The guards led him toward the arena, a colossal structure of stone and iron, he had glimpsed it from a distance before, but up close, the scale of it was different.
As they drew nearer, the cheer of the crowd chanting their favorite gladiator shook the ground. But beneath the thunder of the masses, a whisper echoed inside of his skull.
Tharos’s voice. "Plague!"
The Wanderer moved his head, searching for the source, but there was nothing there but the damp ground and the rattle of his own chains.
"You’re a fool, Wanderer," one of the guards muttered, his voice surprisingly devoid of the usual military stiffness. "Couldn't you just keep your mouth shut? All you had to do was take the damn medal and walk away."
The Wanderer squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the echoes in his mind. "Why do you fight?" he asked, still fighting to focus.
The guard started to answer, but the Wanderer cut him off. "You were either forced in for some minor crime, or you were chasing the lie of glory, hoping for a rank and a payment that never quite feels like enough."
The guard shrugged. "That’s Draemir."
"Are you even Draemiran? Were you born here?"
"Most of the army wasn't," the guard admitted, staring at the back of his comrade's helmet. "We’re given the title, but we don’t belong. None of us do." He shoved the Wanderer forward, his grip tightening. "But being a soldier is better than being slaughtered as a low-life villager by the people wearing this same uniform."
The Wanderer let out a smirk. "So, it's just a choice between dying now or dying later?"
The guard stared at the ground, the silence stretching between them until the second guard growled, "How about we move instead of listening to a madman? Let’s go." Shoving the Wanderer toward the Pit-master’s office.
The office was cramped, smelling of cheap wine. The Pit-master was a mountain of a man, his face a map of scars, a leather patch covering his left eye. If he was wearing a uniform, would look like any Draemiran soldier.
"We brought you a true mage this time," the second guard said, gesturing mockingly toward the Wanderer. "The Hero of Draemir himself."
The Pit-master stood, circling the Wanderer. Scanning him from head to toe with his eyes. "He looks in good shape. How much?"
"A thousand coins," the guard stated.
The Pit-master spat on the floor. "He’s got one hand. Five hundred is plenty for a cripple, hero or not."
As they began to haggle, their voices blurring into numbers and insults, the first guard leaned in close to the Wanderer. "Let’s say I’m convinced," he whispered, hesitating for a second. "By what you said. What should I do?"
The Wanderer looked at him, his eyes hollow. "I don’t know myself. Maybe someday, we both will."
"Fine, seven hundred!" the second guard barked, his voice rising in triumph. "That's my final offer."
The Pit-master sighed, leaning back into his creaking chair. "Fine. Seven hundred. But the next time you bring me a pit rat. I expect a discount." He tossed a heavy purse of coins onto the table and gestured to the iron cage behind him. "Take him down to the pits. Let's see if he can still weave a spell with half the tools."
The Wanderer stood in a dark corridor, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and rusted iron. Around him, seasoned veterans in polished plates and balanced weapons, while the majority huddled together, men too weak for the front lines but just strong enough to provide a few minutes of blood sport.
"Is there a roster?" one man asked, shaking in the dark. "Who am I fighting? Can I surrender? Will they let me live if I do?"
"If you don't shut up, outsider," a massive, bald man rumbled, standing up holding a greataxe, "I’ll take your head off right here and save the crowd the boredom."
The frail man recoiled into a corner. The Wanderer's mind wasn't fully present. He heard Kaelen’s voice.
“I curse you, Wanderer! I curse you to the end of days!”
"Stop!" the Wanderer shouted into the void, his voice cracking.
The bald moved to him, pointing his axe. "Why are these weaklings making so much noise today?"
"Don't touch that one," the Pit-master’s voice cut through the tension from behind. "He’s pricey."
The bald man raised a brow, eyeing the empty sleeve. "The one-handed cripple? Pricey?"
"Don't you have heads to cut today, Korrath?" the Pit-master asked, stepping into the light. "Why are you here early?"
"Nobody to execute today," Korrath sighed, running a thumb along the blade. "My axe was getting dull. I needed a sharpener."
"The roster is full. Go home."
Korrath gestured with his chin toward the Wanderer. "How about the one-armed man? I can even his sides out for you."
