A prize purse, a cut of the take from the bookies… It all seemed so insignificant now. A few hundred grand… Cyrus had been put to work churning out Immortality Injections, most of which were going to be going up for sale at the auction house sometime soon. A few would be held back and given to key minions.

  At this point, Cyrus needed another one, having been killed by Big Kenny, which was why he wasn’t allowed out of the alchemy lab at the moment. Well, it was one of the reasons he wasn’t allowed out. He couldn’t be churning out billion-gold potions if he was gallivanting about the place wasting his time on things like eating and sleeping.

  While I was hardly well-versed in macro-economics, I at least understood that the more we sold, the lower the price was likely to go, so they had to be drip-fed out to the market over a period of months or years. There was a small but tidy pile of them building up in my vault, which now represented billions of gold I could call on in a matter of days at any moment. Greed rubbed his claws together and cackled in my mind.

  My primary concern, as I was ushered through the back corridors of the arena by a well-dressed lady who was the embodiment of polite disinterest, was getting the whole thing over with. Throw me in the ring, I’ll kill and probably eat whichever poor schmuck they put me up against, and job done for six months.

  “Ah, Bob.”

  “Roderick.” My tongue flicked out, and the air still tasted of solvent-tier alcohol and asshole. Just like last time. It was almost reassuring that something didn’t change.

  “You could do with some schooling in the ways of oratory and working a crowd. Your voice is a weapon. A tool, a sword. It can cut through another's mind before you even start a fight. Make them second-guess themself, make them weak. Make them hesitate. There is no greater power.” His voice was rich, rolling back off the tapestry-covered walls as he picked at a tray of fancy micro-snacks.

  As someone who preferred to dine “hooves and all”, I found the platter on display disappointing.

  “I’m not much of a talker.”

  “Of course you are, dear boy. Everything you do, every contract you negotiate, every enemy you intimidate was moved by the power of your tongue. You need to use that tongue to milk the most out of all who oppose you.” He leaned his head back to pop a nibble of incredibly expensive food into his mouth. I would have bet even money that whatever it was had been endangered until recently and was now extinct.

  Milking. Ick.

  “I’m not doing anything using my mouth. What gets the audience to root for you?”

  “Why, being the underdog, of course. That’s not an easy persona to assume when everyone already knows you’re a dragon. There is only one alternative in my experience, but you won’t like it.”

  “What’s the alternative, Roderick?” I felt the need to remove four letters from his name to make it more appropriate.

  “Be the bastard. You’re the heel, the villain. An evil champion looking to crush the underdog and maintain your power!” He leaned back in his chair and smiled broadly at me. Still wanted to punch him as soon as look at him.

  “I can probably do that, but…” I waved an arm, and golden sparkles trailed after it like a time-delayed anti-shadow. “I kind of stand out as a good guy these days.”

  “Pfft. Good guy… Bad guy… It’s all relative. You can stomp the plucky underdog bad guys.” I didn’t appreciate his wobbly hand motion that seemed to suggest I was no different from the servants of Umbrat.

  “And you want me to waffle in front of the crowd to make it a show?” I took a sip of my drink and swept half the bottles on the drinks cabinet into my possum pouch while my body blocked Roderick's sight of them.

  “It doesn’t have to be much. I can see it makes you uncomfortable, and you perhaps lack the mental elasticity to be truly fluent in the verbal dance, but a few ‘filthy servant of darkness’ or ‘the light will shine’ comments would go a long way to building the drama. Making it spicy.”

  I paced across to a tapestry and stood staring up at threadworked gladiators duelling creatures from nightmare for a moment before turning and catching him glaring suspiciously at the now empty top of the drinks cabinet.

  “You know what tends to happen to people who call me stupid?” I asked casually. I didn’t look around, but I felt the air move as his buttocks clenched.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “You kind of did.” I reached out and stroked a finger down the line of a warrior woman facing off against something with six legs, picked out with threadwork. She reminded me of Esme in some way.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t intend that, and I’m deeply sorry if you took it that way.”

  “You will be.”

  “Anyway… It’s going to be a while before we can arrange your bout.” He took a sip of a rapidly emptying glass and glared at the now bereft drinks cabinet.

  I smiled to myself. “You’ve got three days.”

  “What? That’s far too soon! There are promotional materials, posters, and odds to work out. A suitable match to pick out. One whose untimely death won’t pose a long-term issue to our profit margin.”

  I sighed. “Whoever you pick is going to die.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that.” To be fair, the evil chuckle that followed was not reassuring.

  “You’ve got an opponent picked out already?” It was a cautious probe.

  “Of course. Gustav Garnstomper. He’s got the vibe, the look. The voice. He’s seven feet tall and made of mean.”

  I blinked slowly, and golden sparkles showered down around me. “What level is he?”

  “Seventy-four.”

  I suppressed a laugh. “Yeah, that’s fine. No problem.”

