One Step Beyond

by **Victus** on November 7th, 2014, 2:37 am

62nd Day of Fall, 514AV
Tall Johnny's Casino and Cage Fights
20th Bell

It was neither a sparring circle nor basement, but it served his purpose. Set apart from the slave quarters, cleared of barrels and crates and whatever other detritus had accumulated over the years. Johnny wanted somewhere fitting for his gladiator to train, and the Cage? Well... that was usually in use. One way or another.

The gladius sang through empty air. Space he allowed, but Johnny was stingier when it came to lighting. Only a handful of candles barely illuminated the strange sight. That of the whirling gleam spinning, hacking, thrusting, whirling through the gloom. The body attached to it gleamed likewise, testament to well over a bell of near-constant movement.

Victus needed to purge. His usual sparring partner couldn't make it that day and it had been far too long since his last fight. The Casino had been closed, without word or explanation, for a huge chunk of the season, and business had suffered. Victus did not know what had occurred behind the locked and barred front doors - he and the other slaves had been moved to Johnny's warehouse - but whatever it was... the people of Sunberth were avoiding them.

Stands once packed to bursting now stood half-empty. His challengers were the dregs, not the cream, when he even fought at all. Day after day, nothing to drain the fester of boredom and indolence but constant, insufficient practice.

But what else was there to do?

Imagined enemies besieged him from all angles and the nearly-naked gladiator engaged as many as he could, the words of Pitbull from the Blood Pits bellowing from memory into his ears.

"Counter-attack, you jumped up slave cunt!"

A phantom hurtled at him from the side, sword slashing at his side, and he parried it with his gladius, knocking the blade away from him, leaving his enemy open-

-to his shin smashing upward into it's balls, doubling it over-

-and the finishing diagonal slash from his gladius that could have cleaved through his shoulder blade, collar bone, drinking deep into the lungs beyond them.

"Don't just stand there, boy! Force action!"

Another phantom was to his right and Victus lunged with his gladius, a straight thrust that could have run a man clean through-

-but this spectre was fast, knocking away his weapon, leaving him in the same boat as the last, following up his parry with an elbow to the face-

-or not, as Victus knocked the bony blow away with his left forearm, the two of them much closer now-

-Victus snapping his left arm straight and getting an awkward grip on the man's throat, pushing him back-

-over his left leg, set out to trip-

-putting him on his back, following him down so he didn't present a target for that sword-

-and jamming the gladius through the prone man's belly, ripping the blade free sideways in a torrent of imagined entrails and viscera.

"Ah, that's it, sand-snake. Stick a man in the ribs, the chest, blade'll get caught around the bones. But the belly? Oh, feel free to carve and cut and pull away. All just jelly and shit down there, boy. Rip it wide and let the cunt bleed out fast."

Sand-snake. Just the memory made Victus frown minutely as he launched into his next "duel". Pitbull had only called him that once, at the beginning of their training, when he was gone from his family for years. Master had overheard them and taken the lumbering Blood Pit champion to one side... and Victus never heard it again.

Sand-snake. Sounds like an insult. But why sand?

"Focus, you shyke-stain on the arse of the petching world!"

His head snapped up and he saw another shadow take form, rush towards him, warhammer raised high over his head like he was planning to shatter rock-

-Victus rolled to his side, avoiding the crushing blow, kept rolling, until he was away and got to one knee-

-waited for his enemy to rear back again-

"Only two ways with a hammer, boy! Either get away from it... or get in close!"

Victus did the latter, charging in almost at a leap, not giving his enemy a chance to bring that terrible weapon back around a second time-

-tackling them both to the ground, rearing up-

-slamming his forearm down hard on the man's throat, all of his weight behind the simple, brutal gesture, imagining his enemy's eyes popping open as vocal chords and windpipe were crushed-

-then stabbing his gladius into the side, through kidney and liver and intestines-

"Fast, you petched-and-burned sodding cock-target! Stick and move! Whole new petching meaning here..."

Then rolled off the body before it was even such; the man would still be alive, but such a terrible wound would see him useless for battle, left to bleed out, unable to scream or cry, unable to stand.

Victus felt nothing, as he would if the phantom was flesh and blood. The Cage did not tolerate compassion nor honor in combat. It demanded but one thing: victory through martial strength. How that was accomplished was irrelevant.

