stunned, and traumatised. Thrown into a do-or-die situation his actions had felt right but after the fact it was brutal. He'd retched at the sight and been spattered by the gore. It might not be ancient Rome but this arena was every bit as brutal as the Colosseum had once been.
'I killed him,' Otis thought, mortified.
Without further fanfare, the floor creased and folded inwards before opening up, as the announcer continued his hectic shouts of amazement and advertising the next bouts. Met with a slow descent, even the sudden distance to solid ground didn't rouse Otis from his mental entrapment. He was shaking and disgusted. Nauseous, the events replayed themselves in his mind's eye. He could feel the way the mace had reverberated in his hands as the man's skull had crunched. Perhaps if Atros hadn't reduced himself to such a pitiful state, it might have been easier but he hadn't. His shouts for mercy and freedom clattered about his mind. The man Otis had killed was begging and pleading, even if he had made a last-ditch effort to kill him. Emphasised by the gore quickly drying on his skin, the feel of gristle and coagulating blood felt utterly damning.
Though most of the denizens residing within the cave didn't bother to see the returning contender, those not more concerned with their own impending doom were left stunned. New contenders don't often survive their first trial by combat. They're either too startled by the sudden change or too unprepared by the time they settle themselves. Fortune's Favour prided itself on the closest fought fights but first-timers died more often than not. In the case of 5794b, no one expected to see him return. Too extreme was the level disparity, too unseasoned was he with the world and its workings. Of those to take notice, three pairs of eyes shone most brightly upon Otis' return.
"How in Magnus' name?" Mooch muttered, first to see the unexpected return of the craftsman.
The pair were dumbfounded. Whilst they acknowledged the skill with which the level 1 mage was able to muster in his crafting, neither had thought he had a chance of succeeding. The newly crafted mace, added to the scrap pile would have been a nice addition to someone's armoury but its creator's return was an even greater boon. The fights were never shown to the captured slaves below the arena, but they had no doubt his survival was down to his weaponry. If he lived long enough to join their team maybe they would be able to tilt the odds in their favour too.
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The third pair of eyes had watched Otis, from within far within the city, as reached the end of his descent. Tyr's deep blue eyes stared the most intently of any present gaze. His icy blue-tinted skin wrinkled into an unfamiliar smile.
"Interesting..." the hulking figure rumbled.
It had been a painfully long time since anything had garnered his curiosity. Forcing himself to steady his racing thoughts, he would bide his time. If this new specimen could fend off death a little longer, perhaps he would permit himself the luxury. He would watch number 5794b.
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Otis' feet clapped to the ground with a sudden thud; he almost buckled from the sudden drop. It had only been a fall of half a metre but he hadn't expected the sudden release. It wasn't unduly harsh but reminded him that he was a prisoner; he moved and fought at the whims of his new masters.
"You did it!" Zlatan exclaimed as he strode forward. Otis was dropped off where he'd been taken before the bout, so it hadn't taken long to track his whereabouts.
Despite Zlatan's beaming face and congratulatory shoulder jostle, Otis didn't feel like he should be celebrating. He didn't look like it much either. Half of his face had now swollen from Atros' slap and was caked in blood from the cut to his head. The intricate strings of sword cuts across his body now raged like the worst papercuts he'd ever felt.
Looking at his thousand-yard stare, Otis looked like he'd lost the fight and somehow lived to tell the tale. It was uncommon for new arrivals to take to killing. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't natural.
Mooch lay a small hand on Otis' shoulder. His touch was firm and reassuring, but gentle.
"We all remember... but it was not your choice."
The sincerity behind the words touched a chord with Otis. He hadn't wanted to fight the man. He hadn't wanted to leave The Veil. As upsetting as reality was, he was a slave and his life was not his own. If he had been on Earth, in his old life, there was every certainty he would die in slavery. Yet, the weight of the mace was symbolic of his progress. If given the right opportunity he could stand his ground. He could fight and he could kill. There might be a day when he was strong enough to walk out of here. Returning Mooch's gaze, he nodded an emotional affirmation that he was okay.
"Thank you," Otis croaked, sounding less composed than he had wanted. The words hadn't soothed the pain but they had shifted the burden of guilt onto someone else's shoulders.
The trio (quartet if you counted the silent golem, Bolo) stood in awkward silence before Zlatan could hold himself back.
"Did you get anything, then?"
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"Other than bruised and cut, not really," Otis answered. Had his companion thought he'd steal the man's sword or pried the armour off the man's newly dead corpse? Murder was one thing but Otis doubted he could aswage the guilt from robbing the dead.
"You haven't checked your tome have you?"
Understanding what Zlatan meant and how game-like his status had been, Otis felt his heart skip. He hadn't stolen armour or weaponry but what if he had a stolen exp? Would there be a stat increase? A new characteristic? Could he level up? Each thought raised more questions than the last. The moral implications alone stoked the fires of guilt twinging in his gut.
Mooch shot Zlatan an exasperated glare but it was hard to do with little-to-no eyebrows remaining. Zlatan wasn't known for his patience or tact though he was living in relative freedom compared to life under his previous slaver. His wanton curiosity and unbridled nature weren't unduly nasty but instead an stubborn refusal to wallow in self-pity.
