The black medicine had worked, though calling it healing would be generous. Velrith had survived the night, her body fighting through the chemical fire that had burned through her veins and attacked the infection with brutal efficiency. The fever had broken sometime before dawn, leaving her weak and shaking but conscious and aware. The infected brand on her shoulder had been cauterized from the inside, the damaged tissue killed and sealed by the compound's corrosive properties. The pain had been replaced by a deep, constant ache, but the dangerous spread of infection had been stopped.
She had been given two days to recover in the medical pen, two days of lying on the dirt floor and forcing down small portions of the grey slop that passed for food. Her body slowly regained some strength, though she remained weak and unsteady. The strange pressure in her horns had not gone away but had settled into a constant background sensation, like a headache that never quite manifested but never quite disappeared either.
On the third morning after the medicine, guards entered the medical pen and began selecting slaves for return to training. Velrith was among those chosen, hauled to her feet by rough hands and shoved into line with the others who had been deemed recovered enough to be useful again. Her legs trembled beneath her weight, threatening to buckle, but she forced them to hold steady. Showing weakness now would accomplish nothing except invite more violence.
The journey from the medical pen back to the training yard was shorter than Velrith remembered, suggesting that her previous trip in a feverish, semi-conscious state had distorted her perception of distance and time. The guards herded the recovered slaves through corridors she now recognized, up the gradual slope toward the surface, and finally out into the harsh light and heat of the training yard.
The rust-colored sand stretched out before her, the same arena where she had been beaten unconscious days earlier. The surface had been raked smooth again, hiding the bloodstains beneath, but the dark patches were still visible if one looked carefully. The weapon racks stood in their covered area, the wooden practice implements waiting to deliver more pain and trauma. The observation platform held several instructors and overseers, their forms silhouetted against the red-orange sky.
Perhaps thirty slaves were assembled in the training yard, a mixture of those returning from the medical pen and others from the regular cage rotations. They stood in the scorching heat, the sand burning the soles of their bare feet, waiting for instructions. The iron collars around their necks reflected the sunlight in bright flashes, each one marked with the same ownership declaration that defined their existence.
The scarred instructor demon from Velrith's first training session was present, his single eye scanning the assembled slaves with the same predatory assessment as before. He stood at the edge of the platform, arms crossed over his chest, waiting until all the slaves had been properly positioned before speaking.
When he finally addressed them, his voice carried easily across the yard, pitched to command attention without shouting. The demonic words flowed with harsh authority, and Velrith's body processed them automatically.
"You survived your first lessons. Some of you barely. That makes you slightly less worthless than the ones who died. Today you will train with different weapons. You will fight different opponents. You will learn that survival requires more than luck—it requires skill, speed, and the willingness to inflict violence without hesitation."
The instructor gestured toward the weapon racks. "Select your weapon. You have two minutes."
The slaves moved toward the racks in a controlled rush, each one trying to claim a weapon that might offer some advantage. Velrith moved with them, her weakened body struggling to keep pace. She reached the racks and immediately dismissed the wooden swords. Her previous experience with the sword had been disastrous, the weapon feeling wrong and unbalanced in her grip.
Her eyes traveled over the other options. Wooden axes were too heavy for her current weakened state. Wooden maces required strength she did not possess. The spears, however, caught her attention. They were long wooden poles, roughly six feet in length, with blunted tips that could still deliver significant impact. The length would give her reach advantage, and the simplicity of the weapon—essentially a long stick—might be easier to handle than something requiring complex technique.
She grabbed one of the spears, lifting it from the rack and testing its weight. It was heavier than she expected, the wood dense and solid, but manageable. She gripped it with both hands, spacing them about shoulder-width apart, and attempted a simple thrust motion. The movement was awkward and slow, her muscles not properly coordinated, but it was less disastrous than her attempt with the sword had been.
Around her, other slaves were making their selections and returning to the sand. Velrith joined them, gripping her wooden spear and trying to calm the fear building in her chest. She knew what was coming. More forced sparring. More pain. More potential for serious injury or death.
The instructor descended from the platform and began walking among the assembled slaves, pairing them off with deliberate consideration. He was matching slaves based on some system of assessment—size, perceived skill level, or perhaps simply whatever pairing would produce the most entertaining violence.
