Chapter 2 – The Game of the Gods
Dante Voss finished his steamed bun, then finally looked at the burly man who had just attacked him.
His eyes were ice-cold, yet he made no move against the man.
Judging by size alone, he knew that without a weapon he stood no chance.
Attacking now would only court death.
Better to wait for the coming match and find an opportunity to strike.
The man had claimed every bun except the two Dante Voss had taken. After devouring them he let out a belch and leaned against the wall.
His name was Lofu, once the local tyrant of a small town.
During the scramble for food, Lofu realized the Slaves here were not all that strong.
Perhaps he could seize that one-percent chance of survival; if he shone in the coming contest, the gods might notice him and take him into their service.
The thought thrilled him.
If he became a god's subordinate, he too could decide life and death like Vic.
Lofu swept his gaze across the others in the cell, eyes appraising.
Every Slave averted their eyes, none daring to meet his stare.
Dante Voss did the same, choosing not to provoke him.
Showing hostility when outmatched is never wise.
Seeing no one dare look at him, Lofu swelled with pride.
If all were this weak, victory in the match could well be his.
He studied Dante Voss a moment longer; when the youth did not meet his gaze, he sneered and looked away.
After all, the Slave who had dared eat first might be different—yet Dante Voss's frail frame posed no threat.
Vic watched until every cell had finished eating, glanced at his watch, and called, "All right, open the cells—the match begins!"
At his order, guards unlocked the cells, shoved the Slaves out, and herded them forward.
Over a hundred had been held in the dungeon, and the contest required a full hundred; most were already driven out.
Some tried to hang back, hoping to escape the ordeal.
Vic sneered, drew his pistol, and shot the would-be slackers.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Several bodies hit the floor; the remaining Slaves shuddered, daring hope no more.
Fighting in the arena might keep you alive; disobedience here meant certain death.
Dante Voss's gaze was calm as he filed out with the rest.
These running dogs of the Celestial Dragons, though beneath their masters, had learned the same cruelty, treating lives as dirt.
In their eyes the Slaves were vermin; step out of line and die.
Under Administrator escort they climbed a long stairway and finally reached the surface.
The glaring sunlight made them squint.
It was their first glimpse of the sun over Mary Geoise.
Yet the once-warm rays could not drive the chill from their bones.
They followed the Administrators into a vast chamber.
More Administrators lined the walls, rifles ready, watching the Slaves' every move.
Vic stepped forward and addressed them.
"Your shackles come off now. Stay still if you want to live."
He waved; guards moved among the Slaves, removing every chain save the explosive collars.
A gladiator cannot fight in irons; the gods would not tolerate such weakness.
Thus the shackles had to go.
Freed from the chains, the Slaves felt a fleeting lightness, yet rifles and collars kept them motionless.
Dante Voss's eyes flicked about, scanning the room.
Several doors lined the walls; one bore the sign "Key Room."
His eyes narrowed.
If escape was ever an option, the collar must be removed.
And the key would most likely rest behind that door.
He committed the location to memory.
Once the shackles were gone, Vic led them onward.
They entered a spacious armory piled high with every manner of cold steel.
"Alright, pick a weapon each—the match is about to start. Choose whatever suits you best."
Vic flashed the Slaves a playful grin.
Kindness had nothing to do with it; he just wanted them to put on a good show. If the gods found it entertaining, he might get promoted.
It happened all the time here—please a god and you could wake up a senior official of the World Government.
He wasn't worried about armed rebellion; these were only melee weapons, no match for firearms.
Besides, the explosive collars around their necks were still active.
That was the real leash.
At Vic's words the Slaves cautiously selected their gear; their lives depended on it.
Lofu led the way, seizing a huge sabre.
With his brute strength, a blade suited him perfectly.
He swung it until the air howled, feeling a fierce sense of safety.
Dante Voss chose a sword.
In his past life he'd bought one and trained a few days; half-skilled, but still better than any other weapon.
When every Slave was armed, Vic glanced at his watch and spoke.
"Right, the match begins shortly—remember this…"
Vic swept his gaze across them and warned,
"Don't look up; that's where the gods sit. Meet their eyes and you know the price."
"Once I start the contest, fight—or die faster."
"Onto the sand with you!"
Vic straightened his coat, waved, and led the Slaves outside.
Down the corridor they marched until they reached the arena floor.
A circular colosseum, wide and open, ringed by high walls alive with chatter—quite a crowd above.
But Vic had warned them: Celestial Dragons sat up there, so Dante Voss kept his eyes down.
Dying from curiosity would be too stupid.
After a quick survey Dante Voss casually drifted behind Lofu.
He meant to kill this man first.
Partly for old revenge, partly because Lofu was simply too strong.
Either reason was reason enough.
Only one could leave the arena alive—everyone else was competition.
To live, he had to see the rest dead.
Sword in hand he had a chance; one surprise thrust through the heart would finish it.
Vic strode to the centre, his former arrogance replaced by fawning obsequiousness.
"Honoured lords, welcome to today's Divine Trial Ground; your presence illumes this humble place."
"Then let the spectacle commence!"
He turned to the Slaves. "Wretched Slaves, under the gaze of the gods—slaughter one another!"
Vic raised a pistol and fired into the air. "Let the match… BEGIN!"
The crack of the shot left the Slaves frozen.
Most were ordinary folk, suddenly ordered to kill—none knew how to start.
Lofu heard the shot, eyes hardening; he swung his sabre ready to carve the nearest body.
A born thug, he'd already talked himself into carving a path to glory.
Catch a god's eye and he could stand just below them, lording it over millions.
Then he could bully whoever he pleased.
As he tensed to strike, a rush of wind came from behind—followed by blinding pain.
Shh-lick!
Lofu stared at the steel that had pierced his chest, turned his head with effort.
His eyes bulged.
He recognised the attacker—the same Slave from his cell, once tossed aside like trash.
He'd thought the man weak; yet this 'weakling' had silently slain him.
Vision dimming, strength ebbing, Lofu collapsed and moved no more.