The pit was too quiet.
Three men bled into the sand. Two staggered to their feet, swaying with the weight of torn muscle and fractured resolve. But the third, he didn't wait. Didn't breathe like the others.
He didn't hesitate.
He moved.
Twin blades caught the torchlight like fangs, his stride near soundless as he lunged.
The air sheared between them as the strike came fast. Too fast for a man without a system.
But Azeric wasn't just a man.
He shifted—half a step, one breath's width—and the blade meant for his spine kissed nothing but shadow. The second slash came for his throat. Azeric ducked, twisted, palm meeting wrist, locking bone against bone—then snapped it with a torque meant only for butchery.
The silent one didn't cry out.
His body buckled.
Azeric's hand shot up, gripped the man by the hair, and yanked his head forward—hard. His knee came up like a hammer, crashing into the face with a sickening thud. The man's body folded, stunned. Azeric lifted him again and slammed him down onto the stone floor.
The impact was merciless.
The skull meeting stone with a crack that silenced breath. Then nothing. No twitch, no gasp. Just the cold quiet of a life erased.
Only then did Azeric pick up the twin blades.
Azeric turned the blades in his hands, testing their weight, edge, balance. One was sharper than the other. Good enough. A faint smirk touched his mouth.
The berserker roared.
Foam frothed from his lips as he barreled forward, scream tearing through the air like something feral. Azeric didn't flinch. He watched the rhythm of the charge, the wild placement of each footfall.
Then he moved.
Fast. Precise. As the berserker's foot slammed down—exactly where Azeric knew it would—he hurled one blade. The knife drove deep into the stone floor, catching the berserker mid-step. A howl followed as the man's leg folded, pinned through the foot.
The charge crumbled.
Azeric closed the gap in two strides.
The second blade buried into the berserker's neck—too easily.
Azeric blinked. Curious. It hadn't always been that easy to drive steel through flesh.
Was he getting stronger?
The berserker twitched once, then stilled. Dead before he hit the ground.
The last one was already on the ground, blade discarded, hands raised.
"No—please. I'm done. I'm done."
Begging didn't mean anything in the pit. Azeric had seen men cry before. Had seen worse survive while better ones were butchered.
He didn't answer. He dashed forward, catching the man's head in one hand, shoving him down as the blade in his other hand drove into the neck, clean and deep.
"You should try kneeling next time," Azeric muttered, slicing sideways.
Warm blood coated his palm as the body jerked, then went slack.
The crowd didn't cheer.
They didn't know how.
For a moment, it was just breath. The soft echo of disbelief.
"He didn't flinch," one noble whispered, voice tight with awe.
"He's a monster," another murmured.
Then the silence shattered—cheers erupting from the gallery above, savage and thunderous.
Kestel nodded at the Azeric being dragged out by the guards.
He didn't speak. Didn't smile. Just raised one gloved hand with the same slow deliberation Azeric used to break a man's spine.
"Do not bring him back to his cell," Kestel said.
The guards froze.
"Put him in the The Iron Maw."
A senior guard silently nodded, already turning on his heel. He moved with quiet purpose, murmuring instructions to his handler.
One of the guards blinked, then let out a low whistle. "Shit. That's the south quadrant."
A third one gave Azeric a second glance, almost wary now. "Didn't think we'd see a pit rat get upgraded. Guess he earned it."