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Otis Manning (Class: N/A)
Level : 1
Clan/ Sect : [Slave of Fortune’s Favour]
HP: 7/12 MP: 2/6
Status:
Strength 5 Agility 4 Endurance 6 (8) Intelligence 6 Will 6 (8) Charisma 4
Characteristics:
Undying Resolve, (endurance, will + 2)
Skills:
Manipulation (level 3)
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Staring through the glowing hole in his palm, Otis squinted at the differences. It didn't seem to make sense.
"Why have my mana and health increased, if I haven't levelled up?" Otis asked aloud.
"You've almost levelled up" Zlatan grinned.
"The way the tome displays information, there's a lag," added Mooch, "it takes time for the process to happen."
Being almost level 2 wasn't as fun, although he would certainly take the extra stats. Looking at his still reduced health and mana it also became clear that levelling up in the middle of combat wouldn't serve as some life-saving deus ex machina event. It was a small difference but it left Otis feeling another bout of dread, a feeling he was quickly becoming accustomed to.
"You're lucky, most non-combat paths take forever to gain levels but you'll have the best of both worlds here, if you do that again."
Seeing Otis' perplexion, Mooch continued to add the details Zlatan refused to supply. The duo worked in a symbiotic way; one presumptuous and brief, the other methodical. Having known the pair for such a short time it wasn't obvious to Otis if this was the way they were naturally or if it had developed from necessity, one bouncing off the other.
"A combat focus puts you in more combat scenarios which is good but means your level increases faster than your skills can keep up with. In contrast, non-combative powers don't lend themselves so easily to levelling but they do allow a focus on specific skills... if you can live long enough to develop them."
"That's morbid," Otis blanched at the revelation.
Even with Mooch's patience, it was clear it would take time for Otis to understand the ways of this world and all the intricacies of it. There were more pressing matters at hand, two in particular. The first was obvious. Glancing towards the leaderboard, 5794b had been updated. The position of the name hadn't changed but its timer had.
5794b - 02:16:32
There was just over two and a half days until his next fight. The sight left Otis with a metallic taste in his mouth, the gore that still covered him suddenly thrown to the forefront of his mind.
Second, it hadn't been long since Suzia had told him to take it easy on casting his skill. As Zlatan continued to observe him, it became abundantly clear that there was some degree of mana-toxicity that had been accrued. Although he couldn't see his reflection, Otis had far more prominent deep blue veins that traced out from his eyes and throat. His condition had worsened to the point that if he looked down, he would have seen a light pulsing blue hue shoot through his veins with each beat of his heart.
Led through the lower city below, it was hard to focus on the conversation as various sights presented themselves. Through the city proper, he could now see a variety of training methods, powers, professions, and physical alterations. The cave city was like a living organism, each part distinct and living harmoniously with other aspects of the dungeon space. The majority of denizens had combat-focused abilities but sub-classes and professions could be seen throughout the cave. There were tailors, farmers, artists, architects, healers, and enchanters. There were also blacksmiths but they relied on more traditional methods to forge their works. These smiths focused mainly on maintaining and repairing weaponry. As with all sports, the combatants of the arena had their lucky charms that they refused to let die. In life-and-death battles using a weapon that you were familiar with gave an edge but Otis was uncertain if he'd be willing to risk any faults that within the weapon, himself.
Zlatan had all too quickly pointed out that Otis was suffering heavily with mana-toxicity and Mooch had provided the solution. The solution came in the form of a man called Valruck. He was supposed to be a healer who had focused on shifting injury and trauma from one entity to another. The skill was useful but even more deadly when used for purposefully violent ends.
"I don't know about the rest of the world but, in here, mana toxicity is a lucrative commodity, for those that are strong enough to deal with its effects."
"Just don't stare too hard," Zlattan added to Mooch's monologue. The silence of his more informative counterpart set Otis on edge. He only had Suzia to compare healers to but given the similarity to Earth doctors, it would be unusual for the man to be too severe.
"This is..."
Valruck's workshop was surrounded by the injured and dying; those who might only survive their next bouts through divine intervention. Whispers of pain and pleas for aid floated on the wind in this part of the city. Unlike other parts of the vast cave, the workshop was a place set apart. There were no stalls, no shacks, and almost no well-walkers. No one stayed within the drawn out grey lands of Valruck's Workshop and even across the distant perimeter only the most feeble shacks had been erected. The workshop itself was cobbled together from feeble materials that looked on the verge of collapse. If it weren't for the shadows shifting within the large misshapen rooms, visible from the outside, it would have looked abandoned. It had been these shadowy figures that had silently barred their entry and waited for their offering.
Whilst it seemed logical the man would attract a clientele of lost hope, the man that appeared before him destroyed Otis' assumptions. The thing before him had no sentiment for life, he was sure. Otis gulped. Averting his eyes from the wall of twisted flesh and scars had been the first challenge, seeing the being they would transfer his mana-toxicity to was the next.
'Finish levelling, train for the next bout. Finish levelling, train for the next bout. Fin-'
The mantra was the only thing that stopped Otis from letting his fears overwhelm him. He had no doubt that the procedure would be painful but he woefully underestimated just how unimaginable so. His swollen, bloodied face, severely bruised ribs, and sliced body were practically soothing compared to the drawn-out torture he experienced before his mind gave out to the pain and unconscious relief took its place.