"Left!" Thessaly shouted.

  Alistair spun, blade lashing out, cleaved a frothing satyr clean across the neck. Its body toppled sideways, blood fountaining.

  Behind him, Brimma’s spider form skewered a full-armored dwarf mid-charge, tossing the corpse like a rag doll.

  CRUNCH.

  Alistair panted, sweat burning his eyes. His arms were lead. His ribs throbbed.

  And still they came.

  "Back-to-back!" he called. "If they want us, they can damn well earn it!"

  Thessaly grunted, planting herself against his left flank. Spider-Brimma loomed on his right, legs lashing in tight arcs.

  And Buddy, bloody, battered, eyes blazing, pressed in beside them, a wall of fur and flame.

  Fine. This is fine. Four against... several hundred. What could possibly go wrong.

  A serpentine elf darted through the crowd, blades flashing.

  Alistair flicked a hand, mana surged.

  [Kindle Spark Activated]

  A sharp crack fire lanced out, slamming into the elf’s side. The spark ignited lingering poison on her blade, BOOM, a small burst of flame sent her spinning to the ground.

  "Next!" Alistair barked.

  But a heavy mace caught him from the side. He twisted, too slow.

  CRACK.

  Pain blossomed white-hot across his ribs.

  [HP: 149 → 96]

  "FUCK," Alistair hissed. "I liked those ribs, thanks."

  He staggered, shoved the attacker away with a snarl.

  Timer. Where the hell’s the...

  A system message flickered into view:

  [Arena Reset Countdown: 00:17:02.]

  "Seventeen minutes!" Alistair called. "Unless anyone here wants to settle for participation trophies."

  Thessaly barked a laugh. "You mean we’re not getting one already? That’s bullshit."

  Alistair grinned, blood in his teeth. "You can take it up with the gods, if we live."

  Then movement caught his eye.

  A lone champion across the chaos, fighting with precision. No wild swings, no frothing madness.

  A slender human woman in dark leathers, a thin curved blade in each hand.

  She moved like water, perfect, composed, dangerous.

  And her eyes clear. Sharp.

  Sane.

  So we’re not the only ones.

  That cold knot of tension in Alistair’s gut twisted tighter. Others were still thinking. Still fighting with purpose. That... was going to complicate things.

  A hulking goblin brute barreled toward Buddy.

  The hellhound met him head-on, teeth flashing.

  SNAP.

  One massive bite, Buddy ripped the goblin in half with a snarl.

  And without hesitation gulped down the upper half whole.

  Alistair blinked. "Well. That’s one way to self-heal."

  Buddy’s wounds visibly closed, muscle knitting under blood-matted fur.

  [Buddy HP: 91 → 138]

  "Good boy," Alistair muttered. "Horrifying, but good boy."

  The tide kept pushing them, closer and closer to the dragon.

  The bones loomed ahead now, towering white and otherworldly against the carnage.

  Alistair’s breath came fast.

  And as he fought, he reached inward.

  Kael.

  Where are you.

  He dove into the bond, searched. Pushed past the fog of combat.

  And there it was, flimsy, frail, a barely-there thread, pulsing with sickly madness.

  But still there.

  Still alive.

  "Gods, Kael, you stubborn bastard. Hold on."

  The bond gave no answer, but it pulsed. Barely.

  [Mental Instability: 41% → 37%]

  A sharp wind slammed into Alistair’s face, hard.

  WHAM.

  He flew backward, crashed into something solid.

  Vision blurred. Ears ringing.

  "Son of a..."

  Through the haze, he saw a gnoll champion lunging toward him, fangs bared.

  Before he could move Buddy charged in with a roar.

  [Blazefang Activated]

  Fire erupted from the hellhound’s jaws, searing the gnoll mid-leap, sending it screaming into the dirt.

  Alistair gasped, staggered to his feet.

  "Thanks," he coughed. "Remind me to upgrade your treat stash."

  He leaned against whatever had stopped his fall.

  Rough. Cold. Solid.

  He glanced down, fingers brushing bone.

  And then...

  DING.

  A sharp new notification pulsed into view:

  [Crystal Dragon Bone Tribute Event Active]

  Personal Trial: Each Champion must meet Blood Tribute alone. No assistance permitted.

  Requirement:

  Deal 5,000 damage within the Tribute Radius.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Progress: 0 / 5,000.

  Warning: Leaving the radius resets progress. Only Champions who complete the Blood Tribute will receive an Essence Crystal.

  Countdown to Arena Reset: 00:16:47

  Alistair stared.

  "...Oh shit."

  Alistair shoved off the bone, blades rising.

