Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) (3 page)

“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” Except for the blonde pretty boy, all of the gladiators cheer, pumping their arms over their heads.

I do not bother to keep the contemptuous smirk off of my face, and the Throd'nahk glares at me more fiercely than before.

“You trash all think you are the equal of real men? Ha! Compared to you trash, orc whores are of more worth. You are not fit to lick the sweat from the balls of Gladiators!”

Pausing for a few moments, the Throd'nahk pans his glare up and down our line. The other slaves are showing even more contempt than I am, but in their case, it is nothing but arrogance born of ignorance. The other slaves do not have training or physical abilities that are the equal of the gladiators in front of us.

“Each of you will be given the chance to challenge one of these Gladiators! It does not matter which one you choose, you will all lose.”

The Throd'nahk points to the slave farthest from me on the left. “You first.”

That slave grins at the slave next to him, and they slam the backs of their wrists together. All of the other slaves are much bigger than I am, and they are bigger than most of the gladiators. As he steps forward, the chosen slave scratches his beard, then points at one of the larger gladiators. The two of them are close in height and bulk, but the slave is lacking the effortless motion and perfect muscle tone of the gladiator.

The Throd'nahk points to the racks of practice weapons on the one side. “Choose whatever weapons suit you and move to the center of the arena.”

The gladiator takes a long sword and a round shield, while the new slave picks up a large two-handed axe. Both the weapons and the shield are made entirely from hardwood, but that will not prevent them from breaking bones on impact.

The Throd'nahk waits for both men to get ready.

“Begin!”

On both of their collars, the runes are lit with the telltale glow. Neither of them will be able to use their Power. This will be a battle of pure physical ability and skill.

The gladiator stays in a relaxed posture, with his sword held loosely at his side. He makes a come-hither motion with the shield, while smirking at the slave.

“Come on, pussy. Give me your best shot.”

The slave is too easily provoked. He cannot keep the anger off his face, as he launches a huge overhand swing at the gladiator. Swaying to the side, the gladiator deflects the axe, with a tap of his shield. Unable to arrest the force of his swing, the slave buries the axe head in the sand. Using the flat of his practice sword, the gladiator smacks the slave in the mouth, spattering blood across the sand. As the slave recovers, the gladiator steps backward, leaving space between them.

“Nah, you're not a pussy. You're not even tough enough to be a pussy's bitch.”

“Fuck you!” Because the slave is so worked up, his face is already turning purple. With his buttons being so easily pushed, that slave must have never run into anyone with real skill.

His face warped into an animalistic snarl, the slave launches himself at the gladiator. The axe lashes out in a heavy lateral sweep.

The smirk never leaving his face, the gladiator drops to one knee. His shield smashes up into the axe head again, deflecting its trajectory, so it passes over his head. Swiftly rising to his feet, the gladiator snaps a kick into the slaves exposed dick and balls.

The slave loses his grip on his axe, which goes flying, and crumples to the ground, while clasping his abused parts.

Contempt plastered all over his face, the Throd'nahk points to the next slave in line. “You're next.”

The next slave picks a gladiator smaller than himself and takes a greatsword for his weapon. Is he thinking to win with a reach advantage? No, he probably cannot think that far ahead. It is more likely he is thinking, “duh big beats man duh small man.”

The smaller gladiator picks up a pair of swords similar to scimitars, except with a heavier curve to the blade than a normal scimitar. He is resting the backs of the blades on his shoulders as he takes his position.

“Begin!”

The remaining noob slaves are exchanging grins and whispering among themselves. I do not recognize the language they are using. It is not the Slave Tongue. While it has that odd rolling quality to the words that Swedish does, I doubt that it is Swedish.

The slave opens up with a charging stab, using his greatsword more like a lance than an edged weapon, and the gladiator avoids it with a small side step. When the slave follows up by trying to hit the gladiator with the hilt, the gladiator dances out of range. As the slave lashes out with a vertical slash at waist height, the gladiator rolls under it and steps past him.

Time and again the pattern is repeated. The slave attacks, and the gladiator makes him look completely incompetent.

“Even an incompetent Gladiator will turn you into a meat bag, bleeding out all over the arena sands. The Masters will love you! Well, they'll love you for the one fight you'll die in. Time to end this.”

The gladiator attacks for the first time. Jumping over a low slash, he hammers the hilts of both his swords into the slaves face. As the slave staggers back, the Gladiator begins to hammer his slashing blades into the vulnerable nerve clusters on the slave's body. It takes him less than thirty seconds to turn the slave into a quivering wretch, cowering on the sand.

I have seldom seen the inhabitants of the Labyrinth or Yggr stripped of their Power. These slaves are moving as though they have virtually no training in actual combat skills. Could they have relied entirely on their Power fueled abilities, without ever learning the physical skills of combat?

During the Great Fuck Over, the majority of the Damned were like that. Even after dozens or hundreds of battles, they had only limited skill and relied their mana driven abilities. The few who were ki adepts seemed to be different. They had a different mindset and studied martial styles that caught their interest. There were the ones like Thorrin as well, older men with experience in the US military before the changeover to drones or in foreign militaries that still used people. They always had real skill and worked hard to improve it. They were among the most lethal of the Damned.

The next seven fights follow the same pattern. Other than the slave with the broken shoulder, I am the only one left.

The Throd'nahk glares at me, and I meet it with a mocking smile. He turns his attention to the slave whose shoulder he broke.

“You join the rest of your trash tribe. You aren't worth a Gladiator's time.”

Shame, anger, and fear warring on his face, the slave sullenly moves over to the group of defeated slaves. Most of those slaves are staring at me with a mix of hate and mockery. They are expecting me to fare the same as or worse than themselves.

