The following explosion of pain seemed to have risen from the depths of Diablo's nine layers of hell. If it had been possible to tear the muscles and bones from his body with his own hands through the spams of pain, Otis had felt that it would have been preferable. He lay still, shallow breaths the only sign that life clung on within him. A sheen of sweat had long since soaked through the flimsy remnants of his stained clothes. Deep gauges from his nails and misshapen bruising marred Otis' exhausted pale form. The constant pain was now almost like an out-of-body experience, as though it were a piercing screech. Even as he began to disassociate himself from the pain, sleep evaded him as it had for far too many hours. If unconsciousness could have robbed him of the gut-wrenching pain for even a minute he would have been thankful.

It had been two days since his campmates had effortlessly picked up Otis' collapsed, gasping, form and nestled him in his bed. Still the result of Otis' novice craftsmanship, it wasn't overly comfortable but it was considerably better than the uneven ground that would have bruised him further. Typically there would be balms and an amalgamation of potions that helped children go through the pain of their bodies and minds adjusting to the sudden realisation of their strength. All they could offer Otis was a wet cloth and a place to recover free from jagged stone. There was little anyone could do to soothe Otis' pain, without considerable wealth or tradable resources within the slave city, not that Valruck would care to assuage the pain. There was no joy in taking away pain, there was no experiment, no challenge, no fun. Each of Otis' companions felt pangs of guilt that they could offer nothing.

Practising meditation and developing an understanding of one's own physiology was just as, if not more important, than progressing in level. If that fundamental understanding wasn't there, you wouldn't be able to draw upon the wells of hidden strength you had unlocked. Worse yet, if you forged ever onwards there may well be a time when like a released elastic band everything tried to happen all at once. In situations where mages had plateaued for years, decades, or even centuries, this sudden adjustment could be lethal. In just a short amount of time, this dichotomy between Otis' progression and his mental attunement to his physique had left him bedridden and writhing in pain. Without suddenly dissolving his own misconceptions and allowing the mana to shape his physiology, it might not have been much longer before he was unable to endure this process of adaptation.

Usually, this process would happen slowly but the sudden closure between what ought to have been and what was left Otis unable to do anything but weather the onslaught of shifting fibres and rippling skeletal structures warping within his body. Even now, he could feel his musculature continue to pulse, as though a rippling alien life festered beneath the surface.

Within the confines of his tent, even Mooch struggled to maintain his ire. His wounds were more than healed enough for his own injuries to barely be a bother. His ribs hardly stung when he breathed and most of the bruising had faded to a dull yellow now. Aware as he was that they were targetted for their affiliation with Otis it was still hard to watch the boy undertake yet another trial. This was a hurdle almost everyone had faced with the care and attention of loved ones. This was something they ought to have better prepared him for. This was a trial made harder than it ought to be and certainly more painful than his own recent tribulations. Logically speaking, Mooch knew that Otis' wasn't at fault that they were put in such dire straits but it was difficult to separate his own anger from the reality of the situation. Forced to watch or listen to Otis writhe in agony, even his heartstrings were well and truly tugged.

...

"Ah...heh"

"Ah...heh"

Late bloomers were meant to be a bizarre force of nature; freaks of the unknown. As he peered at the encampment, the less he could believe such an invalid could have bested his expectations. Everyone had faced this initial trial. Indeed, when Tarot faced his own initial painful adaptation, as a child no-less, he hadn't had the coddling of his peers or parents either. That hadn't stopped him from striving ever onwards. No, it was the pain that he could stand to bear that encouraged his own progression. It had been days and only now was the boy a hobbling wreck before him. He had expected more.

Bruising still prominent on his face, neck, and most of his obscured chest, Tarot gazed at Otis between several other shacks. He had been over-confident before, embarrassingly so. For someone as well versed in guerilla warfare as he was, the stunning lack of patience had been out of character. Watching yet another oaf gifted mysteries from the void, the mission ought to have been easy pickings. This time, he would wait to strike. He would return to his usual modus operandi. As the boy before him amassed pity, the people around him grew and became a growing impedance to his goals. It wouldn't be long before the Overlords found another way to rid themselves of the late bloomer and his reward would be lost.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Sharla... Thret... Phaelar..."

