039 - Going For Broke
“CONRAD IS SWINGING FOR ALL HE’S WORTH!”
Conrad barely heard the Announcer anymore. The crowd had already vanished from his perception. The only thing he could see as blood and sweat dripped into his eyes from the gashes in his scalp was The Gray Man.
Both he and the creature - a faceless, gray facsimile of an athletic human form made from Conrad didn’t know what - had long since lost their weapons. When Conrad opened up his assault he had begun with knife and club in hand, intent on smashing his way through the Eighth Tier and gaining a real weapon for the final four battles.
But The Gray Man had come at him with the same set of tools, manifested out of an inventory or the Chaos energy supplied from the dungeon or even the thing’s own mass, Conrad wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter - it knew how to use them.
Fighting that way had been one-sided. For every cut or strike Conrad managed to land, the thing simply fused itself back together - the gray substance that formed its body moving to fill the wound, liquid-like, as if the damage had never existed.
The blood leaking over his eyes and causing him to literally see red was a poignant reminder of a near miss from the thing’s dagger adding damage to Conrad that wasn’t going to heal over an instant later.
It was in a moment of pure madness and desperation that he had sent his weapons into his inventory and tackled the creature to the ground. He pinned the hand holding the club to the ground with his knee while he used both of his hands to wrench the knife from it.
Frantically he had stabbed down to end things, but the creature managed to disarm him and send the knife flying. Conrad’s retaliation had been to catch the club, swung to knock him senseless, and, with a twist and slap, sent it skittering away, all the way to the edge of the fighting pit.
It had been fists, elbows, knees, and feet from that point forward. And whether he was doing any damage or not he had no idea - the thing didn’t seem to be flagging and Conrad’s Second Wind had already activated. He had made some headway using Adrenaline Rush, but the Arena had grown wise to that attack and the thing engaged its own less proficient version. But lower level or not, the skill was enough to counter-balance the advantage Conrad had hoped to gain.
It struck again and again. Low, then high, cracking ribs then dazing him. He staggered backward and it closed.
“THIS COULD BE IT! THE MERCHANT IS HURT AND THE GREY MAN IS MOVING IN FOR THE KILL!”
Conrad bellowed at the thing and, off balance, managed to grab hold of its next blow and spin them both to the ground. Completely blind, blood spraying and flecking as he screamed in defiance and desperation he felt his way up for the creature’s shoulders and, with a mighty heave, used his entire back and neck to slam his forehead onto the space where the thing’s nose would have been if the featureless mass of a head had been given one.
He raised himself up again and slammed his head down. Then again. And again. It wasn’t until he felt the grinding of sand against his head that fear of having missed and that he was smashing the ground caused him to dare to raise a hand to swipe the blood out of his eyes. It was then that the Announcer’s voice finally penetrated his consciousness, as he took in the demolished skull of his opponent.
“THERE’S NO STOPPING THIS ABSOLUTE MADMAN!” The Announcer was actually screaming as he continued, “VICTORY ALONE HOLDS NOT SWEET FLAVOR FOR CONRAD DREN! DEATH WAS NOT PUNISHMENT ENOUGH FOR THE GREY MAN THAT CAME TO CALL ON THE MERCHANT, WHOSE LUST FOR DEATH COULD ONLY BE SLAKED BY ANNIHILATION!”
Conrad staggered to his feet and looked around at the crowd destroying their throats in support of his win. Among them, he saw a figure, huge next to the normal men and women around him. But the adrenaline and relief, pain and exhaustion, all made Conrad forget immediately as he threw his arms wide and roared.
***
He couldn’t remember the exact moment when he was given his winnings, couldn’t remember most of the fight. But back down in the preparation area, as the potion Troy had forced down his throat in his state of near unconsciousness began to put back together his rattled brain, he saw them.
Piled neatly and being examined by Barrett’s lackeys: pallets of steel and iron ingots, great piles of wool, food enough for hundreds, and a stack of growth stones of a kind and quality he doubted Great Pines had ever seen and, on top of all of it, a steel sword of excellent quality, sheathed and cradled by a common but well-made steel shield.
“It was hard fought,” Mara was whispering gently to him as she bandaged him, “Hard fought. You did good out there.”
Conrad just stared at the pile of items that represented his winnings. He wanted to be elated. Wanted to feel the thrill of victory coursing through him. Wanted to enjoy Mara’s attention and soft voice in his ear.
But all he could see was four more fights.
Four more.
He coughed. His heart was racing. Sweat trickled down his face, mingled with the blood from his wounds, and dropped down off his nose and onto his trembling, bruised, and broken hands. The red light of the torches caught in it as it fell, shining crimson like rubies dropped as literal blood money to be absorbed by the eager Arena he was trapped inside.
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Four more fights. Each harder than the one preceding it.
His whole body began to shake, almost spasming.
He was going to vomit. It was all too much, too much!
Then Troy was there, kneeling in front of him.
“Let me see your eyes,” he said cooly and tilted Conrad’s head back to catch the light, “You’re good. You understand? You’re good. That was an unexpected one but you held onto the fight as long as you could, really ground out those skills. Milked it for everything you could take.”
