Dark, muddied, and matted furs blotted out the world. Three separate jaws gnashed, as teeth tried to bite through metal plate and tender flesh. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. The world was going black. He wasn't going to make it... this time, he would die.
With a start and a gasp, Otis sputtered awake, his breathing heavy. The perpetual light of the cave city streamed past the skins that made the entrance of his makeshift tent. Smoke-tinged air filled his lungs, as dreams gave way to conscious thought.
"Just a dream... just a dream," Otis repeated, trying to control his breathing.
The dreams had plagued him after he had been forced to kill Atros and were compounding with every fight. There might be those who could tolerate wanton slaughter but Otis was not a man with such a constitution.
Two more bouts had come and gone, each ending in the grizzly end of his opponents. The subsequent opponents lacked Atros' pedigree but presented ever greater challenges, the last of which was the most physically and mentally traumatic so far. The second challenger had been a youth younger than himself, the mana restraint across his neck was thin and plain. Even with Otis' minimal knowledge, it was clear the constraint was barely needed. Killing the boy had been agonising emotionally just as it had been physically. The boy had obviously long-since practised with a blade but these skills were little more than basic swordmanship. The shattering of the boy's bones, where lucky shots had managed to connect, had brought tears to his eyes. Whilst Otis had won the bout the boy's greater level of restaint had made him a far more difficult opponent to overcome. In the end, the late bloomer had come out victorious but the young boy had left him with several deep scars both scars; some carved through his flesh with the tip of his sword and others seared into his mind. The boy was more than worthy to be his opponent but he was still just that; a boy. He had emerged obviously scared and died cast in the shadow of Otis' newly forged spiked club.
Lastly, Otis had been pitched against mana-affected wolves. Still suffering from the wounds they inflicted these creatures had been half-starved and unendingly vicious. Their pack mentality alone had almost been enough to end Otis' win streak. Pinned down, instinct had kept him from suffocating in the mass of fur. He had kept the spiked club design for this match and was thankful for the reduced weight, allowing him to continuously batter his way out. Paired with fusing small metal squares across spare rags, that he'd snagged from the dump, bought Otis enough time to bleed the wolves dry. Even half-starved they began to fear his spiked thwacks. After a bad start to the fight, where he was rushed off his feet, the fight had been much easier to control. Without proper sentient communication, the wolves' attacks were disjointed and easier to fend off.
Otis recalled the sight of his bloodied limbs and haggard breath momentarily. It was only this voracious will to survive and improve that had kept him alive. Fifty-fifty coin toss odds could only account for so much, if he could progress faster than they expected maybe he could slant the odds in his favour. That's what Mooch believed, it's what they all had to believe.
Illuminated by the appearance of his tome, Otis tried to clear his thoughts. His nights were dominated by recurring visions of what had and could have been but the day was his. Relaxing only meant he had time to dwell on those nocturnal imaginings. Checking the tome had become a ritual, a crutch to focus him as he woke. For the student-turned-gladiator, even the slightest change felt like a life-saving treasure. The process of summoning his tome hadn't changed after his levelling-up process came to its natural completion, but the molten hue that surrounded the black void might have been marginally brighter, though that might have been his own wishful thinking.
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Otis Manning (Class: N/A)
Level : 2
Clan/ Sect : [Slave of Fortune’s Favour]
HP: 14/15 MP: 8/8
[Wounded: -1 hp]
Status:
Strength 7 Agility 5 Endurance 8 (10) Intelligence 7 Will 8 (10) Charisma 5
Characteristics:
Undying Resolve [I], (endurance, will + 2)
Skills:
Manipulation (level 3)
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There had been little in the way of change but he was thankful nonetheless. Each stat change reflected what he had been forced to train. Fighting and wielding a hammer required strength and endurance but he hadn't focused on agility, his opponents were too fast and far better trained to parry or dodge effectively. If things continued in the game-like way Otis' characteristics were displayed he would become more of a tank than a traditional fighter. If he could manage to shift attacks and endure consecutive hits he stood a far greater chance of defeating his opponents. Working without error wasn't going to happen, not when opposing fighters had been trained from birth. He would make mistakes but if he could take a hit and live he could learn and just maybe live long enough to escape.
On the flip side, his [Will] stat had increased with the horrors of combat. He couldn't imagine how someone could face this kind of turmoil without it. Troubled sleep and a hellish reality, it was almost too much to bear but something pushed him ever onwards. Otis liked to believe it was this unassuming stat that allowed him to do so.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Finally, 'Undying Resolve' looked like it was part of a progressive chain, with a sudden appearance of '[I]'. Just how much he would have to endure to get it to the next level he didn't know and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to find out. Disregarding the disturbing thoughts of how he would reach that next level it was compelling to know he had another cog in his wheelhouse, another element that could support him as he tried to live long enough to grow.
"He rises," hollared Zlatan. The man wasn't much for sleep but he had already healed from his last bout in the arena and was painfully chipper about it. The man's healing factor was something Otis sorely envied.
"Unfortunately," Otis groaned in return.
"Dreams again?"
"Yeah," Otis confirmed with a sigh.