He rolled back to his knees, legs straining to get back to his feet-

-and a fresh shadow was there-

-in the doorway.

"Still you linger in this place, boy?"

Master. At once Victus sheathed his gladius and cast his eyes down, as he had been taught for the majority of his life. He heard fine-soled boots crunch dust and dirt and worm-riddled boards as they approached... along with the heavier tread of Johnny's perpetual bodyguards.

He knew the bodies, the looks in those hard, cruel eyes... but not the faces. Sometimes Victus wondered just how many other sword-wielders his master had working for him.

"You wish to fight again, yes?"

Victus nodded, breathing back to normal.

"But times have been... troubling," Johnny spoke as he circled the still gladiator, angles and lines of his body made either stark or flurry thanks to the shadows, "The closing of the Casino, the loss of trade, the damage to us-"

"Shyke, considering what happened-"

Johnny moved quickly. That was something Victus had noticed: no-one assumed Johnny could really defend himself. Mainly because he was a rich man, and people thought that like most of that sort, he just hired others to defend and do violence for him. In truth - and he scarcely let the thought cross his mind - he knew his Master to be far from a warrior, or even a brawler...

But speed, coupled with surprise, and accuracy-

-or a whirling backhand, in this case-

-counted for much.

The bodyguard staggered as a set of bony knuckles cracked across his face, blow resounding throughout the low basement like a breaking branch. The other winced but did not move, save to slide a hand to his sword, just in case his partner did something unwise.

That didn't happen. The man glowered for a tick and then dropped his eyes, thoughts of vengeance doused by what everyone knew. Johnny made it universal knowledge that his death would not be the end of his influence; he had "insurance", bought and paid for, and directed against anyone who ended his life. And their family.

"We... do not... speak of it."

The words were bit out like Johnny spat poison, face twisted and hellish in the flickering candles. Victus risked a glance and saw the sheer, hateful rage stamped over those normally composed features. The gladiator didn't have the knowledge to understand it, but he recognized the signs, some of them...

He'd seen that... impotence, before, in the cage. In the eyes of men who knew they were beaten, and their futile fury could not change that. Now his Master had tasted that defeat... and it was eating him alive.

"A... Apologies, sir."

"Keep your teeth together and do your petching job, boy." He breathed in, exhaled... and did so with a smile. The mask was back up, flawless as usual. "Victus, as I was saying... I need something to... revitalize the Casino."

Victus frowned, sounding out the word silently until Johnny clapped an indulgent hand on his shoulder.

"It means 'to restore life', son. Make the crowds come back, hmm?" Another nod. "And I think that you will be the key to that."

The slave's head cocked to one side, curiosity alive in his eyes despite himself. Johnny would have preferred confusion, but... Victus was harder to control as he got older. Curiosity led to questions, questions to the search for knowledge, and that would pose problems to one seeking to keep a leash on him.

Far easier when he was a boy... but he is what you made him, after all. The methods must become more subtle.

"Remember what I told you before we closed for that time? After you defeated that big ax-swinging fool? About fresh challenges? Yes, I thought you did..."

Victus waited with his face almost rapt, like a child expecting a gift, as Johnny's hands massaged his shoulders, eyes locked with his own. A slow, knowing smile split his master's face.

"I have found you one. One worthy of my champion... and the task of our restoration..."

by **Victus** on November 7th, 2014, 3:30 am

Victus was not especially observant outside of the cage, but nearly twenty years living in one place taught a man to read it as he would a piece of parchment.

Well... if he could read, anyway, but that's beside the point.

But what he could tell was that the crowd above them was larger than any he'd heard for some time. Their roar and massed feet shook the ceiling above, handfuls of dust falling from them when they hit their peak, rose from their seats-

-perhaps heralding yet another fallen fighter.

The other slave in the room looked up from his broom as the crowd rose to a fever pitch again, feet stamping and echoing like the steps of the gods. Victus didn't look up from his own task: running his whetstone up his gladius over and over, every stroke adding another mite of sharpness to it.

"That's the fifth so far."

No reaction from the barechested gladiator sitting on his cot, eyes fixed on his precious weapon.

"I've seen them bring the bodies back down," the man said, just above a whisper, apparently fearful of even being caught speaking instead of working, "Hacked up like hogs in a butchers. One of them didn't even have his arms."