  “He’s a Beast Slayer.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  Admittedly, I didn’t like the class name. Potentially ominous. Scary. Still highly edible.

  “Is that likely to be a problem?”

  “You’ll be fine.” He made it sound like I had just bought a timeshare. “But it needs to look tough.”

  “Tough for him or me?”

  “You, of course.”

  “I’m not so sure I’m down for that.”

  “Down for it?”

  “Willing to agree.” I turned and smiled faintly. Some of those mammals on the “Make it a fair fight, and we’re good.”

  “You are a dragon?” I really hated his voice. I could feel it working on me, shifting my response from ‘fuck you’ to ‘that sounds reasonable’.

  “Yes. I eat my enemies.” It sounded cool to me.

  “Hah! A man, sorry dragon, with some balls.”

  “I usually just have a cloaca. So what is my cut looking like?”

  I spun on my heel and gave him a low-tier glare. The fancy tapestries and expensive food and drinks couldn’t hide the truth. I knew who held the power here.

  “But I don’t want to make it dangerous for you.” The rotund man held up his hands as if I was about to try to eat him. I doubted him, and I doubted he wanted anything more than…

  “What is this guy like?”

  “A mighty hero, trained in the art of… fighting beasts.”

  Wrath wanted me to kill this guy. Greed was forcing him to hold back.

  Doesn’t sound like you’re looking for a fair fight?”

  Roderick smiled broadly. He didn’t look like a frog in a mammal suit, but there was something amphibian about him. Slimy. I imagined that his chair would need the covers changed when he got up. “We’re looking for a fun fight, Bob. You’re a dragon, after all. I was thinking of a series of contenders. I thought Gustav, followed by a pack of Harlowcats, followed by someone who’d be a real challenge. We need to sell the tension, the drama. And that means real risk.”

  I’d dealt with Umbraxis, Big Kenny, the goddamn nest of vampires under the city…

  “Who’s the final challenger?”

  “Do you have a problem with fighting women?” This felt like a trick question. I did, but if a lady tried to kill me, her boobs would no longer bounce boobily afterwards. Except down my gullet as I turned her into an evolution.

  “Nope.”

  “How odd. Outremondes are usually uptight about that.”

  “Who is she? Brigitte’s sister?”

  “Her cousin. Samantha Soul-Ripper.”

  “Does anyone have a regular name in this place?”

  “Stage names. Dear Bob. Everyone has a stage name. How does The Oboberator sound to you?”

  “It makes me want to eat you.”

  “Bobiscidal Maniac?”

  “I’m getting hungrier.”

  “The Bobinator?”

  “Fucking hell, man, I’m just a dragon called Bob.”

  He pursed his lips and brought a hand up to his chin. Sitting in silence for a minute or more, I began to consider what would happen if I tipped salt over him. I was odds on that he’d bubble and fizz as he rapidly desiccated. “A dragon called Bob? That’s… never gonna do well. The Bobon?”

  “Just pick one. I don’t care anymore.” I did, but Wrath was getting sparky in my mind, and as I reached out to touch another tapestry, the golden sparks showering out of my skin were more active than usual.

  “The Dragon of Sparks!”

  It was intricate work. The threads all crossed over each other, different colours forming layers that built up into something beautiful. Random bits of carefully worked animal hair, combining with dyes and delicate labour to produce… I stepped back and grimaced.

  “Why doesn’t she have any clothes on?” I dropped my hand as I realised this particular tapestry would be rated eighteen plus back on Earth.

  “The saint-slayer always fought naked.”

  “The what?” In human form, I couldn’t do the whole serpentine neck thing, but my head whipped round with a crack that would have made a chiropractor weep.

  “The saint-slayer. An old champion from the dawn of the empire.” He waved a hand dismissively, then stopped and narrowed his eyes at me. “You like it? We could maybe do something with it. Change your first opponent to Holy Harlon, build up the hype that way.”

  What was the system playing at? I was starting to realise that whatever the mortals and gods of this world got up to, my only real enemy was IMPS. Who I loved and thought was awesome and was totally kind and cool.

  I wasn’t struck by lightning, turned into something unpleasant, nor did I lose access to my evolutions. Dodged that bullet.

  “Call me Bulk Boban. And I get to eat what I kill.”

  “Bulk… It’s not very good, Bob. I’m sure between me and the PR team… we can do a lot better.”

  I doubted that. “No. It’s settled. Three days to the fight?” I sat down across from him in a richly upholstered chair and steepled my fingers under my chin. “I’m also looking to make things right with… Denarios? The God of Wealth. I hear his temple is in the city, and I want to pay my respects. Probably not a bad move, might help with the bookies when I fight.”

  “Ah, that would be an excellent choice. The temple is on Farscrape Street, about halfway along. Bulb may not be happy about that, but he would be a much better patron for you, if I might say so.”

  “I do love my shinies. Farscrape Street? Where’s that?”