When the instructor reached Velrith, he paused and studied her for a long moment. His single eye took in her weakened state, the barely-healed brand on her shoulder, the way she gripped the spear with uncertain hands. A cold smile crossed his scarred face.
"Slave 447," he said, his tone carrying dark amusement. "You survived the medicine. Impressive. Let us see if you survive this."
He turned and scanned the other slaves, searching for a suitable opponent. His eye settled on a female demon slave standing near the far side of the group. He gestured for her to come forward.
The female slave moved with immediate obedience, stepping out of the crowd and approaching Velrith's position. As she drew closer, Velrith felt her stomach tighten with dread. This opponent was nothing like the large, brutish male she had faced before. This was a predator.
The female demon was lean and muscular, her body showing the defined lines of someone who had survived through speed and skill rather than raw strength. Her skin was darker than Velrith's white complexion, a deep grey that seemed to absorb light. Her horns were smaller but sharper, swept back tight against her skull like natural weapons. Her eyes were cold and calculating, the eyes of someone who had killed before and would kill again without hesitation.
Most significantly, the female slave moved with confidence and economy of motion. Every step was deliberate and balanced. The way she held her wooden spear—a weapon identical to Velrith's—showed familiarity and competence. She was experienced in combat, experienced in killing, and she was now being ordered to fight a weak, barely-recovered opponent who could barely stand.
The instructor positioned them about fifteen feet apart in the sand. Other pairings were being arranged around the yard, but Velrith could only focus on the threat directly in front of her. The female demon slave stared at her with an expression of cold assessment, already calculating how to most efficiently end this fight.
"Same rules as before," the instructor announced to all the paired slaves. "Fight until one yields or falls unconscious. Winners eat tonight. Losers go hungry. Begin."
The moment the command was given, the female demon slave moved. There was no hesitation, no testing phase, no cautious probing. She simply attacked with immediate and overwhelming aggression.
She covered the distance between them in three running steps, her speed shocking and terrifying. The wooden spear in her hands came up and thrust forward in a straight, precise strike aimed directly at Velrith's throat. The attack was designed to kill—if the spear had been metal instead of wood, Velrith's throat would have been punctured and she would have drowned in her own blood within seconds.
Velrith's conscious mind had no time to process the attack or formulate a response. The strike was too fast, too precise. But something else took over—not conscious thought but pure survival instinct buried deep in her demonic body. Her muscles reacted before her brain could issue commands, driven by biological imperatives that had nothing to do with training or experience.
Her body twisted violently to the side, the movement sharp and desperate. The spear tip that had been aimed at her throat missed by inches, the wood passing so close that she felt the air displacement against her skin. The sudden sideways movement threw her off balance, and she stumbled in the sand, nearly falling. But the dodge had worked—barely.
The female demon did not pause or show surprise at the dodge. She simply adjusted, spinning the spear in her hands and bringing the opposite end around in a sweeping strike aimed at Velrith's ribs. The attack flowed smoothly from the first, part of a practiced combination that was designed to overwhelm defenders with continuous pressure.
Velrith tried to bring her own spear up to block, but she was too slow and too uncoordinated. The wooden shaft of her opponent's spear slammed into her left side with brutal force. The impact caught her ribs directly, the ones that had been bruised and partially healed from her previous beating. The pain was immediate and intense, a sharp crack audible over the sounds of combat happening around them.
At least two ribs broke, the bones fracturing under the impact. The sensation was of something giving way inside her chest, a structural failure that sent waves of agony radiating through her torso. Her breath caught, the pain making it almost impossible to inhale. Her vision darkened at the edges and her legs weakened, threatening to dump her onto the sand.
But she did not fall. Some stubborn part of her, some core of hate and determination that had been building since the void, refused to let her collapse. She staggered backward, trying to put distance between herself and her attacker, her broken ribs grinding together with each movement and sending fresh spikes of pain through her body.
The female demon pressed her advantage, moving forward to maintain close range. She thrust again, this time aiming for Velrith's center mass, a strike intended to wind her and set up a finishing blow. Velrith managed to knock the thrust aside with her spear, the action more luck than skill, and continued backing away across the sand.