If he was expecting fear or shock, he was to be disappointed. Not even interest in his words filled Victus' eyes as he looked up calmly, took in the menial servant... and then went back to his task.

He turned the sword over and studied it carefully. Two feet of straight, sharpened. Just under a foot of hilt, a round, hard ball attached to the bottom of it. Perhaps... just over two pounds.

For the first time since he'd been purchased by Master, the slave saw Victus smile, as one would at a child or a treasured friend. Tanned, callused fingers caressed the edge of the blade, almost lovingly... then tossed it up with a light, practiced gesture, catching it smoothly by the hilt as it came back down.

"You're going to fight soon?"

Victus nodded. His ears twitched imperceptibly. Footsteps. Faint but approaching.

"I'm not expert, but... I think the same man killed the ones before you. The way they were killed, ah..." The gladiator stood and stretched, bunching his shoulders together before letting them loose, arms extended to his sides, then over his head, exhaling softly as the tightness was shaken from them. "If, ah... if it is a man."

A figure darkened the door to the slave quarters, and immediately the slave was back at work, industriously sweeping dust and trash across the floor as if he'd never stopped. But his ears were still open, eager for that one pleasure open to all slaves: gossip.

Victus had no interest in him now. He looked at the looming figure joining them. Leather armor, short sword, dagger at his hip, ganger ink across bare arms. Yet another of Master's enforcers. The man nodded at him, voice nearly drowned out by another cheer.

"The boss says it's time."

Victus turned, facing the shrine next to his cot. Without a word he leaned over and claimed the simple but sharp knife from next to the bowl before it, drawing it across his palm. Blood bloomed across his skin and he let it drip into it, the merest trickle, lips moving silently as he did, eyes unwavering...

Grant me Victory for my Master, and for myself. By this blood, I would seize it in your name.

The enforcer rolled his eyes as he waited, tapping a foot impatiently. Johnny hated waited, especially when it interfered with his oh-so-petching-important show. But Victus was hardly a man for overblown spectacle, at least not outside of the cage. A few ticks later he had bound his hand and walked over to him, sparing a quick glance at the brushing slave still there, gawping at a man he was sure strode to his death.

A tiny nod. A glimmer of recognition. Then he was gone, led to the slaughter with his blood still cooling before the blank-faced idol.

by **Victus** on November 7th, 2014, 5:20 am

Thus far, everything was going as he'd hoped. Moreso, in fact.

From his box above the cage, Johnny could see every inch of his business in full swing. Usually he'd be prowling the floor himself, mingling and glad handing, letting the peons down there feel so special and valued. But tonight he needed the bigger picture in his eyes.

So far, he liked what he saw.

The bar lining one entire wall looked like a besieged fort: the waitresses and tenders had to draft in some extra to handle the assaulting horde of patrons clamoring for tankards, mugs, steins, pitchers, anything liquid that could be exchanged for coin and used to obliterate senses, and that didn't include the powders and herbs hawked across the polished mahogany, either.

The casino itself was packed, on every table. Johnny had redirected a few of his enforcers to patrol it, knowing that more players meant a higher chance of cheats and swindlers.

Only one, so far. He'd been quickly hustled out and shown the error of his ways (not that he'd likely survive long enough to never repeat them).

And the arena, oh, his arena... it had come to life again. Revitalized, as he'd hoped... or on the cusp of it. Seating had slowly become more and more scarce as word had spread of the new champion of Tall Johnny's: a towering hulk in armor that hacked apart men like deer on the hunt, that painted the dirt with blood. His bookies were doing a brisk trade in bets and, of course, the loans.

A steady stream of messengers were keeping him abreast on his profits. Each visitation made him stand just a little straighter. This was more like it: a return to how things had been, before the... unpleasantness.

And the night is but yet young...

"Ladies and gentlemen!" He bellowed, rising to his feet, arms raised for extra attention as the acoustics of the high room expanded and broadcast his cry across it. Suddenly half the eyes in the room were on him. "Once again, your victor... Cars-aaaaaaaaas!"

Six-feet-plus of armor packed around lean muscle raised its weapons in victory. A curved sword with a strange hilt, almost like a machete but finer, designed as much for hacking apart limbs as it was clearing vegetation... and a round shield with a vicious spike in the center, bound in iron. A full helmet hid the face, leaving only a broad slit for vision. Bare arms thick with muscle, leather leggings, starched and tough but still pliable... and a leather bandolier across his chest, exposing most of it save for a plate bearing a snarling wolf... right over his breastbone.