The names ground out from the depths of Tarot's throat as he began to recite the names of his childhood tormentors. Each was long dead, by his hand of course, but the reminder of who he was strengthened his resolve. The flayed and horrified features of their teenage forms, flashed within his mind's eye and the pressure building within Tarot's skull seemed to ebb with each repetition of their names.

It was only a matter of time, till Otis stepped too far from the lion's den. It was only a matter of time before Tarot would claim his prize.

...

"Glaurghbak k-kha-"

The gargled choke of another guard seemed to be the only release he had now. If this ingrate hadn't sold a "VIP experience" off the books, Chrysos doubted he'd have had the restraint to wait for the next imbecile to quench his anger. Every plan seemed too little, too late. Gone were the days of nuance. He ought to have sorted his problems swiftly and with bloody violence. The crowds would be upset but enough heads sent rolling would repair their reputation. This golden egg had been rotten from the start and now there was little left to enact but certain death. At least the house could offer good odds and make some money.

"Oh, shut up."

Chrysos, willed the guard's chest plate to continue to mince the bestial man before him. Such was the man's level that, even with an entire crushed set of ribs and chest bone, the man only perished when his heart and lungs were mashed into a thick ooze. The golden highlights, spattered in crimson reflected his own golden hue. Even in the speckled gold highlights of the formerly breathing guard he almost failed to recognise himself. The stress being brought down on him was too much. One more fuck-up and he'd be watching his own face peel away from his flesh. He had taken too long, been too cautious. The late bloomer would be dead within the week, one way or another.

"Special event!" Chrysos shouted to his enslaved hands.

"Showcase special; Fortune's End..."

...

#5794B - 01:23:32:14

#5794B - 01:23:32:13

#5794B - 01:23:32:12

"He's screwed."

Within the midst of the bustling city, four pairs of eyes stared at the rankings list. Whilst it might have been nice to accept their fate and forget about the ticking timers next to their names they were few and far between that could steel themselves from glancing at how long they may yet live. It hadn't been long till the Nightmare had spotted the change in Otis' previously blank identification.

"Not even two days and he's still flat on his back.

"If he can recover fast enough, he's got more than a fighting chance."

"A fighting chance? After what was sent our way?!"

It had been a fight to recover his previous calm. Even if he was vastly more prepared for the next bout, the threat of combat so soon filled Otis with dread. Although time slipped by senselessly within the slave city it was certainly for almost a day he had slept. He had awoken to the soreness he expected from the more than two days of torment. Every inch of his being felt thoroughly worked. Laying still with only his own thoughts, he had been awake for some time before the sudden silence and hushed alarm.

Less than two days and he was as sore as he was?

Fuck.

Fuck!

'It's not hopeless... it's not hopeless...'

Otis maintained a mantra inside his head, desperately trying not to picture his head cut clean from his own battered and bloodied body.

Men had overcome greater odds, without the powers he awakened. He was sore but made anew. Wells of strength and endurance he hadn't known before were now well within his reach.

"Alright! Okay, what can he focus on? What can he do to improve his chances?" finally a voice of reason, though Otis hadn't expected it to come from Mooch. His animosity hadn't gone unnoticed. His life before he had awakened his powers had taught him to know when and where he wasn't welcome. Given his quantitatively measurable weakness, this new realm had lacked the nuance of Earth but nevertheless Mooch had been none too subtle.

"Even if he's sore, his physique is leagues beyond what he was. If there's anything to focus on it's his crafting. If he builds in some form of surprise attack or maybe some shifting component to his armour there's no reason he can't pull out a win..."

The silence after Mooch's proposal was deafening. Clearly, this optimism wasn't shared within the group.

Before his mind and body had converged to uncover this hidden strength, Otis wouldn't have believed it himself, but now? He was close to having an unparalleled physiology within the entire history of the human race and soon he would go beyond even that. He was likely equivalent to some of the greatest men to have ever been born. If he could muddle through with tolerable injuries in the next bout he might be able to buy enough time. Acclimatising to his new form would be the next big milestone but two days wasn't either to heal or properly acclimatise just yet. Mooch was right, if he was going to survive it was going to be through his own ingenuity. It would be through underhanded schemes. It would be by the skin of his fucking teeth.