Otis stared at the patch of ceiling for a time before he managed to recenter himself. He understood he couldn't stop what was happening. He knew there was nothing he could do to aid them. Every second he wasted would become a mounting disadvantage in the next bout but it didn’t make it easy to look away.
“Why be good, when it can be great,” Otis muttered to himself, sighing.
His grandfather’s motto was a comfort and a burden. There was never time to take a break in this strange world that had been thrust upon him. Not for the first time, the manic and tumultuous lives of comic book heroes flit to the forefront of his thoughts. Even if he managed to escape, would the race for survival ever truly stop?
Taking a deep breath, Otis focused and channelled his thoughts inwards. Without looking he recognised the familiar thrum of sensation that pulsed through his being before it settled in his palm.
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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)
Characteristics:
Undying Resolve [I], (endurance, will + 2)
Skills:
Manipulation (level 3)
###(Undiscovered)###
——————————————
Almost immediately, Otis knew that today would end his spate of focusing on his physical training. It had taken them all longer than they had thought it would to recover from their mentally overturned assailants and Otis had taken the time to train his power and endurance as best he could. Looking at his stats, it became increasingly clear that this wasn't a process he could depend on in the short term. This approach might have worked if he had the time to gradually develop and grow as a normal mage would but Otis too old take things slowly. He didn't have the liberty not to rush. Until he managed to raise his level again there was no way to determine the effectiveness of his training. The fruits of his labours would come after his next bout, one he knew would be magnitudes more intense than his other fights. Simply, it wasn't efficient enough, his labours needed to bare fruit quickly. He had continued to train with his war hammer but succeeded in little more than controlling the heft of the weapon. It didn't appear that a skill associated with the weapon use would appear soon.
Mana toxicity also left fewer avenues for him to explore, the young smith had understood the issue since before he came to Fortune's Favour, but now the solution felt far too dreadful; far too painful. He needed improvement, to unshackle the secrets of his Path, and develop his skills; the only thing he could seem to improve between level-ups. It wasn't efficient enough. He wouldn’t waste the time grinding in a video game so he couldn’t waste the time now, even if it felt productive. He needed that unexplainable, unreasonable, quality that mana mysteriously embued within
Evermore certain in what he had to do the '###(Undiscovered)###’ glowed newly in the black depths of his palm. Otis sighed as he stared at the molten hue of the lettering. Although he wasn't certain, he had a strong inkling he knew how he could unveil the skill. Only one action stood out in his mind and it would require mana to train again. Right now, though, more mana would kill him.
‘It had to be…” Otis thought.
The only thing he had done differently, the only thing that had changed had been infusing mana into his shield, in the last fight. Just as they thought, it had to be a focus for his improvement. Although he’d acted on instinct, if he could focus on using it consciously he was sure it would reveal itself.
Withdrawing himself from the inner sight in his palm, he stared back toward the ceiling.
"Fuck it..."
Otis steeled himself, before forcing his legs to move. Cold metallic saliva filled his mouth as he forced himself forward. To use the skill he had to use mana and to use mana… he had to go back to Valruck’s workshop. Mana toxicity had built up fiercely this time and Valruck was the only way he’d be able to use mana again. Even now, his blood felt heavy in his limbs. He didn't need to look in the mirror anymore, his shower had shown him the thick blue lines concentrated on his chest and running down his arms. Worse yet, there was little-to-no chance that Tarot or his accomplices were out of the Workshop, their bodies were too brittle to have recovered quickly. The count of terrifying creatures that dwelt within the workshop had quickly risen from one to five and he would rather avoid them all.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Remembering the man’s paper-thin skin and sprawling network of fine veins easily visible through his skin, Otis’ stomach dropped. Even if his hammer throw had crippled one fo them and Zlatan had left Tarot oxygen deprived for long enough to cause permanent injury, crippled and half-dead he wouldn't want to face any o fthem again. Being careful wouldn't cut it, he'd have to be lucky and Otis wasn't hopeful.
————————————————————
Parsing through the ceiling, Mooch took a breath. He was worried. The ranger had long since made his peace that he might not survive one of these bouts. In the grand scheme of things, he was surprised he'd lasted so long. The fate of fighters was based on luck and on favour. The fact team Rictus had accrued a small following of supporters was likely the only reason they hadn't faced harder challenges. Now though, they had allied themselves with Otis and fought against their overlords' wishes. They were sure to be a target now, what little favour they had with the masses wouldn't protect them now.
Worse yet, leaving Otis undefended might result in the same outcome. What was he supposed to do without them? Who would protect him, if they didn't make it through this fight?
Even though Otis was a cause of many other worries, it was still strange to have someone outside of Team Rictus to worry about. Not since the days before the arena could he remember such a feeling. For a moment, the distorted memories of his family's faces flickered in his mind's eye, pulling heavily at his heartstrings. He'd been thrown between new owners for a time but it hadn't been nearly as long as Zlatan. Compared to the battle-mage, who had no memories of a loving family, he was sure his memories had been tampered with.