Johnny grinned, and not just for the benefit of the crowd. He truly was a showman, this Carsas. Cruel, intuitive, skilled and patient when he needed to be... and Johnny liked the first one most of all. His kind always drew out the agony of their opponents, relished it as much as the crowd did, and oh, how the Sunberthians did love to see pain so unabashedly inflicted.

"He has bested five thus far! Five warriors of the cage! Five killers, proven and bloodied... and now in pieces, garnered unto Dira's Embrace and leaving only... Carsas!"

Another cheer. Another mute salute from the gladiator. Johnny knew how to whip his crowd, and now did so mercilessly. He wanted them all-but-frenzied when those doors opened, and the final show began.

Some spark in the corner of his heart murmured for attention: a glimmer of concern for his... investment. He quashed it thoroughly, smile never dimming. Too late to worry about that. Victus had been his boy, his property and a steady earner for years, nearly decades... but all things come to an end. Kingdoms, empires, rulers, syndicates, forests and even gods... why should a slave in Sunberth be any different?

He'll give them a show. That's all he's ever had to do.

"But... there is one man who has yet to grace the cage... that he has called home for so long!"

Now the crowd roared anew, and Johnny's keen ear could sense their realization through the cacophony of sound. He nodded and smiled and stroked his waxed mustache, waiting for them to still a little before continuing.

"Yes, indeed! No night filled with such carnage, such oceans of blood, would be complete... without our oldest gladiator... Vict-uuuuuuuuuus...!"

The man himself strode out of the doors to thunderous applause. He looked around and above, noting that even the rafters seemed to bear urchins and desperate spectators who'd clambered up there for a better view. Every seat was taken. Not even standing room was left and as he walked to the edge of the cage...

He drank in his name as it was chanted to him. They were such fickle, faithless bastards, every one of them. They cheered him one moment, but within the space of a chime, they'd bay for his blood with equal gusto. Their love was only for the winner... no, not even that. Merely the man inflicting the most pain.

They cared little for victory. The accomplishment of it. The fight, the process, the blood and sweat that the cage was built on... that was all they wanted.

Victus kept his face immobile. They would fade away in short order. As he stepped into the cage and heard it lock behind him, his whole world became that square of dirt and metal. It always seemed like just stepping inside it muted them... and sharpened everything within it.

His enemy loomed large all of a sudden. Every detail became clear to him. The weapons-

Shield. Problem. More protection, and that spike... definitely a weapon. Have to work around it.

Sword. Curved. Slashing, cutting.

-the armor-

Helmet. Protects head but restricts vision. Arms covered. Chest open. Leather leggings... not enough to stop a gladius.

-and the man himself. Still composed after five bouts, each one ending with his blade slick with blood. Ready for the final match, the one that actually mattered.

Master had explained it to him. Wearing him down with the lesser fighters, making it easier for him... but now Victus could see that was not the case. This man was not like the others, who tired quickly or let victory make them sloppy.

It was, however, exactly what Master had promised: a true challenge. Dira walked with every man that stepped into the cage; Victus had felt her by his side more than once. But now he could see her, like the faintest outline of smoke, embracing the man that settled into a ready stance in front of him, shield in front and sword cocked behind it.

Victus drew his own weapon and rolled his head on his neck. Felt little bones crack and crunch as he did.

"Gladiators! Warriors of the cage! For this night, we have accepted only death and blood on this dirt! No mercy, no pity! Now Carsas has proven himself worthy of this final fight! Victus? Do you answer this challenge?"

The slave raised his gladius, the shouts and cheers rising like storm with it. Above him, Johnny smiled and nodded. Thus it would be. Two men go in; one comes out. That was what he promised, and so he would deliver to his paying customers.

"Victory lies in this cage! But only for one of you! All betting is over! Begin!"

