The tension in his shoulders didn’t fade. Blood clung to the shaft of his spear, dripping slowly. The sting from the cut on his ribs barely registered anymore.
Then a sound broke through it all—a heavy grinding, like stone shifting against stone.
He opened his eyes.
Across the arena, on the far side from where he had entered, a wall was sliding open. Behind it, a narrow tunnel stretched into the rock, dark and quiet.
He stared at it for a while. Then turned to look back at the way he came.
Eve was still there, frozen in place, watching him. Her expression was hard to read. Confusion? Sadness? Something in between. Her hands were clenched at her sides, but she didn’t move.
Hope’s grip on the spear tightened as he looked down at the arena floor.
Blood. Sand. Bodies. The girl. The Yvernis from before. All of them sprawled out, broken. Dead. For what? What the hell did any of it mean?
He clenched his jaw.
"Is this what we are?" he muttered. "Hungry rats thrown in a pit to kill each other for what… for entertainment?"
His teeth ground together. He stared up.
"What… the hell do you want?" he whispered, breath ragged.
He closed his eyes. And there they were. All of them.
The faces of the four he’d killed. Clearer now than before. And hers—most of all. The fire in her eyes, the way she had refused to back down, the way she had pulled herself onto the spear.
With these four… it was now six. Six lives, gone by his hands.
He stayed there for a while, letting the silence settle around him like a weight.
Until finally… he moved.
"We… are humans."
His fingers slipped around the shaft of his spear, still tacky with dried blood.
He walked to the far corner of the arena and drove the tip down, burying it deep into the sand until the shaft stood upright. Then he turned and walked toward the first body.
The Crawler was missing an arm. It had been cleaved above the elbow, the stump now blackened with dried blood and sand. His face was frozen mid-scream, mouth open, teeth cracked.
Hope didn’t look long. He knelt, grabbed him by what remained of the shirt, and dragged him across the grit and stone, toward the center.
One.
The next was slumped near the edge—Yvernis. Thick fur, blood-matted at the shoulder, two horns snapped uneven. Hope crouched beside him, rested a hand on his chest for a second, then hauled him backward, arm over his shoulder, the other hand gripping his wrist.
Two.
One leg bent the wrong way beneath him. Both eyes open—one cloudy, the other gone. Hope stared just a moment too long. Then he grabbed him by the waist and dragged him.
Three.
The one with fish-like scales took longer. Slippery skin. Gills fluttering even in death. He had to tie the arms together to get leverage, dragging him like a sack of wet cloth across the sand. His scales left streaks behind.
Four.
The woman looked almost untouched. Pale, almost no body hair, lips still red. She looked like she might still be breathing. But her neck had a long gash under the chin. He folded her arms before pulling her in.
He kept going.
One by one. Thirty-four bodies. Different species. Different faces. Different wounds. Some missing hands. One with a crushed skull, blood and brain hardened to black. Another with half a jaw.
The last was the girl.
Hope stood over her. Blood had soaked into the sand beneath her. Her eyes were still open. The wind had blown strands of hair across her face.
He crouched down and brushed them aside. Then he closed her eyes.
He slipped both arms beneath her—one under the knees, the other around her back. She was lighter than he expected. Her shirt was stiff with dried blood.
He held her close and carried her to the center, placing her last at the top of the pile.
Then he gathered their weapons.
Mostly wood. Split shafts. Spears. Clubs. Handles. Everything that could burn. He stacked them under and around the bodies.
He stared at his own spear for a moment—dried blood still caked along the shaft—then tossed it in. There was a spare tied to his back. This one... he didn’t need it anymore.
He stepped back and raised a hand toward the base of the pile, toward the cloth and wood.
Then closed his eyes and reached.
The heat around him was faint, scattered, unfocused. He called it closer. Drew it in. Pulled at the Heat Magika hiding in the grit, the air, the quiet.
A flicker.
Not enough.
He clenched his jaw and forced more out. Deeper. Sharper. He could feel the pressure build behind his eyes, the headache creeping in like a knife.
Still not enough.
So he called the wind too.
A push. A pulse. Air swept through the sand and into the kindling.
The fire flickered again. Then a bit more. A corner of cloth hissed and curled black. A wooden shaft cracked.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He pushed harder. Grit between his teeth. Nerves bulging.
And then—flames.
They snapped to life, fed by wind, sweat, and everything he had left to give. They climbed through cloth and splintered wood, caught hair and skin, crawled across bodies one by one.
The stench came next—flesh, sweat, heat, blood.
Hope didn’t move.
He just stood there, staring through smoke and light, the fire dancing in his eyes.
He watched as the flames caught them all. The pain in his head stabbed deeper with each passing second, but he barely noticed. Pain like that… was nothing.
After the last body caught fire, he closed his eyes and stood in silence.
Then he turned and walked toward the open tunnel.
On the way, he stopped.
Eve was still there, on the other side. Her eyes reflected the flames behind him. She was silent, still. It seemed she couldn’t pass through yet.
Hope gave her a small nod and kept walking.