The Pit-master shoved the giant toward the exit. "Come back tomorrow. I’ll set you up then." He turned to the Wanderer, unshackling his feet. "We have a small bout for you. Nothing major. Just a war beast." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "Listen, the beast is already dying. Make sure you entertain them. Act like you’re struggling before you put it down. The crowd wants a show, not a slaughter."
The Wanderer’s eyes remained fixed on the darkness ahead. The Pit-master’s instructions felt miles away, filtered through a haze of grief and the ringing in his ears. He wasn't even sure if the man in front of him was real or just another phantom.
"Come on," the Pit-master said, shoving him toward the iron gate. "I’ll announce you."
The gate opened. The Pit-master stepped onto the sands, raising his arms as a wave of cheering erupted. In the corner of the arena, a mangled corpse was being dragged away, leaving a long streak in the sand.
"Unfortunately, that last fight ended too quickly!" the Pit-master roared, his voice amplified by a mana-stone at his throat. "Our champion, Tuskar, isn't ready yet!"
The crowd erupted in a chorus of boos and insults.
"Calm down! Calm down!" the Pit-master shouted. "We have a surprise for you today! A man who took the head of the Lythran leader! The man who opened the gates of victory for the Draemiran army! The Hero of Draemir... the one and only... THE WANDERERRRRRR!"
The arena exploded. The chant took hold instantly, thousands of voices screaming his name.
The Wanderer stepped onto the sand. The sun was blinding, reflecting off the stone tiers filled with thousands of spectators. He looked up, his vision beginning to blur. The cheering "Wanderer! Wanderer!" began to distort into the collective screams of the innocent lives he took along the way from Draemir to Lythra.
The Pit-master’s amplified voice pulled him back to the present.
"He will face a fierce beast! A creature that crawled straight from your nightmares! The pride of the Draemiran conquests... a War Beast!"
From the opposite gate, the blind hyena was dragged out in heavy chains. It took four massive men to restrain it, their muscles straining as they fought to steer the animal onto the sands. The beast’s fur covered with dried gore and filth, yet it fought for its freedom with a primal ferocity.
"Place your bets now!" the Pit-master roared. "Odds on the hero or the beast!"
The Wanderer began walking toward the beast, his lone hand hanging loosely at his side.
"Hey! Hey, hero!" the Pit-master barked "The fight hasn't started yet! Wait for your signal!"
The Wanderer ignored him. He stepped into the beast's reach. The hyena froze, its snout twitching as it caught a familiar scent. The animal’s growl died in its throat, replaced by pained whine. It stepped forward, rubbing its scarred head into the Wanderer’s chest.
The Wanderer managed a faint smile. "I missed you too. I’m sorry I didn't have the time to visit."
As he stroked the fur behind the ear, his fingers brushed down at the back of its neck, to find a large cut. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing. The hyena had a massive wound near its spine, crudely stitched. But the infection had clearly reached the bone.
"The war touched you too," the Wanderer whispered.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the beast’s. The hyena leaned back into him, a final recognition of the beast's intentions passing through its whining. "I know, my friend," he murmured. "I know. I’ll make it quick."
The Wanderer’s hand flared with a concentrated edge of mana. In a single cut, he drove the energy through the beast’s neck. Merciful death for the dying beast. The hyena’s body went down, sliding into the sand at his feet.
The Pit-master came sprinting onto the sand, his face mask of rage. "What are you doing!" he whispered, grabbing the Wanderer’s shoulder. "They haven't even finished placing the bets yet! You just killed hundreds of coins in five seconds!"
The Wanderer removed his hand, and turned back toward the dark corridor.
The Pit-master, panicking as the crowd began to murmur in confusion, held up his amplifier.
"A free demonstration!" he shouted, his voice shaking with forced excitement. "Behold the absolute power of the Wanderer! See the clean cut! The beast didn't stand a chance, it recognized the presence and bowed! All hail the Hero! All hail the Beast Tamer!"
The crowd, not believing the excuse, booed the pit-master, and began to throw trash from the tiers at him. The Wanderer stepped into the shadows of the tunnel, the angry insults following him.