Another blast of noise from the stinking masses, and the last men standing hurled themselves at each other.

by **Victus** on November 8th, 2014, 11:51 pm

He was fast. Toughness, weaponry, armor, even experience, these were all dangerous things. But speed couldn't be taught, at least not easily. Carsas moved with greased, lethal purpose the moment the bout began, swinging out with his sword-

-Victus throwing up his own and stopping it-

-but Carsas kept coming, rushing him with that spike shield held out-

-forcing Victus to spin away from impact and impalement, slicing low as he came back around-

-Carsas' own blade sweeping down to knock the gladius away from hamstringing him, lurching around again to batter at Victus with his shield-

-and the gladiator backed up fast, almost staggering, their first contact ending with nothing more than clashing steel and a few lessons learned on both sides.

Shield is the real problem. As much a weapon as the sword, and he knows it.

The man wasn't going to give him a chance to rally, either. Within the space of a breath Carsas was on him again, bull roar warped and bass behind his helmet, slashing at him again with his curved sword-

-Victus swaying away from his, following it with a thrust to his belly-

-gladius knocked away by that shield-

-but not the low kick he swung up between the big man's legs, making him stagger, giving him a chance to-

Do nothing. Carsas was no stranger to pain, either. He swallowed the agony in his crotch and swung again, a glancing blow across Victus' left thigh, clean red cut like a surgeon.

The crowd roared its approval at the blood splattering on the dirt, drowning out Victus' cry of pain. He staggered back as Carsas recovered himself, free hand clutched to the slash, blood oozing between his fingers and racing down his leg.

It isn't deep. Push it aside. Ignore it. Deal with it later.

Now Carsas got a surprise: the wounded man lunged at him, charging off his good leg and thrusting at him again, forcing his shield up-

-but it was a feint, Victus sliding to his sword side instead, gladius held low and across himself, ready for a backhand blow-

-aimed high, clanging into the curved sword held up in defense, the clang of banging weapons trembling up both their arms-

-following it a moment later with a left hook to Carsas' kidneys, then another, milking his exposure for all it was worth, managing to land a third that would have him pissing blood for a week-

-cut short as Carsas' head jerked down suddenly and to the side-

-metal crown slamming into Victus' face and blowing his vision apart with it-

Victus staggered, blind and detached from the cage. But he knew Carsas was close; could hear him recovering, moving towards him, tried to get away-

-then a hammerblow crunched into his side and knocked him clean across the arena. The shield was like a wrecking ball attached to that brawny arm, crushing muscle and bone against each other. He felt three ribs strain and almost break inside him-

-and that spike pierce his back, ripping through skin and tearing a strip from just above his spine. Shards of agony screamed from him, matching his own as his fall was suddenly stopped by the metal edge of the pit. He grasped out to something, anything to stay on his feet, eyesight returning by increments...

He saw a shadow gain form and definition, bearing sword and shield. The figure limped as it approached, kidney punches weighing every step, but he moved with purpose, bellow roaring from his helmet again as he charged to finish his opponent-

Victus matched it. Pain fell away to the rage of years; every sparing session where he'd been beaten into the dirt; every time Master or his flunkies had laid waste to his flesh with whip and rod and bare hands; every defeat he had suffered and swore after he would never again.

He screamed out his hatred in the voice he barely used, and exploded off the edge of the cage, tackling low, under the sword that swung for his head-

-crashing into Carsas' legs and bringing him down, left hand groping out to pin his sword hand to the dirt as he raised up his gladius-

-bought the hilt of it hammering down on his helmet, rattling his skull around inside that armor, again and again, each blow coming with a screamed word-

"THIS! IS! MY! CA-"

Too much. Too long. Even as he rained his blows on the prostrate man he knew he was taking too long, and eventually Carsas would-

-grunt with effort and push up under his shield, spike of it punching through Victus' arm, stabbing through muscle and flesh, scraping bone-

-his knees kicking up and pushing Victus head over heels and off him, rolling across the dirt and smearing fresh blood in his wake.

Johnny couldn't take his eyes off the arena. He knew that no-one else could. The sheer... desperation of it. The matching of two men so well-balanced, it made for a true spectacle. He smiled in quiet self-satisfaction, the cries of the crowd a testament to his business savvy. The "unlicensed" bookies were still taking bets, of course, all paying him a side cut despite his official orders.

The challenger and his slave got back to their feet, both of them unsteady, wobbling like drunks. Carsas, unbloodied but battered, shaking his helm-covered head, now dented and feeling too small for his swollen, bruised skull. Victus, weeping from leg and back and arm and scalp, spitting blood towards Carsas in feral challenge.

