The chains were so itchy; I resisted the intense need to scratch in between my wrists. I had already given in ten minutes ago. Back in the cell, I gave them the once-over like they owed me money. The bastard didn't even take off the chains for my execution and no matter how you say it. These cretins were just making a spectacle of my death. Typical vampires have to make everything a big deal.

  Whatever happened to the old ways I heard about from travelling merchants? Of the old kingdoms that just sent their enemies to the chopping block. One swing and done, not this fight to the death with both hands tied. Not that I wanted that; it just seemed less messy.

  Exhaling a deep breath, I resolved to face my end with dignity. The vampire lord wannabe was making his speech, and soon the gate fell away, and the Volkaran piece of dung poked me with his spear.

  "Hey hey, watch the goods, asshole." Naturally, my words fell on deaf ears because he didn't speak my language.

  He growled in a bestial tongue, something long forgotten to history or so bastardised by the time it became a crappy derivative. Feeling it was pointless to argue with a dog man, I went to my death one step at a time. One foot in front of the other, the sand of the arena felt stiff between my toes. Nothing like a warm beach and more like rough gravel.

  Remembering how these assholes stole my shoes, I immediately considered turning back and strangling that guy. Refraining not out of inability but more for mercy. I didn't want to kill the mutt behind me. Since he was okay, did his job and didn't beat or rape me in the cell.

  Not that any of the Volkaran had any interest in me. Apparently, human women were too ugly for them. Our small noses were like the opposite of sexy. However, they had no problem with beatings; some of them loved to beat the crap out of me. Ganging up like a bunch of thugs, kicking a chained woman.

  "Guess it's time to face my executioners."

  Taking a step into the arena, chains clanked with every footfall. The first thing I noticed was the roar of the crowd; each of them demanding my death. Cheering like the sight of my corpse was just wonderful entertainment.

  "Volkaran scumbags." I spat literally.

  I had grown to loathe their race; if that made me a racist, then so be it. Every single one I met was an absolute degenerate. None of them had any shred of mercy or consideration for the pain they caused. The spearman behind me might be an exception.

  You could say they are slaves, but no slave delights in killing and torture that much. I don't care what they say; they enjoyed slaughtering my friends. My chest churned with unresolved emotions, a heat that had only burned hotter with my imprisonment.

  I cursed the day my friends and I entered this temple. Seeking adventure and, ill admit it, riches. We weren't exactly the noble questers we portrayed ourselves as. Sure, we were part of the guild, but we were in it for the money, not the thrill of exploration. And they died for it, all my friends, gone.

  I will not cry; I will not shed anymore tears. No pain, just keep the anger, let it burn so hot that the world feels the heat! With my resolve, I turned to the three Garathi warriors, everyone of them poised and ready to kill me.

  No, that wasn't correct; two of them flanking a central one were hot-blooded. I could see it in their eyes — the unchained desire to slaughter and maim. How they gripped their weapons, how they eyed me like prey. But not the one in the centre; he was cold, his eyes devoid of love or hate.

  Casually triggering my analyse spell, I got a sense of all three. They had modest levels, and with my full power, I could defeat the two-level twenties. They were typical of the breed. However, the one in the centre returned little. Just a race name and a level zero, my spell, which was at a decent rank, returned no more information.

  Quickly casting it again on the two others, easily seeing their levels and classes. The one on the right was a level twenty-three Berserker, and the one on the left was a level twenty-four Duelist. Their weapons and gear attested to that.

  One with a giant axe and the other wielding a sword and buckler. The analyse spell only confirmed what any skilled warrior could determine from a glance. The centre Garathi was clearly a ranged fighter by the twin crossbows on his hips.

  None of this explained how he was essentially immune to my spell. I hadn't met a single person who could completely block this spell. Only extremely high-level members of the guild could. Only their levels would appear as a question mark, not zero.