  Five thousand damage. Right. Nothing like a little extra pressure when you’re already drowning.

  He coughed blood, shook his head, forcing the ringing out of his ears.

  "Tribute’s active!" he shouted, voice raw. "Five thousand each. No help. Get moving."

  He wasn’t sure Thessaly even heard him over the din, but she nodded once, a grim smile flashing through the blood spatter on her face.

  "Finally," she shouted back. "A good excuse to hit harder."

  Alistair snorted. "You needed an excuse?"

  Beside him, Brimma’s spider form slammed two massive legs through a pair of dueling dwarves, one impaled through the chest, the other through the throat. The bodies hung twitching as she flung them aside like broken dolls.

  Guess not.

  Buddy pressed tighter against Alistair’s flank, hot, solid, snarling at anything that so much as twitched in their direction.

  "Stick close, boy," Alistair muttered. "Let’s make this count."

  The first kill came fast.

  A horned tiefling spun toward him, wild-eyed, two curved daggers flashing.

  Alistair ducked the first strike, lashed out with a boot to the tiefling’s knee. Bone crunched. The fighter screamed.

  Kindle Spark. Now.

  [Kindle Spark Activated]

  Fire lanced into the tiefling’s chest, igniting a smear of poison along his ribs.

  BOOM.

  The blast tore him open, he collapsed in a boneless heap.

  [Progress: 317 / 5,000]

  "One," Alistair muttered. "Four thousand six eighty-three to go."

  Another blur, a towering vulturekin champion flapping toward them, feathers soaked with gore, claws extended.

  Buddy leapt first, jaws clamping around a wing, tearing the creature from the air.

  Before it hit the ground, Alistair was moving.

  Blade flashed, severed a leg at the joint, drove his dagger deep beneath the vulturekin’s breastbone.

  [Progress: 621 / 5,000]

  "Two." He grinned through gritted teeth. "Getting warmer."

  Thessaly wasn’t far off.

  He glimpsed her slamming a horned beastman into a shattered rib, bark-covered fists driving through the champion’s skull in three brutal strikes.

  Blood spattered her face. She didn’t flinch.

  Alistair spared a breath to glance at her.

  "Nice form."

  She barked a laugh, voice ragged. "Saving the fancy footwork for when I have legs left."

  A spinning axe whistled toward his head, he ducked, turned, sliced low across a hobgoblin’s thighs, dropping it with a scream.

  He followed through, drove his sword into the hob’s throat.

  [Progress: 888 / 5,000]

  "Three. Who’s next?"

  Buddy was a blur of teeth and fire now, tearing through a pair of draconic scaled champions, flames licking from his jaws.

  One of them staggered backward, howling, Buddy pounced, crushed its skull in a single bite.

  [Buddy HP: 138 → 162]

  Alistair grinned. "Show-off."

  Brimma’s spider form tore through the melee, limbs slick with blood. She darted in and out, skewering a gnome illusionist, then leaping clear of a collapsing orc shaman in a spray of blood and bone.

  No words. Just death.

  Good.

  Another strike, this time a lean satyr archer drew a bead on Alistair, arrow gleaming.

  He rolled sideways, [Kindle Spark] already primed.

  [Kindle Spark Activated]

  The spark ignited the satyr’s bracers, BOOM. The archer staggered, arrow flying wide.

  Alistair was on him in a heartbeat, dagger driven up beneath the chin.

  [Progress: 1,104 / 5,000.]

  "Four. Keep ‘em coming."

  Sweat poured down his face. Every muscle burned. But the bone beneath his boots was slick now with blood and they were still standing.

  Come on. Come on. Faster.

  The countdown flickered in the corner of his vision.

  [Arena Reset Countdown: 00:15:22]

  Time was bleeding away with every breath.

  "Fifteen minutes," he called again. "We better pick up the damn pace."

  Thessaly ducked a swing, shattered a champion’s jaw with one bark-covered fist.

  "Then quit talking and start killing!" she shouted back.

  "Rude," he said, parrying an axe, slicing through another beastkin’s throat. "Very rude."

  Another thought pulled at him, Kael’s bond.

  Still there. Flickering. Weak.

  But alive.

  "You better hold out, damn you. I’m not done with you yet."

  Alistair surged forward through a gap in the fighting.

  A scaled half-dragon brute reared up in his path, jagged blade raised.

  He grinned. "Finally. Something worth hitting."

  He darted in, blades flashing...

  ... and the world froze.

  Mid-stride, mid-scream, everything locked.

  The half-dragon stood with mouth wide, teeth bared, frozen in a perfect snarl.

  Blood hung in the air like rubies, each droplet caught mid-fall. A blade gleamed halfway through a champion’s throat, stuck in eternal hesitation.