Which the other man took a tick later, closing in slower, shield up, sword ready. Victus waited... and then moved.

Johnny smirked amongst his cronies. Give the people what they want: the motto his business thrived by. Tonight, he was doing just that.

And what was the cost of one slave set against such a show?

by **Victus** on November 9th, 2014, 3:38 am

Each breath was a dagger in his throat and his leg throbbed like something living and angry was biting it and his arm was covered in flowing blood and his ribs screeched and he hurt and hurt and his body begged him to relent... but Victus could not.

There was no "relenting" in the cage once the order had been given that only one man could leave. You didn't give up; you bared your throat and hope for a clean death. The slave could not imagine doing that. Every fight, every week, every season since he'd been knee-high, he had fought. Sometimes he had lost, battered into the dirt until biology overwhelmed sense, but he'd not just thrown up his hands.

Now a whisper of unease told him this Carsas may be more than him. His helmet was dented and scarred by those heavy blows, each one capable of breaking bone, but still he stood. One of his kidneys was a pulped mess, but he mastered the pain and came on.

Cautious, now. Recognizing Victus for the dangerous beast he was, and ignoring the crowd telling him to just end him.

Easy for them to say. Time to change tack.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, the slave strode forwards as best he could, and tossed his gladius lightly from right to left. Carsas paused for a broken tick to process this and then-

-Victus slashed low, almost getting down to one knee, forcing Carsas' shield down with him-

-straightening up before the blow had properly connected, kicking out at the shield, careful not to plunge his foot onto the spike-

-staggering the big man, who swung again-

-Victus parrying the blow, right hand snapping out to grab the edge of the shield and swing it wide, opening up Carsas' chest and the howling wolf across it-

-but Carsas was not so easily led. He went with the swing of his arm as the shield was pulled away, keeping Victus back with a swing of his sword as his body whirled-

-coming back to hammer his shield into him on the backhand-

-forcing the slave back with a snarl of frustration, the two of them warily circling again, looking for an opening...

Victus coughed and felt something coppery bubble in his throat. He didn't have the luxury of waiting, of wearing down his enemy. He rained blood with every step; soon so much would have left him that his vision and balance would fade, and then Carsa would take him apart with ease. He needed to end it quickly... but he knew the cost of that.

With a grunt he slid to the side, hobbling a little on his bad leg, parrying a slash that came up from high-

-swaying away from another shield bash and almost falling-

Now. You don't have the strength for this.

-slashing high with his gladius, blow blocked by the shield that came up with it-

-right fist cocking back and lashing out with a vicious gut shot-

-settling his weight on his undamaged right, left leg swinging up and snapping out with a jerk of his hips-

-left shin slamming into Carsas' sword arm just above the elbow, drawing a muffled yelp of pain, but still he gripped it, impact of the blow making him totter a few steps back, and Victus drew back to-

-then Carsas roared and struck out with his shield arm as if it were a fist, slamming the edge of the shield into Victus' stomach like an iron-shod beam. The crowd moaned as one like a chorus of demons as the slave doubled over in shocked surprise, intestines threatening to vacate, pain blocking out sight, snatching his victory as-

-Carsas rose back to full height, sword a silver flash in the harsh light-

Johnny dropped his wine cup.

The crowd hushed, and then cheered in savage approval. A white hot lash bloomed across Victus' chest, so sharp and deep that his ears stopped working. He gasped and it was... like he was just hitching a ride in his own body. He staggered back a few steps, arms slack at his side, looked down...

Saw the ragged red gash across his chest; starting just under his right pectoral, a straight line of ruined flesh spurting blood, leaking down his chest, fragments of muscle and tattered skin already visible in it. He coughed and that coppery wetness drooled out of his mouth.

Carsas panted as the fucking slave finally slumped down to his knees. Gladius still in hand but the fight... that had fled from his eyes. He straightened, towering over his enemy, the hardest fight of the night, savoring the thundering crowd and the shaking floor, hundreds of pounding feet making the chandeliers shake and drinks topple all over the casino.

They cheered the winner, and that was not going to be Victus. Johnny sighed and set his jaw, choosing not to dwell on the fortune he'd lost, but instead looking to the future.

"Arctus," he said quietly, one of his scribes hustling over and bowing at his side, "Make a note, I'm to go to the Row tomorrow morning. Replacement stock."