Held on? Grinding? Conrad had been out there fighting for his life not trying to grind skills he… oh. The dungeon! The facade he needed to show… Troy was reminding him with his upbeat tone, his misrepresentation of events - but at the same time, he had a firm grip on Conrad’s shoulder, in the same gesture reassuring just as strongly as he was lying his ass off to the dungeon.
Conrad couldn’t let despair take him, not after only eight fights. He could do this, he had to.
What choice did he have? The world felt hopeless but what was a feeling against the only real choice anybody had - to live or to die?
Adventurers scoffed at the idea of it being a choice, at the cowards who chose death when the only path that offered anything but an end was that of life itself. That was the great revelation of adventuring - life itself was struggle, and if you had no choice but to struggle on or die, well, what kind of a choice was that anyway?
It didn’t matter so fuck it.
He didn’t have four more fights - breaking up the struggle of life into small tasks was arbitrary, meaningless. Whether it was out in the Chaos Lands, deep down in the Warren, or right here in the Arena he had the same task set before him that had always been there. The one thing that all adventurers had no other option but to do - survive.
Options? Ways out? The only way out of the struggle for survival was to give up and die. And that was no option at all.
So what is it that adventurers do when the only alternative to suffering is death?
We live.
He straightened out his back, posturing up. He wouldn’t give the dungeon even that small submission. With an effort of will he relaxed tightened and shuddering muscles, holding on to a tentative stability. This place could not be allowed to see him tremble.
Clenching his fists to stop the last of the shaking he looked back into Troy’s face and willed his heart to slow down.
He breathed deep and the nausea retreated.
“Going to be challenging,” he said, jaw clenched a moment before he was able to relax it, “to make these fights look good for the crowd now that I’ve got that,” he nodded toward the sword.
“I’ll show you a few tricks once you’ve caught your breath,” Troy said, winking, “Really make ‘em ooo and awww.”
“Can’t keep him to yourself all night, Troy,” Mara cooed, “I want a little time with the winner for myself.”
***
As soon as the Announcer called out “FIGHT!” Conrad was on his opponent, a spider thing with front legs like arms carrying dual swords of iron and claws on all the rest. This thing was clearly designed to dish out damage, and similar to his fight with the Chieftain, Conrad was not about to give it time to warm up.
Defiance of the Arena welled up inside him, “If you give me a sword,” he shouted, “I’m going to use it!”
He swung high, the thing bringing its blades up to deflect the attack, and at the last moment, he invoked Imbued Strike. Red energy raced over the steel sword as he invoked another of his Warrior skills, Psych Up, increasing his strength.
The sheer force of the blow cracked the more brittle iron of his opponent’s swords and passed straight through, cleaving through the row of eyes and the whole top of the creature’s head.
It crumpled to the ground, dead.
But as Conrad turned to show his sword in victory it spasmed, through last death throes or dungeon trickery, its clawed legs raked over Conrad’s exposed back.
“OHHH! A PARTING GIFT FROM SPIDERCUS!”
Conrad staggered and turned, nearly falling over as he attempted to take up a ready posture, but the thing was still dead.
“KEEP YOUR GUARD UP, CONRAD! DEATH MAY NOT BE THE END FOR OPPONENTS IN HIGHER TIERS!”
Conrad wanted to make a rude gesture at the Arena but instead, he spun his sword in an artful maneuver Troy had taught him for flicking the blood away “in STYLE!”, ending with a perfect sheathing that precipitated enormous cheering for him. He plastered a look of confidence on his face and avoided the appearance of wanting to limp on his way out. Saluting the crowd he saw that figure again, and more lucid now he recognized Karno, not saluting like the rest, but there all the same.
He looked away. That man didn’t deserve even the courtesy of eye contact.
***
Tier Ten brought the novel challenge of a ranged opponent and a new battleground. The Arena had added a forest of dead trees with stout branches, still easy to see through for the crowd, but offering enormous advantage to his opponent.
The lithe ape creature carried a short bow and leaped from tree to tree, often too high up for Conrad to do anything about it. He chased the creature, throwing rocks and even his club but was unable to make any real headway.
His shield was his lifesaver, and using it in this fight had already leveled his Shield Mastery to three, making the weight of it seem like nothing at all. But the speed and accuracy of his opponent's attacks were beginning to make Conrad feel like a pincushion.
The crowd began to boo as Conrad went down with an arrow through his calf. He barely managed to deflect another as he broke the tip off and dragged it back out, inadvertently worsening the wound.
“CONRAD DOESN’T SEEM TO KNOW HOW TO HANDLE THIS OPPONENT, COULD THIS BE THE END?”
Then he had a thought. He rushed the ape creature as it hung from one of the branches of a nearby tree. It pulled itself up, and as it had done so many times before, leaped to the next tree. In midair, he hit it with Restrain, his Officer’s spell that completely paralyzed it for a few seconds.
It crashed into the ground, immobile, but limping as he was Conrad wouldn’t be able to reach it in time. Desperately, he sent his shield into his inventory and took hold of his sword in two hands, raising it far behind him, and heaved it at his fallen opponent.
It spun end over end and, with a schlurp and cheers from the packed stadium, it sank into his opponent and ended the match.
“Stupid gods damned fight,” Troy growled up at the walls of the Arena while he tied off Conrad’s wounds after he had made his way back down, “You thought the crowd would like that? And here I thought you had a flair for the dramatic!”