Darius's consciousness returned like distant thunder, muffled, his thoughts dragging behind, still clouded.
The first thing he felt was the metallic taste in his mouth, the second, the strong scent of sweat, blood, and dry sand.
His body was glued to the cold ground, still shaken by involuntary spasms, muscles rebelling after the electric shock.
His limbs felt as heavy as stone, his muscles burned, and his mind spun as if submerged in dirty water.
Around him, voices shouted in various languages—some he recognized, others sounded barbaric.
Shirtless men, dressed only in leather loincloths, trained in pairs inside a large stone arena—a market, a stable for warriors.
He tried to open his eyes, but the light pouring through the dome's cracks blinded him for a second.
"Where...?" — The voice came out as a harsh, choking whisper, his throat felt coated with dry sand.
A hoarse, mocking laugh answered from a corner of the cell.
"Awake, princess?" — The man's raspy voice tore through the silence.
His sunburned skin was marked by deep wrinkles, his thin shoulders barely held up his rugged body, and two of his front teeth were missing, leaving a grotesque smile, as if his mouth were a threat ready to bite.
"Welcome to the slave market."
Darius tried to get up, leaning on his elbows.
His body still reeled from the electric shock, his muscles ached as if stretched to their limits.
Before he could reply, a deep metallic sound echoed from somewhere above:
TUMMM... TUMMM... TUMMM...
A rhythmic march—heavy footsteps climbing stone steps.
The echo reverberated through the walls of the underground prison, followed by muffled laughter, clinking cups, and raised voices—the merchants upstairs were getting ready.
Darius dragged himself to the iron bars of his cell and looked up.
A circular opening above let in golden beams of light, partially illuminating the prison's dark interior.
Dust danced in the air like little ghosts.
"Today's the day for the new batch..." — murmured a deep voice.
A muscular orc with dark green skin calmly stared at the ceiling, his bare torso bore a wide, glowing scar that crossed his chest—a living reminder of some brutal ritual.
"If you're good in combat, you might get lucky. Someone buys you, you fight, you survive. But if you're weak..." — He lifted his yellow eyes to Darius. "...what awaits you is worse than death."
A shout rang nearby:
"Next! Bring the new one!"
The cell locks echoed with a dry snap.
Two soldiers descended the stone stairs, heavy steps, impatient eyes.
One of them came straight for Darius, grabbed him roughly by the arms, and yanked him as if he were just another piece of meat.
"Up, worm. Time to prove if you're worth a single coin."
Darius staggered, feet dragging on the uneven ground, legs barely supporting his body.
His half-shut eyes still tried to adapt to the light falling from above, every step like trudging through thick mud—not just from the pain, but from the weight of his dulled awareness.
They climbed the stone steps, and when they emerged to the surface, the scene changed abruptly.
The sunlight burned, and the smell of sweat, cheap wine, and spices mixed with the stench of the arena.
On one side of the circular area, surrounded by worn stone, several men in fine clothing gathered.
Some wore golden or purple robes, others flaunted heavy jewelry and rings on nearly every finger—bearded men with cruel expressions, laughing fat men holding goblets, and even young merchants watching with hungry eyes, as if at an exotic livestock auction.
Behind each of them stood personal guards, armed and alert.
On the other side, in sepulchral silence, warriors huddled—bodies mutilated, bruised, scratched.
Dried blood stained their skin, a living reminder of the cruelty they had endured.
Seated or kneeling, they watched with empty eyes.
At the center of the stone circle stood a colossus.
A brute with dark skin, muscles sculpted like living statues, his body glistening with sweat from the last fight.
Old scars marked his arms and back like medals branded in iron. His clenched fists were wrapped in blood-stained leather strips.
He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, then smiled—a sadistic, eager grin.
"I'm Lindor Ryok," he said loudly, so all could hear. His deep voice rumbled like a drum. "Personal bodyguard of Lord Vastian Harok, the Lion of Arkhad."
Lindor raised his fists.
"And I'm the one who's going to test you, slave."
Darius barely had time to react.
The first punch hit his jaw, spinning his head.
Then came the second, straight to the stomach, and he dropped to his knees.
And vomited whatever was still in his gut.
Laughter exploded among the merchants.
"This one's weak!"
"Feed him to the dogs!"
But then, a fire lit inside him—so intense it burned away the rage and pain until no humanity remained.
POV DARIUS
The pain was familiar.
So was the humiliation.
But this time, it didn't come from my father's hands, nor from brutal training in pursuit of excellence.
No, this was caused by these worms—these pigs dressed in silk—playing gods over other lives.
Laughing.
Betting.
As if I were just disposable trash.
UNACCEPTABLE.
INTOLERABLE.
RIDICULOUS.
My knees were on the ground, vision blurry, the metallic taste of fresh blood ran down my tongue.
And then, as if a flame ignited within me, my senses came back with force.
Every smell, every sound, the heat of the sun on my skin... and the fury, pounding like a war drum in my chest.
"Get up," I told myself, almost a whisper. "Get up, damn it."
My body had been enhanced to be stronger, tougher, faster than any ordinary soldier.
But I always held back—my father taught me that.
Control is what separates a monster from a man.
But now? Now, control was a luxury I could no longer afford.
The brute charged.
Big, slow, unaware of what was coming.
As he threw the punch, I was already moving.
A short spin on the ground, a low dodge—and then I sprung up like a coil.
My hand hit his chin.
A sharp crack.
Jaw broken.
He staggered back, stunned, eyes wide.
Without hesitation, I stepped in.
My punch landed on his chest with a dry crack—the sound of his sternum snapping echoed like a silent scream.
He choked.
I delivered a side kick to his head—he reflexively raised his right arm.
Humerus fractured.
His scream was muffled by my knee slamming into his ribs.
Three broken, maybe four.
He could barely stand.
Tried to throw a punch with his left arm—I grabbed it, twisted in a perfect arc, and flung him over my back.
CRASH.
The sound of the impact echoed like a tree splitting in half.
Dust rose—he didn't move again.
The merchants, previously uninterested, now stared at me with ravenous eyes—as if they'd just found a rare gem hidden in the dirt.