Looking towards Zlatan, he saw his friend's outstretched fist. Blinking away the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him, he bumped the outstretched fist with his own. It wasn't likely that he would ever see his biological family again but he had this one to protect.
Alongside Mooch, Zlatan, and Bolo two other figures had risen to the same location as them. The first was a woman, she was short by conventional standards but there was a sick ferocity within her dark amber eyes. She only had a combination of thick leather and rag bindings tightly bound across her groin, forearms, chest, and shins, though her midriff, thighs and feet were all exposed. She had olive skin and cropped hair, but it was the lines of red adorning her body that stood out. The paint contoured her face and limbs in crescent moons. Analysing her musculature, she was either built for speed or came from a niche background that wasn't immediately obvious.
The second figure could only be described as boyish. He was younger than Otis but there was every certainty he'd been using mana for much longer; he'd be dead already if he weren't competent. Not much taller than their new female teammate, he appeared to be remarkably plain. Dusty brown hair matched similarly coloured eyes and a very ordinary physique. He wore similarly worn rags as Mooch and Zlatan but only Mooch saw the inconsistencies, tugging at the edges of his vision. Blurs of distortion that felt as though they could be blinked away a moment later but couldn't. There was something else to the boy but he couldn't tell what.
'Maybe some kind of mental mage or shapeshifter?' Mooch thought. He would be none too happy to be so close to another mental mage so soon but whatever they were, they seemed capable.
"Hoo-rah," Zlatan groaned out with a stretch, breaking the ranger from his thoughts.
With the arena floor now firmly reformed beneath them, they had been arranged in a loose formation. Zlatan and the new female towards the front, Mooch and the boy behind them, and Bolo covering Mooch's flank.
"...BACK AGAIN, TEAM RICTUS HAS TWO MORE TEAM MATES AND I KNOW YOU KNOW WHO THEY ARE. THIS IS A TEAM WHO DON'T KNOW MERCY, DOESN'T SHOW FEAR, AND DOES. NOT. LOSE... BUT CAN THEY BE STOPPED? TODAY THEY'RE OUTLEVELLED, OUTGUNNED, AND FIGHTING... THE HOARD!!!!"
"Back online," Bolo's voice ground out from behind them, ignoring the dramatics screamed out from above them.
"Fucking part-timer, almost missed the fun" Zlatan laughed.
"Some of us have better things to do, slave-boy," came the Bolo's quick retort.
Bolo's commanding force had always been ready to banter but that was probably a luxury that came with not being forced into life-and-death gladiatorial combat. They were here, somewhere, controlling the golem, their only risk would be the time to create a new golem and the money may have bet. Mooch was sure the golem's commander stood to gain a lot from their fights in experience, money, and fame. It was a strange dynamic but it worked for them, as long as he could push the jealousy to the back of his mind.
"Mooch, I'm a ranged specialist," he spoke quickly to the newcomers. There was no time for polite greetings but it would do well to know what they were working with.
"Zlatan, cursed battle-mage. Think high-endurance, corrosive, melee specialist," came Zlatan's introduction.
"Bolo, golem and team totem... I mean, obviously, right."
The two newcomers went to speak at the same time.
"Rage, specialist berserker."
The woman spoke without pause, silencing the boy next to Mooch.
"N-Nigthmare... you can call me Nightmare...," the boy stammered. His broken introduction contrasted with Rage's confidence.
Neither of them had revealed their real names, but alias' were common in the slave city. These pseudonyms were often curated within the arena and upheld by fans. Most of the inhabitants decided it was easier and safer to use these given names and though Zlatan and Mooch had alias' too they had agreed that allowing the arena to name them was demeaning. They were both fond of the names they had been given, 'Manic Death' and 'Violent Whisper', both of them had long since taken names of their own.
"And you dooo??" Zlatan prompted the boy.
"Transfiguration, it-"
"LET IT BEGIIIIN!" the jaundiced man screamed.
Instantly eight separate doors opened, equally spaced around the oval walls. Staggering, freakish, monsters stumbled through each of the doors simultaneously and at speed. Twisted limbs and mangled flesh warped in ways that shouldn't have been anatomically possible. The bodies had distinctly human-like qualities and it took a moment to realise that's almost entirely what they were. Malnourished, disfigured, and brutally maimed these people didn't show any sign of actively living. They were skin stretched over meat, without any semblance of true consciousness left. They were pale regardless of race, their blood a thick sludge in their veins. In the surge of hundreds of bodies, it was clear that many of whatever these were had been spliced with others of their kind, forming rolling mounds of flesh. Some of these combined monstrosities were little more than added limbs and flesh but others had enough heft to crush them if they were caught unawares.
"No idea what that means but I'll take a demonstration, kid."