Staring out from behind thick leather that blanketed the front of his shack, Mooch's bloodshot eyes soaked in the sights before him as lay subsumed in the darkness of his abode. His head pounded, he hurt all over, and resentment had singed his mood. It didn't matter if it was Otis or Zlatan who visited the wounded ranger, flippant disregard was all that awaited either of them. How long had he worked to survive now? How quickly was that survival being put under threat? None of them doubted that the severity of the last bout was meant to be insurmountable. Ironically, it felt as though they had truly claimed Fortune's favour this time but how could that be enough? There would be a next time and a time after that, on and it would go until they fell. The doubt. The want. The rage. The maelstrom of emotion boiled inside him.
As he continued to peer over their encampment, the inner turmoil only continued to mount.
Embroiled in the heat of combat hammer met flesh time and again, as the duel continued. Against the large clubs that constituted his opponent's forearms, Otis ducked, weaved, and struck. Something had clicked in recent days and the inexperienced mage moved with greater fluidity and purpose. Compared to his previous style of reactive floundering, he was beginning to resemble a semi-trained fighter, though there was still a great deal more to improve upon. The confidence afforded by a stronger attack and defence created a better sense of movement. He didn't fear landing the heavier shots that ought to have sent recoiling paing down his arms. No longer did he fear taking the brunt of attacks he couldn't avoid. Movements became mechanical and reflexive, giving him the initial appearance of the Roman soldier he had envisioned for so long. There was little to his repertoire but what little he had worked.
Already engrained within his muscle memory, mana began to build in his war hammer as he narrowly avoided the spiked flesh barrelling past his face. Rotating he spun behind his opponent before bringing the mana-infused weapon down.
"En guard," a low feminine voice rang out, from behind the blacksmith.
In moments, the world shifted and the faraway cavernous ceiling loomed far above Otis. Shifting in his armour, the young smith groaned within the confines of his helmet. There was little he could do to soften the blow, though he knew he had to be grateful for the sudden uptick in his training. Nightmare and Rage had found their encampment soon after their own recoveries.
The two had arrived separately, having come to similar conclusions: one, the overlords were targeting them; two, even if there was nothing they could do, they would have to work together. Knowing your teammates and their abilities increased survival rates and was one of the few conditions the slaves of Fortune's Favour had some semblance of control over.
"Not fair," Otis croaked.
The fall had knocked the air from his lungs but once again Rage had demonstrated her point keenly. 'You can't afford to get distracted; one less opponent doesn't matter if you also end up dead.'
"Ready up, shiny," Rage said, brandishing a smirk.
The glass cannon that she was, Rage had a surprisingly warm personality off the battlefield. Given his 'late bloomer' status, it was enough that neither of the duellists had a negative opinion of him but they had quickly warmed to the young smith. Given the increased risk that the two had inadvertently gained, he had presumed they would blame him for their dire circumstances. It wasn't a coincidence that they were added to Team Rictus though, either they were targeted now or later. There was very little difference. Much more plainly, however, the two had come to the consensus that Otis was just as much a slave as them... so who cared?
Unlike the thick mana that practically dripped from her in the arena, against Otis Rage used a fraction of this power. In part, she too had the exhaustion debuff but a greater output would have cleaved through Otis' arm and shield if she didn't restrain herself.
Compared to the force presented by Nightmare, Rage posed a different threat: her attacks were powerful and she was extremely dextrous. Like battling a panther in the depths of night, she moved and attacked with such speed Otis was forced into a constant state of movement.
"Footwork," Rage critiqued.
Out of breath and off balance the minutes trudged by slowly. Otis could feel the rivulets of sweat running down his face and back. He had to be quick against Nightmare but he hadn't needed the same frenetic pace. Although they had sparred many times already, this way of fighting was out of his comfort zone.
"Footwork."
Emphasising her words with a clawed hand across Otis' shield, Rage used the momentum from the blow to scrape the armour plating from his back.
"Gah...hah... bloody fast," Otis managed to choke out.
Although Rage didn't dignify the complaint with a reply, she controlled the pace of the fight to perfectly test Otis. She wasn't too fast, she was just fast enough. It wasn't enough to train to fight fresh. Given the target attached to Otis, he needed to be prepared to fight when he had almost nothing left to give. Even she wasn't entirely sure why it mattered that Otis' training be so comprehensive. Often she thought Otis' survival would be the biggest upheaval she'd manage to enact against the Overlords and at others it just seemed right. The boy was so young and weak he was like a helpless pup, in the wilderness.
Blinking through the smarting pain of sweat falling into his eyes Otis soldiered on. He knew that should either of his opponents go easy on him it would only give him a false sense of security. They were faster, stronger, and wholly more capable than he could properly comprehend at this stage in his development. It didn't mean it was easy to endure though, he hadn't had some spartan upbringing or existence. He was already sore from today's sparring, and yesterday's, and the day before.
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"Argh!"
Otis physically shook the thoughts from his head, steadying himself. He tried to take in the details of the fight. He had to be able to predict something to get the upper hand.