As he stepped into the tunnel, torches flared to life in sync with his footsteps.
His steps echoed softly off the walls until the tunnel opened into a new chamber. Smaller. A short stairway led up—probably the exit from this damn pit hole.
But that wasn’t what caught his eye.
In the back, resting on a smooth, dark altar polished like obsidian, was a spear.
The shaft was matte black, solid and clean. The head was long, leaf-shaped, and slightly curved at the edges, forged from pale steel with a dull finish. It was without doubt the most beautiful tool for murder he had seen in his life, and yet… it felt so empty for a reason. So… ugly. Broken. Distasteful.
As his eyes focused on it, a prompt appeared above, similar to the ones he’d seen over creatures or other Crawlers.
Black Grain
Rank 1 Weapon (Grade: F, Type: Spear)
Requirements: Spear Handling (Level 3), Physis 1200
Effect: +100 Physis, +1 Spear Handling
Hope didn’t understand all the words, but he knew enough to get the idea.
Power. Power… for the one that survives.
He stared at it a moment longer, then grabbed the spear. The moment his hand closed around the shaft, a sharp pulse shot through him—a noticeable surge in strength.
The shaft spun once in his grip. He gave it a vertical swing, then a tight, precise thrust.
It was balanced. Sharp. Responsive. The best weapon he’d ever held without a doubt.
And yet… one he wished he’d never held.
But cruel or not, it carried meaning now—however twisted, however sick. Blood and ash had made it real.
And this… this was his choice.
He inhaled once and thrust forward, the motion smooth, natural, as if the spear already knew him.
He chose to fight. He… chose to live.
The air escaped through his teeth in a sharp breath. The headache still throbbed behind his eyes, but it didn’t matter. It would fade.
The difference between this spear and his spare was too much.
He pulled the old one free and tossed it aside, the wood clattering against stone—forgotten, never used. Then he slid the new one into the makeshift holder on his back.
He checked the rest of the chamber and noticed there was something else too. Some sort of wooden box.
He walked toward it and opened the lid. Inside he found… a pair of boots?
They were black, hard on the outside, yet the interior felt smooth—some strange kind of hide that flexed slightly under his thumb.
A prompt hovered just above them.
Dark Hide Boots
Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Foot)
Requirements: Longstride (Level 3), Physis 1200
Effect: +60 Physis, +1 Longstride
He frowned as he took them out, turning them over in his hands.
His current boots were still holding together—barely—but there was nothing to brag about. The insides were damp, caked with sand and dried blood.
He peeled them off and tossed them aside.
Then he slipped on the new ones.
The moment both feet settled in, a fresh wave hit him. Another sharp boost to his physical condition. Stronger muscles. Sharper footing. His senses felt tighter, clearer.
He bounced lightly on his toes, shifted side to side, did a few quick hops.
It felt good. Real good. Probably the best pair of boots he’d ever worn.
He looked around the chamber once more, but that was it.
That’s your prize, Hope. Happy?
A dark glint crossed his face as he shook his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then his fist clenched—tight. Nails dug into skin. Blood welled, dripped.
He let it go. Exhaled.
His eyes drifted to the staircase—then paused.
A thought struck.
He focused on his screen as it brought up the prompts that had flashed during the fight—the ones he’d ignored.
Level 31 ? 32
?? Close-Quarter Combat (Level 6)
Instinctive adaptations for tight engagements.
? 30% reduction in stamina drain during close quarter combat.
? +100 Physis permanently
??Spear Handling (Level 5 + 1)
You’ve grown used to the feel of a spear—how to hold, move, and strike with it.
? 30% reduction in stamina drain when using spears or spear-like weapons.
? +6% to Physis while the spear is your designated weapon.
??Air Handling (Level 6)
You feel the pressure in motion—the shift before the gust—and how to guide its path.
? 30% reduction in mental strain when manipulating Air Magika.
? +6% to Magia while in the presence of Air Magika (only the highest applicable Magika Handling effect applies at once)
??Heat Handling (Level 3)
You’ve begun to feel the weight of heat in the air—and how to shift it.
? 15% reduction in mental strain when manipulating Heat Magika.
? +3% to Magia while in the presence of Heat Magika (only the highest applicable Magika Handling effect applies at once).
?? Slayer (G7?G6)
You’ve ended the lives of 3 indexed entities.
? +20 Physis permanently.
? +5 Magia permanently.
Passive Skill Unlocked:
- Ranged Combat
Feat Achieved:
- Combat Prodigy
?? Ranged Combat (Level 1)
Reflexes honed for pressure at a distance.
? 5% reduction in stamina drain during ranged combat.
?? Combat Prodigy (G)
Your innate gift for battle has been acknowledged.
? +100 Physis permanently.
? +25 Magia permanently.
He felt the stark difference, even during combat. Both in his physical body and his control of Magika. And yet… he felt not one sense of satisfaction. Not now.
Level 32
Physis: 1823 (+109) [+160]
Magia: 255 (+15)
He gave the prompts one last look and walked toward the staircase.