The Pit-master stormed into the corridor, the echoes of his staged announcement of Tuskar's fight still vibrating through the stone. He caught up to the Wanderer and shoved him against the wall.
"You think you’re actually the Hero of Draemir?" the man shouted. "You’re nothing but a pit rat I bought. You do what I say, when I say it!"
The Wanderer gave a hollow gaze ignoring the comment. "I have mana poisoning," he rasped. "I need the cure."
The Pit-master roughly grabbed the Wanderer’s arm, turning it to inspect the spreading black patches, then shoved the arm back. "You still have time before it gets dangerous. You already cost me a fortune on your first day with that stunt in the sand. Earn enough to cover my losses, then maybe I'll think about buying you a dose."
He pointed towards a hallway on the other side. "Go find a place to stay. Move."
As the Wanderer began to drag his feet forward, one of the arena guards hesitated. "Should I shackle him, boss?"
"He's a mage," the Pit-master grunted, turning away. "Regular chains won't stop him. Let him be, he’s too far gone to run."
The hallway was filled with small rooms, barely fitting the small bed inside, iron bars as doors.
Men and women even beasts, all staying in the cells, tracking his movement as he watched them back.
This was probably the old dungeon, now it's more like a zoo, displaying its animals.
One man leaned against his bars, eyeballing the Wanderer as he passed.
“Why did you let me die?”
The Wanderer stopped. He turned his head toward the man at the bars, and for a moment, the stranger’s face looked like Kuma’s.
The Wanderer’s eyes widened. He blinked rapidly, the image reverted back. The man at the bars raised his nose up . "What are you looking at, cripple?"
The Wanderer forced his legs to move, his gaze locked on the man until he found an empty cell at the end of the row. He sat on a moth-eaten mattress, only for Kuma to appear again, sitting on the floor directly in front of him.
“Couldn't you have arrived faster? Before Rohan killed me?”
"You aren't real," the Wanderer whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.
“But your guilt is real!” Kuma’s voice was like a whisper in his ear.
"You didn't understand... I needed to survive," the Wanderer muttered to the empty air.
The hallucination let out a laugh. “I did the same once. In the mess hall, remember? But at least I was weak back then. You? You aren’t weak.”
The Wanderer gritted his teeth, burying his face in his lone hand.
“You destroyed our home, Wanderer. You killed the people who took you in.”
He looked up. Kaelen stood by the bars now, her robes scorched, her eyes hollowed out.
"I tried to save you!" he shouted at her. "You refused!"
“You need to let these ghosts go.” The voice of his other persona, spoke from the shadowed corner of the cell. “They are distractions.”
"I need the cure..." the Wanderer whimpered, ignoring them all. "I just need the cure."
He laid onto the bed, his mind finally quieter under the weight of exhaustion. He closed his eyes, hoping for a moment of peace in his sleep, but the darkness brought no peace. The ghosts followed into a nightmare of a roaring pit of fire. Thousands of hands, belonging to every soul he had harvested, clutched at his clothes and skin, pulling him down into the flames.
He screamed, but no sound came out as the dead dragged him into the deep.
The next morning came. The Wanderer was already up, staring at the black patches on his arm, when he saw Valak approaching.
Valak sat on the edge of the bed. "I warned you, son," he said quietly. "I warned you not to defy her. In this city, Skida is Draemir."
The Wanderer deflected. "How have you been, Sarge?"
Valak sighed. "I'm leaving. I'm taking my daughter and getting out of Draemir's reach." He paused, rubbing his face with. "I tried to pull some strings to set you free, but Skida’s grip is too tight. I fear she’ll retaliate against my family. And besides... there is no room for retired soldiers in a place that only values the next conquest."
"I'm sorry, Sarge," the Wanderer replied. "It seems I bring misery to anyone who stands too close to me."
Valak reached out and gripped his shoulder. "This is not the end. Don’t give up. Skida likely will forget about you once the next war starts. Just hang in there."
The Wanderer gave a faint smile. "Don't worry about me. I’ve been through worse."
Valak stood up. "I have to leave now. I spoke to Adilan, the Pit-master, I told him not to push you so hard. Hopefully, it makes your time here a little easier."
The Wanderer stood as well, extending his hand. "I hope you find a better place, Sarge. Somewhere doesn't smell like iron."
Valak looked at the hand, then stepped forward and pulled the Wanderer into a hug. "I wish I could stay to help you more," he whispered. "But my daughter... you’ll understand one day, if you ever become a father."
The Wanderer tapped Valak’s back with his single hand. "You did enough."
He watched the Sergeant walk away without looking back.
A few minutes later, Adilan leaned against the bars, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood. "So, Valak was your commander? Small world. We served in the same vanguard decades ago. Because of him, I’ll give you another chance today… Don't waste my kindness."
The Wanderer turned his hollow gaze toward the bars. "Another beast?"
"No," Adilan said. "A low brawler, just a man like. Make it interesting this time."
The Wanderer stepped back into the dark corridor, heading for the pit.
“Of course,” Kuma’s ghost whispered, walking in step with him, blood fresh on his mouth. “Going for more blood. A true Draemiran hero.”
On the other side, Tharos was leaning on a wall. “You are a curse on this world, Wanderer. Everything you touch withers.”
Finally, his own persona blocked the path to the gate. “Ignore them. You have to survive.”
"Just shut up," the Wanderer hissed, waving his hand through the phantom's chest as he stepped into the light.
The announcement was made, the bets were locked, and Adilan shouted : "FIGHT!"
His opponent was the trembling man from yesterday. The man squeezed his hands around the hilt of a shortsword. "Please," he whispered, his eyes darting to the thousands of spectators. "I'll give up. We just have to exchange a few hits for the crowd, then I'll yield. Just... don't kill me."
The Wanderer moved to deliver a simple punch, but the man shrieked before the blow even landed, his fist frozen, hanging in the air. He looked toward the stands, catching Adilan’s eye. He looked angry, shaking his head in disapproval, then gestured for him to fight.
The Wanderer sighed and spun a low kick at the man’s knee.
The man collapsed, clutching his leg in pain. But as the Wanderer finished the spin, his missing limb betrayed him, losing his balance and stumbled hitting the sand.
Laughter came down from the stands, one shouted “the Hero of Draemir is a clumsy cripple.”
The Wanderer pushed himself up, thinking of a way to fix his balance. The shaky man, seeing his opponent's weakness, felt a surge of desperate courage. He grabbed his blade, moving forward. "I told you not to go so hard on me!"
The Wanderer surged forward, driving a knee into the man's chin. The man fell flat on his back, but the momentum sent the Wanderer fumbling backward.
"You... you bastard!" the man shouted, scrambling up in panic. "I asked nicely!"
The man rushed in, clumsily waving the steel. The Wanderer dodged, but each movement felt like he was walking on a rope. He fumbled left, then right, his. A desperate swing from the man caught the pinned sleeve of the Wanderer’s shirt, the blade slicing through the fabric and grazing his ribs.
The Wanderer touched the warm blood on his side. He looked at his fingers, then at the man.
The man’s fear turned into a grin. "I asked nicely," he repeated, gaining confidence from the sight of the Wanderer's blood. "Now face the blade!"
He charged again, swinging the sword clumsily. The Wanderer jumped back, resorting to magic. He waved his wrest, sending a barrage of fireballs toward the charging man.
The man squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the burn, holding his sword up like a shield.
But all of them missed the target, as he failed to aim with one hand.
The man opened one eye, then the other. He checked his unharmed chest, then let out a mocking laughter, then pressed forward blade first.