The air around the Death Pits was thick—heavy with the smell of rust, sweat, and burnt oil. The crowds above were just beginning to gather, their laughter rolling through the open stone corridors like the growl of an unseen beast. Beneath that noise, the crackle of torches lined the hallways, their light bending over steel bars and dried stains.
Texan rolled his shoulders, every joint clicking in rhythm as he stepped up to the counter. The woman behind the desk barely looked up—her tusks small, her voice flat from overuse.
"Name?" she asked.
"Texan," he said, loosening his neck, glancing over the corridor behind her. Two men wearing aprons dragged something past—a pair of bare feet trailing behind, streaking dust in their wake.
Texan's brow furrowed. "Wonder what's in that room," he muttered.
The woman didn't hesitate. "That's where we keep all the bodies of the dead."
Texan blinked, letting the words hang in the air like ash. "They don't even get a burial, huh?" He exhaled slowly, then shrugged. "Damn. Oh well. So—who am I fighting, ma'am?"
Her eyes flicked up then back down. "A human. Level three. Should be even enough. He's a warrior, standard pit fighter. Probably a good show."
Texan gave a low hum of acknowledgment and began stretching, rolling his wrists until the bone cracked. He turned toward Himmel—ready to make a joke—but stopped.
The orc wasn't looking at him. Himmel stood a few paces away, eyes locked on the door the aproned men had vanished through. There was something off in his face—his gaze distant, his pupils dilated, like he was staring through the world instead of at it.
"Hey," Texan called softly. "Himmel, what are you doing?"
Himmel blinked hard, his expression snapping back into focus. "Sorry. I don't know. Felt… strange for a second."
Texan frowned. "You good?"
"Yeah," Himmel said quickly, though his tone didn't convince anyone. "I'm fine."
Texan stretched his arms out, shaking off the odd moment. "Alright then. Gumbo's back at base, chilling. Let's plan this out so I don't get turned into wall paint."
He crouched beside Himmel as the orc knelt and drew in the sand—crude lines forming the pit, small circles for fighters. Himmel's sharp mind worked fast, his tone crisp and practical.
"Okay, here's what we know," Himmel began. "He's human, level three, slave class. Means he's strong enough to still be alive, but not strong enough to win too often. Swords are the default weapon for warriors, maybe a shield if he's lucky. He's been fighting all day, so he probably doesn't have any Ult Charges left."
"Ult charges?" Texan tilted his head.
"Three per day," Himmel said, not looking up. "One per level. He had three, but this late in the pits, they're gone. Used or wasted."
"Oh," Texan said, tapping his chin. "So, no trump card. That's good. I can work with that."
Himmel nodded once. "Yeah. Since he was chosen for you, he's strong enough to make you sweat, but not enough to kill you. Probably."
Texan snorted. "Probably? Thanks for the confidence, coach."
They exchanged a small grin—the kind shared between men who had walked into too many fights to count.
When Texan finally walked toward the pit entrance, Himmel stayed behind, taking a seat in the stands among the roaring crowd. From here, the pit stretched out beneath him—wide, circular, and scarred by old battles. But something was off.
The field wasn't clean.
Where there should've been smooth sand, there were boulders scattered around, uneven terrain, and patches where the ground looked warped—almost like something had exploded there and never healed. Himmel's senses twitched. His instincts clawed at him. This wasn't regulation. This was rigged.
He scanned the audience, tracing symbols, banners, and colors until his gaze froze.
A golden eagle sigil shimmered on a cloak two tiers above him.
The Fifth Prince.
The prince known for intellect. The prince who never played fair.
Himmel's jaw tightened. The trap clicked into place in his mind. He couldn't intervene—not here. Not now. To pull Texan out would mean losing the princess's backing entirely. To interfere magically would expose their hand before the Wild Lands even began.
He could only watch.
And pray Texan survived.
Down below, the iron gate began to rise. The gears shrieked, and the crowd leaned forward.
Through the dust and darkness, a figure stepped out.
It wasn't a human.
The pit trembled as the fighter walked forward—an orc, taller than Texan by a full head, encased in plated armor that gleamed with enchantment. A full quiver hung at his back, crossbow resting against his shoulder, traps and bolts dangling from his hip. His presence radiated confidence, cruelty, and power.
Texan's lips parted. "Oh, hell no."
In the stands, Himmel whispered the same word under his breath.
"Fuck."
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other.
Then fire erupted.
The orc's crossbow flashed crimson — whoosh! — a bolt of fire sliced through the air. Texan dove behind a boulder, sand scorching his boots as the impact turned the ground molten. He crouched low, panting, adrenaline rushing through his veins.
Then — click!
The rock hissed. Texan glanced down — a faint shimmer in the cracks of stone. "Oh, shit—!"
SNAP!A spear shot out of the rock like a viper's fang. Texan jerked aside just in time, the spear slicing his sleeve and drawing a shallow cut across his ribs.
He exhaled sharply. "You sneaky bitch!"
From across the pit, the orc's voice thundered back. "Doesn't matter if I'm a bitch if you're DEAD!"
Texan smirked despite the sting. "We'll see about that."
He thrust his tail forward, wrapping it around the protruding spear. With a grunt, he twisted and threw — the spear flew like a lightning bolt, slicing the air and striking a nearby rock dead-center. A burst of dust — then a grunt.
He'd hit something.
Texan bolted, sprinting toward the sound. His boots tore through sand, his pulse syncing with the rhythm of the crowd's chanting. He turned the corner—
—and his foot sank.