"Sucks, slavery and nightmares... feels like a one or the other situation, it feels unfair to have both. Come help me fix this though, I got punt into the shack training yesterday."
Zlatan had a way of slipping between topics, almost without taking a breath. It was jarring at first but now Otis had settled into life in the arena/ slave city it was weirdly comforting. Not everything had to be about survival or the doom and gloom of it all. The frenetic conversation often didn't leave him with enough time to dwell on his own misgivings.
Unlike his own rickety accommodation, Zlatan had been here long enough to take someone else's and he had the levels to defend the modest abode from would-be assailants. Zlatan was a strange amalgamation of adapting to circumstance and an innate inclination for combat. He had high endurance to pain, cultivated in his years prior to the arena, and an ability to absorb mana that devastated opponents. He got up close and personal and took more punches than could be healthy but the berserker strategy had kept him alive somehow.
"What do you fancy this morning? Grappling? Combos? Freestyle it a bit?" Zlatan said with a wink.
Otis scoffed, the man's version of freestyle was a wanton brawl, that left him more sore than he had thought possible. Granted the man was levels above him, manic combat wasn't his style... not with barely two weeks of training. It wasn't a bad method of training but Otis still had an active debuff stopping him from reaching full hp. It wasn't much but starting shy of full health could be a death sentence in a close-fought match. If he could remove the mana infused into his wounds he would be able to focus on healing but going back to Valruck's workshop wasn't something he could afford. After his first experience, he had sworn off a repeat visit entirely. The sights about the so-called workshop were horrifying but the pain almost been too much.
"Combos then crafting, my leg's still screwing with my hp."
"You low-levellers are so flimsy?"
"Who asked for the bloody wolves to have mana-infused teeth? They were sodding apex predators, to begin with," Otis mumbled, a throb in his leg emphasising the point.
Increasingly, the Roman method of warfare of practised manoeuvres and a reliance on muscle memory had been Otis' choice of training. The mere fact that he was living only strengthened the belief that this worked astoundingly well. Against the wolves, panic strangled any sort of strategy in its wake. He didn't have a skill or power that would get him out of a sticky situation but regimented training had helped guide his attacks from flails to semi-purposeful strikes.
Two quick trips through narrow streets and Otis had enough scrap metal to sheer away the corner wall of Zlatan's shack and replace it with a reinforced manipulated metal.
"Maybe one of these days the crowds someone will get you something proper to work with."
"Pretty sure they still hate me. I'm sure after the last bout I saw people crying for the wolves."
"Haha, Otis slayer of doggos! Your PR needs some work," Zlatan chuckled, "I got a set of engraved knuckle-dusters, once."
"M-must be nice," Otis strained as he forced the metal to condense and bend to his will. The process had become easier with his level up but creating anything that would stop Zlatan from breaking it was still unlikely.
It had been immediately obvious that late-bloomers, like himself, were despised by the crowds. The animosity that greeted him in each fight, silenced by the protective shielding around the arena, was enough to convey the thoughts of the masses. Overwhelmed by the whole affair, Mooch and Zlatan had listened to Otis' retelling of events. They had nothing more to add but to confirm that the crowd's reaction was unusual, they knew that late bloomers were a rarity and often ended up being strong but that was all. Neither of the men, individually or part of a team had seen or even heard of crowds so against one of the combatants. Otis still knew little of the wider realms and his companions had shown themselves to know little more than himself. The two men had been slaves prior to their residency with Fortune's Favour and whilst they didn't know why Otis was quite so loathed, they decided to keep this information secret lest other slaves harbour the same animosity as the crowds. It wasn't a risk they could take to investigate the issue further.
"Made with mana though, they shattered on impact the first time they were used. You might be able to make something for me with a couple extra levels in you."
"You're lucky I'm fixing your shack," came the strained reply.
THUM
As if to punctuate his point, Otis brought a weighty hammer down on manipulated metal. After the fight with Atros, the idea of supporting his mana-based skills with traditional blacksmithing seemed impossibly simple. In a single moment, he could force the metal into position without as much strain on himself. Although the process required a greater level of concentration to focus on holding the material together the practised results were quickly pounded out before him.
"He's lucky he has a shack at all," came a chuckle from the side.
"He's basically cheating though! It's good practice for him anyway" Zlatan cried exasperatedly, as Mooch emerged from his own residency.
The burns that had adorned Mooch were mostly gone after two weeks. He was a ranged specialist and less resilient than Zlatan but with several more levels than Otis his healing factor still outpaced any mortal man. He had slightly shiny skin from the old burns but several new bruises were the only tell-tale signs of recent combat.
"Sleep any better, Oti?" Mooch continued, ignoring Zlatan's exasperation.
"Death by nightmare feels accurate but today's the day."
"Finally going for the magnum opus?"
"Today's the day," Otis repeated, sure of himself.
The mace had been too heavy and a club hadn't had the nuances that had made the mace feel so strong. Whilst it had been enough to fend off the wolves in a pinch when he had been overwhelmed it wasn't easy to exert his strength. What he needed now was something he was intimately familiar with, something that could apply blunt force trauma and utilise a piercing element if his opponents were more heavily armoured.
He needed a war hammer.