  The roar of combat was gone, replaced by silence so thick it pressed against Alistair’s skull.

  His breath caught. Dread coiled in his gut.

  "This... is bad. This is very bad."

  A pulse of power rippled outward.

  A cage of shimmering chains snapped into existence around him, energy humming with a cold, iron weight.

  Alistair’s feet locked to the ground. His blades trembled in his grip.

  "Shit."

  And then they appeared.

  From the air itself, a grand, spiraling staircase of shimmering light descended toward the frozen killing ground.

  At its head floated the Herald, cloak blazing gold, smile wide as ever.

  He twirled in place, arms raised as two figures followed.

  The first, the Bloodmistress.

  Crimson robes swirling, skin pale as bone, eyes gleaming behind her cruel mask. A mist of blood curled around her, following her every step.

  The second...

  Veydran.

  The Chainfather.

  A gaunt figure clad in black iron armor, every surface etched with runes of binding. Chains floated around him, dozens, whispering through the air as if alive.

  His helm was bare, face pale, angular, utterly still. His voice, when it came, was low and absolute.

  "I do not come for blood. I come for balance."

  Alistair swallowed.

  "Oh, fantastic. A fan."

  As they touched the ground, gods began to appear.

  They shimmered into view, some solid, some flickering.

  A towering six-armed giant of stone.

  A veiled woman cloaked in moonlight.

  A slender youth with eyes like empty wells.

  They walked freely among the frozen champions, inspecting them, trading sharp whispers.

  One goddess bent to examine a champion mid-swing, smiling faintly. Another tilted her head, murmuring to her companion while tracing a finger through a suspended droplet of blood.

  Alistair was the only one moving. The only one aware.

  "Why is it always me."

  The Herald twirled upward, arms wide.

  "MY FRIENDS!" he called, voice booming through the stillness.

  The gods turned as one.

  "Honored members of the Pantheon. Esteemed godlings. Guests of high and low station. WELCOME!"

  He spun mid-air, grinning. "You will have noticed our... recent interruption. Fear not!"

  He gestured toward the Bloodmistress and Veydran.

  "By the ancient accords of the Pantheon, a formal challenge has been issued!"

  Gasps rippled through the gathered gods.

  Alistair’s breath caught.

  "Oh, no. No no no no..."

  The Herald beamed.

  "Veydran, Lord of Chains, Keeper of Law and Conquest, has invoked his right to ritual combat."

  He pointed a gleaming hand at the Bloodmistress.

  "And the Bloodmistress has answered in kind. Their chosen champions shall fight here, now, for the honor and reputation of their patrons!"

  A hungry murmur swept through the gods.

  Veydran stood still, chains humming.

  The Bloodmistress smiled, sharp, knowing.

  The Herald’s voice rose.

  "THIS duel shall be to the death."

  A thrill passed through the divine assembly, excitement, bloodlust.

  "While their champions battle, time shall resume for the rest of the Arena. All other combatants shall continue their struggles, seeking the Tribute. Seeking the prize."

  The gods stirred, some leaning forward with gleaming eyes.

  The Herald grinned wider.

  "And thus we introduce new stakes!"

  He gestured broadly.

  "Those who wish the Crystal Dragon’s Essence must move swiftly. The duel may end at any moment. When it does, the Tribute ends."

  Sharp glances passed between gods. Quiet discussions. A few low laughs.

  Alistair’s stomach twisted tighter.

  "Great. Kill a chained champion while every lunatic in the Arena tries to rack damage. No pressure."

  The Herald turned, voice softer.

  "All rules of the Arena remain in force. Champions not engaged in the duel may fight, may fall, may claim glory or perish in the attempt."

  He flicked a hand, the cage around Alistair pulsed.

  "None may interfere with the duel."

  Another pulse.

  "None may flee it."

  Veydran spoke, low, calm.

  "This is justice. A champion of chaos must face Order."

  The Bloodmistress smiled wider, eyes glittering.

  Alistair’s pulse pounded in his ears.

  "You picked the wrong vampire, you iron-plated bastard."

  The Herald’s voice rang once more.

  "Prepare yourselves."

  He paused, smiling faintly.

  "The Chainfather’s champion will arrive shortly."

  And then, a voice in Alistair’s mind. Soft. Velvet. Hungry.

  Do not disappoint me, little one.

  The Bloodmistress’s whisper coiled through his thoughts.

  I have wagered much. Bleed for me. Break for me. Win for me.

  Alistair exhaled slowly.

  Rolled his shoulders.

  Raised his blades.

  "Well. I didn’t want to be popular anyway."

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