Back in the Genesis Chamber, Skodar shed the filthy cloak. Vaktari listened, her expression growing graver as he laid out the reality.
"Section H is a fortified cell within the pens. The Vault is impregnable for a direct assault. The Liquid will be under the eyes of the royal War Masters during the games." He met her gaze, his eyes burning. "I cannot storm the pens. I cannot crack the vault. So I must win the Games."
Vaktari stared at him. "You intend to be captured. To enter the Arena as a slave contestant."
"It is the only path that leads directly to both the pens and the podium," Skodar said, his voice flat. "They will put me in the pens. I will see my family. They will send me into the Arena to die. I will survive. And when the winner is called to receive the prize… I will be within reach of the War Masters, the Liquid, and my family's cell."
"The risk is astronomical," Vaktari whispered. "The Games are not just physical. They are psychological theater. They will break you before you fight. They will weaponize your hope."
"My hope was weaponized the moment I saw my village burn," Skodar replied. "Let them try."
Vaktari saw the unshakeable resolve. She nodded slowly. "Then we must prepare not just your body, but your mind. And we must modify the plan. You cannot win as a mysterious powerhouse. You must win as a desperate, lucky slave. You must hide your true strength until the final moment."
For the next hours, she taught him advanced dampening techniques—ways to make his Prima Genes lie dormant, to appear only as a slightly tougher-than-average Vakhas. She taught him to take a hit, to bleed convincingly, to feign exhaustion.
"You will need a weapon," she said. "Something crude. Slave-made." She used remaining crystal energy to fabricate a simple, vicious-looking shank made of hardened fungal resin and sharpened stone. It felt right in his hand.
As dawn approached, the day of the Games, Skodar stood ready. He looked at Vaktari. The dynamic between them had shifted again. She was no longer just a guide or a grieving widow. She was his strategist, his co-conspirator.
"When you are in there," she said, her voice thick, "remember the still pool. The rage is the fuel, but the mind is the engine. I will be watching. I will find a way to aid you from the shadows."
"Thank you, Vaktari," Skodar said. It felt inadequate.
He deactivated his cloak, dirtied his clothes, and deliberately scraped his arms. He slumped his posture, dulled his eyes, and walked out of the sanctuary, not as a ghost, but as a broken slave.
He walked straight toward a Yunvarn slave patrol in a dingy alley. He made a show of trying to steal a ration pack. They spotted him immediately.
"Look! A straggler! A blue-skinned rat!"
A stun-bolt took him in the back.He convulsed, letting his energy absorb most of it while faking unconsciousness. He was dragged, kicked, and thrown into a transport cage.
As the hover-cart lifted toward the Pens of Lament, Skodar, through slitted eyes, watched the sanctuary's mountain recede. The ghost was gone. The slave was in play. The gamble had begun