"Yes, boss."

The master of the casino sighed and refilled his glass. Nothing to be done now, after all. It had been a hard gamble, but he couldn't win them all... and besides, business was breakneck and the reputation of his business had been restored. Not least by the final, bloody death of Victus, known to all his customers.

He rested his head lazily on one hand and sipped his wine. Might as well enjoy the show.

by **Victus** on November 9th, 2014, 5:24 am

The pain of a few chimes ago was bliss compared to what he felt on his knees. The exhaustion, the powerlessness, the sheer lack of energy. Of will. His mind still railed for him to rise, to fight, but his body... he just couldn't do it. He'd never felt so tired.

The crowd wasn't even audible to him anymore. He could see the flailing arms and the wide, screaming mouths but they were so inconsequential. Only the titan before him, arms high as his new fans hurled their adoration upon him. Victus felt his breath grow weaker. He blinked... it seemed like for so long...

Victory. But only for one. It was... only a matter of time.

His grip tightened on his gladius.

No.

His chest heaved, even as lashings of pain crackled through his torso, the very movement pulling the gash wider and threatening to send waves of blackness crashing over him, throwing him into unconsciousness before Dira finally claimed him.

No.

But still he breathed.

Carsas let his shield hang loose by his side, turned in a circle as he raised his curved sword high. He wanted all to see the blade that ended this worthy opponent. His blade.

High above, Johnny smirked to himself behind the pensive fingers across his mouth. Oh, this was a true showman. He'd definitely have to make this more than a one-time arrangement. The cage would need a new champion, after all. Surely he could afford more than whatever gang was paying Carsas for-

Then he frowned. Leaned forward a touch. Victus had raised his head.

Carsas faced him and grinned behind his helmet. He always enjoyed it when they met his gaze, just before that final blow. Then their eyes would carry his face with their souls to the next word; then his Lord Krysus would know his quality from that final, frozen picture. He drew back his sword...

There is victory in death. But only if you deny your killer his own.

Victus breathed. He lived. He was still of the world. There was scarce hope in that, and for years he had pursued it. The rush of blood and the fighting, the crystal simplicity of the cage, the crowd and the worth in his Master's eyes... behind them all, there had been his momentum. That Victus was alive, and he fought, and that meant something.

Would he betray that now? With his last breath? Would the last moment of his life be written in weakness and submission? Or something else?

Fading eyes narrowed, and focused on the arm raised high. The sword attached to it. He would only get one chance. He exhaled... poured his strength into his sword arm... years of training for one last purpose. A single blow.

He breathed in again... gave his executioner a lopsided smile-

-and then the sword moved. Hurtled towards his neck, aiming to lop it off with one swipe-

And with a yell Victus slashed vertically upward with his gladius-

-taking off the swinging arm at the elbow.

Carsas didn't scream. Not at first. He just stared in mute, stunned shock at the gushing stump where his precious limb had been. His hand, still gripping the sword, tumbled from its path and dropped to the dirt, little finger twitching oddly as if it had worked out by itself something had gone horribly wrong.

Then he screamed. Victus' smile became a grin, then something else as his lips curled back from his teeth and he pulled the gladius close to his side-

-thrusting diagonally upward, underneath the wolf-emblazoned breastplate-

-jamming the blade clean through the wolf's heart, out Carsas' back.

He could not hear the crowd... but that was because they were silent. Sure victory had turned to bloody defeat so fast that it had robbed them all of speech. Johnny lurched to his feet, mouth slack, somewhere between a curse and a smile, staring down in something close to awe.

Carsas tried to breath... but his lungs wouldn't let him. It was an odd thing, watching a man made faceless by a helmet sputter and cough, try to pull away the blade impaling him with a hand no longer there. Victus let go of the blade, leaving it jammed in his torso. Watched him totter back until he fell onto his back... chest heaving... then just quivering... then never move again.

As he got to one knee, the noise returned. Not in a burst; but almost voice by voice. A murmur, then a buzzing, then stamping feet and cheers, incredulous curses and applause. Victus looked up at the crowd he felt so indifferent for... found the face of his Master... and raised a bloody hand in salute.

Johnny watched his slave fall onto his back with a smile on his face. One final victory to take with him.

"Get him out of there! NOW!"

[Continued here]