Chapter 12 – The Beast in the Cage
The clang of the cell door was a final, deafening note. Skodar was shoved into a crowded holding pen in Section G, not far from his target, Section H. The air reeked of sweat, fear, and disinfectant. A dozen other slaves—a mix of species—looked up with vacant or terrified eyes.
He played his part perfectly: curling into a corner, trembling, the picture of broken vulnerability. He listened, his enhanced hearing filtering through the cacophony.
From the adjacent Section H, he heard the distinct, low hum of stasis fields. His heart clenched. So close.
A grizzled, one-eyed Grott slave shuffled over. "First time, blue-skin?" he rasped.
Skodar nodded mutely.
"The Arena…it don't care about strong or weak. It cares about spectacle. They'll break you first. Make you run through the Tunnels of Dread. Then they'll pair you with beasts or other slaves. Your only chance is to be meaner than whatever's in there with you." The Grott eyed Skodar's shank, hidden in his tattered sleeve. "You might have a flicker of fight. Don't show it till you need it."
Suddenly, the gates at the end of the hall slammed open. A squad of Arena handlers, dressed in black leathers and wielding shock-prods, marched in.
"Lottery time, filth!" the lead handler, a scarred Yunvarn, bellowed. "The Games begin! Your names are in the machine. Destiny calls!"
A holographic wheel appeared, spinning through the slave ID codes. It was rigged, of course. It landed on a terrified Ciel, who was dragged out shrieking. The process repeated. The tension was a physical thing, choking the air.
Skodar focused his will. Pick me. Pick me. He subtly pulsed a minuscule thread of his energy, not to attack, but to influence the electromagnetic field around the lottery machine—a trick Vaktari had theorized.
The wheel spun. Stuttered. Landed on his falsified slave code.
A handler pointed."The Vakhas! Get it!"
Rough hands hauled him up. As he was dragged past the sealed door to Section H, he let his head loll, but his eyes took in every detail: the keypad model, the guard's stance, the camera blind spot.
They threw him into the Tunnels of Dread.
It was a maze beneath the Arena, pitch black save for sporadic, strobing lights. Screams echoed from all directions. The ground was slick with unseen filth. The handlers' laughter echoed from grates above. "Run, little blue! The hunters are coming!"
This was the first breaking ground. Panic the slaves, let them exhaust themselves before the main event.
Skodar didn't run. He walked. He let his other senses paint the map. He heard the heavy breathing of a predator ahead—a Grimscale Hound, like the ones on Tian Mountain, but bigger, armored with Arena-tech. He heard the scuttle of something insectoid to the left.
He could kill them all in seconds. But that wasn't the plan.
He needed to survive,not conquer. To be overlooked until the end.
The Hound lunged from the dark. Skodar let it slam him against the wall, its claws tearing his tunic and drawing superficial lines of blue blood. He cried out in convincing pain, then drove his resin shank up into the beast's under-jaw. Not a killing blow, but a painful one. The Hound yelped and retreated.
He moved on, stumbling, bleeding, playing the desperate survivor. He avoided other slaves fighting each other in the dark. He let a giant Ralvine Creeper snag his leg and drag him, before severing a vine with his shank and scrambling free, covered in sap and fake terror.
After an eternity, a light appeared. The tunnel exit. He staggered out, blinking, into the blinding sand of the Arena floor.
The roar of fifty thousand voices hit him like a physical wall. He fell to his knees, playing exhaustion.
Above, in the royal podium, he saw them. The War Masters. Eight imposing figures of different species, radiating power and boredom. And beside them, on a velvet cushion, the cryo-case containing the Genes Amplifier Liquid.
His target.
The first round was over.He had survived. The slave had passed the first test. The beast had kept its claws sheathed.
The real hunt was about to begin.