  Was he using a rogue skill, perhaps something incredibly high-ranked? If so, why would he make his level zero instead of a false level or a question mark? If I had such magic, I would make my level appear as though I were more powerful than everyone when they tried to analyse me.

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  "Why is his level zero?" I couldn't help but ask, jangling my chain towards the central Garathi.

  The two flanking warriors paused in their tracks, looking to the level zero and then back to me. A savage grin etched its way onto both their faces as if in unison. The level zero didn't seem amused, and something told me the other two were mocking him. Not much camaraderie among allies, perhaps.

  "I'm assuming from their snickers it's something to mock?" I said disdainfully. "Typical bunch of bullies, mocking anything different from them. I think ill rip your heart out." I pointed to the Duelist. "And strangle you with your own intestines." I gestured to the Berserker.

  As expected, neither of the pair believed my threat. Which was understandable, given my weakened state and chained appendages. Soon they will change their tunes because I was about to.

  Suddenly, a stranger in a black cape cut me off mid-thought as the stranger landed between us with a loud thud and sand blasted in all directions. Raising hands to block the incoming, I weathered the mini sandstorm. Lasting for a moment before the way cleared and a kneeling man came into view. Looking at the man, a giant flowing cape that obscured his features and was much larger than appropriate. It fluttered in the wind dramatically, only there was no wind to be felt.

  His visage came into focus as he rose to meet the four of us. With his face in view, I could see he was a human man in the prime of youth, with dark curly hair and an angular pale face. He looked like a scholar who could never leave the church. Despite all that, he radiated a strange power, something just beyond my ability to sense.

  By reflex, I cast my analyse spell; the familiar drain on my mana confirmed its activation. And yet nothing came to mind — no race, no level or class. Not a single scrap of information came forth. It was practically a waste of mana.

  "How was this possible?" I mumbled.

  Two weird people in one place — what are the odds? We had Level Zero over there ready to turn me into a pincushion and mister I Don't Exist just falling out of the sky. And what is that sound banging at the back of my mind? Somebody was smashing drums like they wanted to break them. Was that a lute? No, that screeching could not be from a bardic instrument.

  "Why would I want to got to a jungle?" I couldn't help but say.

  "Because they have fun and games, they have everything you want." The man chuckled, finding something humorous.

  He rose to his full height, dusted himself off and glanced around, surveying the arena. Everybody was silent as the grave, unsure how to proceed. The air was thick with tension; we were all sizing up this intruder. Was he friend or foe, someone passing through, part of this evening's entertainment or just a weirdo?

  "Where is that racket coming from?" One of the Garathi angrily said, trying to swipe at the air.

  "Seriously, none of you has any taste, but that's beside the point." The man paused, eyeing each of us one at a time. "What did you think of my superhero landing? Tell me it was cool?"

  Incredulous, to ask that question after you leapt into the middle of a life and death battle. It was pure insanity. There were more important things that if you looked cool. Still, I couldn't help but smile; the absurdity of the moment broke the tension like a boulder dropped on a goblin.

  It was infectious. I could feel the tug, the desire to answer. To match his ludicrousness with some of my own. And before I could settle back into seriousness, I answered him.

  "It could use a little work; I'd say a solid seven out of ten." I assessed honestly.

  "Come on, that's at least an eight." He retorted, half serious, half joking.

  I couldn't get a read on him, which was made worse by the strange feeling I got the moment I cast my spell. With everybody, the spell returned the information it could gather in a neat little prompt. Their race, class and levels mostly. Perhaps greater ranks of the spell would give more. Every scholarly wizard I had met described the spell that way. Simple and effective.

  Some arcane types also mentioned a subtle sensation when receiving information from the spell. Without a sense of the other person, this sense was pretty useless. Beyond knowing the spell worked slightly earlier before the feedback.

  With this man, however, I got nothing. Not just a lack of information, but it was like he wasn't there. He felt foreign, not right in this world. Even the level zero returned a sense of his existence. This man revealed nothing, like an empty space in the shape of a man.

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