"Ah, hell—"
QUICKSAND.
He dropped fast, legs vanishing up to the knee. He clawed at the ground, muscles straining, tail thrashing. Then instinct kicked in — Wobbly Dodge.
His body lurched to the side unnaturally, slipping free just before the pit swallowed him whole. He rolled, panting, covered in grit.
THUNK! — a bolt grazed his shoulder. THUNK! — a second slammed into his side, embedding deep.
"GAAH!" Texan gasped, staggering behind another boulder.
The crowd went feral.
"COME ON, SIREN!""BLEED FOR US!""FIVE GOLD ON THE ORC!"
Texan gritted his teeth and flicked his tail into the sand, whipping it into the air. Dust swirled thick around him, forming a choking smokescreen.
He closed his eyes.
Everything else — the roar, the light, the pain — vanished.
He listened.
He heard the hum of the orc's crossbow winding. The faint creak of armor plates. The slow thud of a heartbeat beneath the chaos. There. To the left.
Texan burst from cover. His fist shot out — Wibbling Punch! It missed — the orc dodged instinctively — but that was the trap. Texan used the momentum — Wibble Wobble! He grabbed the orc mid-step, flipped him with brutal strength, and SLAMMED him into the wall.
The arena shook.
Dust rained from the ceiling. The crowd roared like thunder.
Texan stepped in, breathing hard. "Now we dance."
He started the chain.
Jab. Quick, sharp. The orc reeled.
Cross. Right hand, solid crack to the jaw. Bone popped.
Hook. Left swing, deep into the ribs — a crunch that made the crowd wince.
Uppercut. Perfect follow-through, a rising blow that sent blood spraying.
The orc crashed into the wall again, dazed but not dead. Texan's body trembled with adrenaline — his gauntlets glowing with the energy of the chain. He went to finish it — the 360 Punch — but something clicked under his boot.
SPRING TRAP.
He didn't even see the mechanism — just heard it SNAP! and flung himself back as the ground erupted with steel teeth. The orc used the opening, stumbling away toward cover. His breaths came ragged, armor scorched and cracked. He had no potions left — and it showed.
But then the air changed.
From the stands — a streak of glass and red liquid arced through the sunlight.
A health potion — perfectly thrown. It shattered beside the orc's feet, magic light spilling into his body like a second wind.
Himmel's eyes went wide. His knuckles turned white on the railing. The Fifth Prince's symbol gleamed from the corner booth. The bastard had interfered.
Himmel's jaw locked. He said nothing. Not yet.
Texan saw the potion hit. He didn't hesitate.
He lunged.
The orc fired a bolt — whoosh! — Texan ducked under it, spinning low. Feint. The orc bit — shot again, aiming for his head — but Texan was already inside his guard.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut.
Each hit landed harder than the last, his chains glowing with silver sparks. The orc staggered back, armor cracking, helm splitting.
Texan could see the fear in his eyes. One more hit—
TWANG!
Pain exploded through Texan's back. He stumbled forward, eyes wide, blood spraying from his lips. An arrow. From behind. The boulder trap — he'd forgotten.
The orc didn't miss his chance — THUNK! — a bolt tore through Texan's chest.
The crowd gasped.
Himmel stood instantly, lightning trembling under his skin, but he forced himself still. If he interfered now, everything was lost.
Texan dropped to a knee, blood dripping down his ribs. He reached back, grabbed the shaft of the arrow, and ripped it out. The potion inside him — the one that hit the sand before — glowed faint green as it reversed. His wounds sizzled shut.
The crowd went silent.
Texan stood. Alive. Smiling.
"Not… done yet," he growled.
He caught the faint shimmer of another potion flying toward the orc — this time, he was ready. He grabbed the arrow from his chest and hurled it—CRACK! — the glass shattered mid-air, scattering liquid across the dirt.
The orc froze. His last hope gone.
Texan noticed a glint by his boot — a dagger, humming faintly with blue lightning.
Himmel's magic.
He didn't think. He grabbed it.
The orc rounded the boulder, crossbow aimed—THUNK! — a bolt flew. Texan threw the dagger at the same time.
They met mid-air.
For an instant, lightning and steel collided — blinding light filled the pit. Then the dagger tore through, shattering the bolt, slamming straight into the orc's chest.
BOOM.
Electricity ripped through the armor, frying metal and flesh alike. The orc screamed, stumbled backward — right into one of his own pit traps. He fell. The ground swallowed him.
The crowd fell silent as the sound of suffocation filled the pit — slow, wet, final.
Then — cheers .Deafening. Uncontrollable.
Texan stood over the crater, chest heaving, sand clinging to blood-slick skin. His grin was tired but sharp. "Guess… that's what you get for being a bitch."
In the stands, a cloaked figure turned to leave. Himmel's hand shot out, catching the man by the shoulder.
The orc turned — the Fifth Prince's associate — surprise flashing in his eyes. Before he could speak, Himmel plunged a dagger into his gut — blue lightning arcing across his body. The orc convulsed, mouth foaming white.
He bit down.
A suicide pill.
He slumped dead in Himmel's grip.
Himmel exhaled slowly, eyes flicking down to Texan in the pit below. Texan raised his fist in victory, smirking despite the blood. The crowd chanted his name.
"Texan! Texan! Texan!"
He'd won the match. He'd won them backing. And somewhere in the stands, the Fifth Prince watched from the shadows, smiling thinly.
The war of the heirs had just gotten personal.