"Forty thousand credits!"
"Fifty!"
"Sixty thousand!"
The voices of the merchants sounded like hungry crows, shouting for pieces of a wounded animal.
Darius could barely keep his eyes open, but the sound of the bids was sharp as a razor.
Each number spat out raised the tension in the air; he was being fought over like a rare piece — not a man, but a prize.
"This one here..." — said one of the merchants, a short man with a golden turban — "broke Lindor Ryok's jaw. A good investment."
"Well, if he doesn't die first." — retorted another, laughing.
Then, silence fell. Heavy, sudden, almost suffocating.
A single man stood up among the others, not by height, but by presence.
Astian Harok.
Known in all free domains and underworld territories as the Lion of Varkath, his body was broad, muscular, and wrapped in a crimson tunic with black furs of extinct beasts.
His skin was tanned by the sun of a thousand battles, his golden hair braided like a mane, and his thick beard adorned with small silver rings.
A necklace with predator fangs hung on his chest, and his eyes... his eyes were like embers that never went out — wild, cunning, dangerous.
He crossed his arms and released a crooked smile, showing teeth white as ivory.
"This slave incapacitated one of my best warriors, someone who was ready to compete in the Coliseum." — His voice sounded like a muffled thunder. — "So I offer seventy thousand credits."
A murmur ran through the merchants.
Some frowned, others backed away like dogs before the true alpha.
"I hope you gentlemen put your face... to the humble Lion of Arkhad."
The provocation was clear, an open challenge, but no one responded.
Astian was more than a name — he was a force.
Owner of arenas, slavery networks, blood contracts, and allies throughout the universe's underworld. Confronting the Lion was not just a risk... it was commercial suicide.
The hammer was struck.
"Seventy thousand credits! Sold to Mr. Harok!"
With his breath cut off, Darius lifted his eyes for the first time — and saw the face of the one who had paid for his soul.
The pain returned like an electric blade.
Darius arched his body as the shocks ran through his ribs, forcing every nerve to scream.
A groan escaped before numbness pulled him back into darkness.
Zzzzkt!
Another shock.
Consciousness hit him like a hammer.
His eyes opened, burning.
His body felt as heavy as if made of lead; he was chained by wrists and ankles in a metal cell — a ship.
The smell was of oil, burnt iron, and ozone.
In front of him, sitting on a dark leather bench, with a glass of amber liquid in hand and a cigar between his fingers, was Astian Harok.
The Lion of Varkath watched him silently, his feline eyes half-closed, as if studying a living puzzle.
"You're just a child." — said Astian, blowing out a slow puff of a golden cigar whose scent exuded exotic spices.
His eyes analyzed Darius like a predator before unusual prey. — "How can you be so strong? Every blow broke bones... Are you some orc hiding in human skin?"
Darius slowly raised his face, wet hair stuck to his forehead, eyes fixed on Astian's.
Despite the pain, the exhaustion... he smiled, even if sarcastically.
"None of your business."
Astian laughed.
A guttural, hoarse laugh that seemed to come from some dark corner of his chest; he raised his glass in salute.
"Ah... I like you."
But Darius didn't hear the rest.
Because, at that moment, his mind dove deep into a memory.
[FLASHBACK - 8 Years Ago]
The sound of alarms was low, almost a whisper.
Everything there was white, metallic, and surgical; runic circles floated on the walls, projecting information and DNA graphics in real-time.
Several scientists monitored panels with tense expressions.
At the center, the tank.
A translucent cylinder, tall, filled with a viscous liquid of dark red color, almost like thick blood.
Darius, only 7 years old, trembled before it.
He had a frail body, bare legs, and wide eyes filled with mixed fear and courage.
By his side, the figure of his father — Marcus — watched silently.
The man pressed his shoulder firmly.
"You were born to endure this." — he murmured, before stepping away.
Darius entered.
The liquid slowly swallowed his body, enveloping his skin like warm slime.
When the visor closed, the process began; the liquid penetrated every pore, every cell.
Through the nostrils.Through the mouth.Through the eyes.Through the ears.
The pain was immediate.
A thousand fiery knives cutting from inside.
As if the blood itself wanted to escape the veins, the heart raced, bones creaked; the serum sought to remake his body from the inside out — and the body resisted.
In the command room, data appeared:Rejection level: critical.Heartbeats: 204 per minute.Neural resistance: above average.
Normal children lasted between 20 and 40 seconds in the tank.
The absolute record — held by Marcus — was 4 minutes and 15 seconds.
But Darius...Darius did not come out.
1 minute.2 minutes.3 minutes.
Alarms started sounding, scientists screamed.
They wanted to open the tank, to stop it. They said the child's brain would collapse.
But Marcus, standing before the glass, gave no orders.
4 minutes.5 minutes.6 minutes.7 minutes and 37 seconds.
The tank opened with a hiss.
The liquid drained, and the small body fell to its knees on the metallic floor, naked, trembling. But... breathing.
And smiling.
Several days had passed since the procedure.
Darius still felt pain throughout his body — as if every muscle was learning to exist again.
The nights were restless, the dreams confused, and his body reacted strongly to every stimulus.
He looked at his father, who analyzed data before a runic terminal; the doubt that gnawed him finally escaped:
"Father… why did we have to go through that?" — his voice still thin, with a slight childish tremor. — "That… that absurd pain, if we already have Zerith… and runic technology… why do we need to suffer like that?"
Marcus paused, leaving the holographic projection suspended in the air.
Slowly, he turned to his son, and a light — almost melancholic — smile appeared on his war-marked face.
"Ah, my son…" — he approached and knelt before Darius, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. — "You still see the world with innocent eyes. But that… will change over time."
Darius frowned, visibly confused. Marcus then spoke more seriously:
"And what if one day you are without your runic armor? And if, after days of continuous combat, your mind is so exhausted you can't even concentrate your Zerith for a second?"
He touched Darius' chest firmly. — "What will be left then? The body sustains the spirit, when everything fails… only what we truly are remains."
The boy swallowed hard.
There was something in that answer that made sense, even if he did not fully understand it yet.
Marcus stood and walked to the large lab window, from which part of the city was visible, shining among the clouds.
"Humans are one of the most physically fragile races in the entire known universe."
His voice was laden with sorrow, but also conviction. — "The super soldier serum is a desperate — but necessary — attempt to reduce that disadvantage. To create a solid base… so our minds can shine without fear."
He turned again, his gaze serious.
"And you… with the time you spent in that tank… have probably already surpassed most known limits. Your physical strength should be at the level of an adult orc." — he paused and added with a proud smile —