CLANG
He'd managed to catch a swipe and turn it into a glancing blow, only stumbling slightly. Unfortunately for Otis, Rage capitalised on such a small error. The next ten seconds saw a flurry of attacks, each one keeping him in a constant state of unbalance.
A quick flick of her eyes was the one detail that Otis managed to hold on to. Despite the power held within her attacks, it was Rage's eyes that were the most intimidating. They were dark and unmoving. As though, her head was perfectly still her body seemed to work without disrupting her line of sight, not a detail escaped her gaze. The small flicker sent a shiver down Otis' spine. Reflexively, Otis stepped back, planting his feet surely, and met his opponent's gaze. Slashing out with his hammer Otis set himself to parry Rage's incoming clawed hand. Twisting the novice met Rage's attack and shifted his feet to allow his shield arm to shoot backward. Without breaking eye contact, Otis used the momentum from an abrupt halt to his movements to attack forward, this time with his shield. As if in slow motion, he saw purple haze following his shield as he sought to land a blow on the woman in front of him.
The shield never connected with the brow of the powerhouse as Otis had hoped. Suddenly, everything was brought to a still. Before him, Rage stood clasping the shield in her palm, unmoving. The collision lost all momentum immediately without rattling her arm even a small bit, her dark eyes still meeting his with a proud ferocity.
"Haha! That was actually pretty awesome," came Zlatan's outburst behind him.
The battle-mage snatched Otis up before his legs gave out and held him aloft. Through the exhaustion and the nauseating experience of being rag-dolled, Otis felt proud. He had lost track of time but it couldn't have been more than three and a bit weeks that he had been immersed in this new life but it finally felt as though he was getting somewhere. Better yet, he felt more at home in these dire circumstances than he ever had on Earth. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this sense of belonging, of making someone proud.
"You're getting there," Rage laughed, as Zlatan finally set Otis down.
"Well done Otis."
Sitting beside him, even Nightmare seemed to come out of his shell more in moments like these. There were plenty of scars more than skin deep for the slaves here but it was more obvious in some than others. Still, just as Otis was getting used to finding his place, so too was Nightmare. Compared to the stammering version of the boy that Zlatan had described to him, he was far more at ease now. Neither Rage or Nightmare had chosen to give their real names yet but, if they lived long enough, Otis hoped that maybe he would someday earn the privilege.
"Ready to go again?"
Otis almost choked at Zlatan's suggestion. If he pushed anymore, he might not develop mana toxicity again so quickly but he'd be at serious risk of coughing up a lung. Working on his conditioning would have to be a priority.
"Did you at least get the skill level-up?" Zlatan pestered.
Throughout the course of their sparring, the battle-mage had methodically asked Otis after every session. It made sense the man was invested in him, having attracted the ire of the overlords. It was comforting that Zlatan thought that progress was just around the corner but it was also frustrating not to see the progress Otis knew they both wanted to see.
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Otis Manning (Class: N/A)
Level : 2
Clan/ Sect : [Slave of Fortune’s Favour]
HP: 15/15 MP: 5/8
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)
Mana Shielding (level 1)
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Letting the feeling of connection overcome him, Otis stared forward, breaking into a wide grin. Before him, the tell-tale signs of a breakthrough were there. His overall health and mana pools had increased and soon so too would the rest of stats.
"How?"
"We have a winner!" the single word caught Zlatan's attention, as he lounged. "Congrats, man."
"How does it work though? I've not fought, not properly."
"How do you think? There aren't kids running about killing each other," came Rage's reply, capturing some of Zlatan's own sarcastic wit.
"Yeah, sparring counts too, it's just very slow in comparison to the duelling here. You must have been close to a level-up."
Nightmare's personality was less confident than any of the others but he, like Mooch, added the details that Otis was often missing. Having completely submerged himself back within the holographic veneer, the boyish features smiled shyly. Similarly, there were other anxieties and aspects of their personalities that hadn't didn't blend together as they one day might but despite Mooch's current demeanour the small ragtag team had gelled well.
"For those of us, not so lucky to have access to gladiatorial combat, it can take months or years to see a level-up."
"Even the fastest of us might not see our first increase in level till after a year of sparring."
This revelation made sense but also fueled Otis' belief that he wasn't meant to die here, he'd come so far in such a short amount of time.
"Of course, most of those would be six-year-olds, so I wouldn't get cocky," Rage continued, dousing the soon-to-be level 3 mage in the harsh reality of being a late bloomer.
Mooch watched as the group laughed and revelled in their achievements for the day. He felt as though his own thoughts were trying to sheer apart his sanity. Livid at his own refusal to participate in the revelry, the ranger couldn't help but also agree with his own aching body: he was paying for Otis' existence, it was him who ought to be training. Straining through soreness that radiated within his forearms his fists wrenched at the rags of his matress. Tears threatened to overwhelm him. Struggling to contain himself, hitched breaths gave way to strangled sobs.
'It's not fair'
The thought screamed out within his skull. It wasn't fair he'd been snatched from a life with his family. It wasn't fair that he'd been forced to kill time and time again. It wasn't fair that he was hurt and in pain yet again. Trying to remember the now blurred faces from a life before, the injustice threatened to break the man. He didn't want to die here, he just couldn't.