I lock stares with the Throd'nahk again. He is big and filled with hate, but he is not dumb. His narrowed eyes reveal a cold, calculating intelligence.

The Throd'nahk looks at the blond pretty boy and uses the DokkAlfar language. “Cletus, you are fighting this one.”

Cletus stares at the Throd'nahk, his mouth hanging agape. “Why should I fight him? I'm the Champion of Gor'achen! He's nothing but new trash!”

Gor'achen would be Gor'achen Citadel. I am in one of the Seven Great Citadels. With that citadel that was hanging over the ocean, it is not surprising that DokkAlfar slut is actually a resident of the Citadel. Escape is going to more difficult than I would like.

The Throd'nahk's expression turns cold, and his lethal intent fills the arena. “I am Throd'nahk. You will do as I tell you.”

Cletus bows his head, but his eyes are still filled with resentment. “Yes, Throd'nahk. I hear and obey.”

The Throd'nahk turns to one of the DokkAlfar guards. “Release the Champion's Power.”

The DokkAlfar's expression mirrors Cletus' from a few moments ago. “You want the Champion's Power released for a newbie trash? Are you insane?”

“The Mistress has made me Throd'nahk of this stable. How Gladiators and trainees are handled is my choice. Are you going to release the Champion's Power, or do you want to explain why you interfere with my way of training to the Mistress?”

The intensity in the Throd'nahk's glare forces the DokkAlfar to unconsciously take a few steps backwards. Whether or not the DokkAlfar is aware of it, real fear is showing in his eyes. Reaching into his belt pouch, the guard takes out a black metal rod, with what look like runes on it. Pointing the rod a Cletus, the DokkAlfar thumbs one of the runes, and the glow on Cletus' collar disappears. The runes have to be sigils that are tied to the magic of the collars.

Is it this Throd'nahk or the threat of this Mistress that the DokkAlfar guard fears?

With a grin, Cletus rubs his neck under the collar. Moving to the weapon racks, he straps a round buckler to his wrist and takes up a flail. Even the there are no spikes on the buckler and flail, they can both still do damage to a human body.

It is not obvious how Cletus uses Power. Nor is it obvious what the nature of his Power is.

I know how to use almost every single weapon in the weapon racks, but there are not that many weapons that I like. Looking at the available array of practice weaponry, I decide to use what I am most comfortable with at the moment and take a pair of swords. They are about the same length as the special alloy ones that I brought from Earth, but they are almost twice as wide. The difference in size is not enough to throw off my techniques.

Taking a position opposite Cletus, I let my swords hang negligently at my side.

“After I beat you bloody, I'm going to fuck you in the ass, while everyone enjoys the show. Ugly freaks like you make me hard.” Cletus' voice is loud enough to carry to the seating beyond arena wall, but there is no one there to hear his words.

The way that Cletus is looking me, while licking his lips, I do not think he is that type to have ever met a woman he was interested in. If I were girl, his unnatural stare would probably make me shriek in horror.

I smile at Cletus. “I'm going to squash your balls into jelly . . . if I can hit a target that small.”

Cletus does not show any reaction. Even if he is an idiot, he is trained well enough to not give in to provocation.

“Begin!” The Throd'nahk's command is much louder and more authoritative than when he started the other demonstrations.

Cletus' form blurs, as he crosses the dozen feet between us. I am barely able to duck and spin out of his flail's line of attack. He easily moves out of range of my attacks on his leg and back.

As Cletus pauses for a few seconds, we stare at each other.

Licking his lips, Cletus begins to move again. His speed is fast, but not at the same level as his first attack. A faint blue shimmer is surrounding Cletus' body, as he unleashes continuous sweeping attacks at me. His movement speed is faster than I can more without the flow of ki enhancing my body.

I do not want to expose the movement capabilities of Shadow Fist yet. I circle, using my swords to deflect the attacks I cannot avoid. Every time I move carelessly, the edge of the buckler strapped on Cletus' wrist lashes out at me.

Considering Cletus' precise attacks and movements, his reaction speed is probably a little better than my own unenhanced speed. As long as I stay defensive, I can just barely deal with the difference in our speeds. Even so, I do not think he is showing me his best.

I start testing Cletus' defenses, using only one sword at a time to attack. I have the feeling that if I use double weapon attack patterns, Cletus will be able to get past my own defenses.

We go on like this for several minutes, before Cletus suddenly erupts in another burst of speed. I just barely see the flash of motion, as his buckler streaks toward my face. I am not able to avoid the blow, but I still get my arm up between the buckler and my head.

Pain explodes in my arm as the rim of the buckler compresses muscle against bone. If not for my years of body conditioning in the Urehara Style, the bones in my left forearm would have been shattered. Still, the impact is enough to send me flying back over ten feet. I could have resisted the force and mitigated the knock back, but I want to gain the distance from Cletus.

As my feet touch the sand, Cletus is already charging toward me, but I twist aside, to avoid his flail. I do not press any attack as Cletus passes, and he is back to his normal fast speed when he turns around.

I do not think he can use that super speed at will, but I doubt that the time he waited to use it is as long as it takes to be ready again.

Cletus' eyes narrow slightly, as he looks at my left arm still holding my sword. He did not expect my arm to still be usable after that blow. He changes his attack pattern and begins to use small bursts of speed that only affect a single action: a step or a strike. I cannot stop all of Cletus' attacks anymore, and his strikes start to land periodically. My own return attacks are being consistently avoided.

I work to take all of Cletus' attacks on my muscles instead of my bones, but the small bruises start to accumulate all over my upper body. The damage is not significant, but given enough time, Cletus will wear me down. At least, he would be able to, if I did not know Shadow Fist.

I am only going to get one real chance to use Shadow Fist. With his movement and reaction speed, Cletus will only be caught blind once.