The instructor's voice carried across the yard, addressing all the fighters but clearly meant for Velrith specifically. "Do not just defend! Attack! You must learn to hurt your enemy or you will die!"
The words penetrated Velrith's pain-fogged mind. He was right. Purely defensive action would accomplish nothing against a skilled opponent. She needed to attack, to pose some threat, even if that threat was minimal. But how? She had no training, no technique, no understanding of combat beyond what she had read in fantasy novels that now seemed childishly naive.
The female demon lunged again, her spear thrusting toward Velrith's stomach. Velrith twisted away, the movement sending fresh agony through her broken ribs. As she twisted, she saw an opening—her opponent was slightly off balance from the extended lunge, weight forward and momentarily committed to the attack.
Instinct took over again. Velrith's hands tightened on her spear and she swung it in a wild, desperate horizontal strike aimed at the female demon's head. The movement was clumsy and telegraphed, easily readable by an experienced fighter, but it was an attack rather than pure defense, and it came from an unexpected angle.
The female demon saw the strike coming and moved to block, bringing her spear up to intercept Velrith's weapon. The two wooden shafts collided with a sharp crack. The impact jarred Velrith's hands, sending painful vibrations up her arms, but she maintained her grip.
For a brief moment, the two spears were locked together, pressing against each other as both fighters struggled for control. Velrith found herself face to face with her opponent, close enough to see the cold calculation in those grey eyes, close enough to smell the sweat and blood that covered both their bodies.
The female demon was stronger and more experienced. She twisted her spear with practiced skill, using leverage to wrench Velrith's weapon to the side and create another opening. Then she drove her forehead forward in a brutal headbutt, her skull slamming into Velrith's face with bone-crushing force.
The impact was devastating. Velrith's nose shattered, the delicate cartilage and bone giving way completely under the force of the strike. Blood exploded from her nostrils, hot and thick, running down over her lips and chin. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike that seemed to pierce directly into her brain. Her eyes immediately began to water, tears mixing with the blood and making it impossible to see clearly.
The female demon followed up instantly, not giving Velrith any time to recover. She brought her knee up hard into Velrith's stomach, the strike driving deep into the soft tissue and forcing all the air from her lungs. Velrith doubled over, gasping for breath that would not come, her vision swimming with tears and blood.
Another strike came, the butt of the spear driven down onto the back of Velrith's neck. The blow was meant to drive her to the ground, to force submission or unconsciousness. Velrith felt her legs give out, her body finally reaching the limit of what it could endure. She fell forward onto the hot sand, landing hard on her hands and knees.
Blood poured from her shattered nose, creating a growing dark stain in the rust-colored sand beneath her face. She tried to see through the tears and blood that covered her eyes, but everything was a blur of red and shadow. She tried to breathe through her broken nose but only succeeded in inhaling blood, making her choke and cough. She was forced to breathe through her mouth, each gasp painful because of her broken ribs.
The female demon stood over her, spear raised for what would likely be the finishing strike. Around them, the sounds of other combats continued—wood striking wood, grunts of effort, cries of pain. But Velrith's world had narrowed to just this moment, this position of complete vulnerability, waiting for the blow that would end the fight.
The instructor's voice cut through the chaos. "Enough. Winner is clear. Next pairings."
The female demon lowered her spear, stepping back without a word or gesture of acknowledgment. She had won easily, dominantly, and without sustaining any injury. She moved off to join the group of victors, her expression never changing from that cold, calculating neutrality.
Velrith remained on her hands and knees in the sand, blood dripping from her face and creating a small pool beneath her. Her ribs screamed with every breath. Her nose was a source of constant, throbbing agony. Her vision was still blurred by blood and tears, making it difficult to see more than vague shapes and colors.
Guards approached and grabbed her by the arms, hauling her roughly to her feet. She stumbled, her legs barely supporting her weight, and had to be held up by the guards as they dragged her toward the side of the training yard where the other losers were being assembled. She was shoved into the group and released, nearly falling again before managing to catch herself.
Around her were the other slaves who had lost their matches. Some were in worse condition than Velrith, unconscious or barely conscious, bleeding from serious wounds. Others had gotten off lighter, showing bruises and minor cuts but remaining functional. All of them shared the same knowledge—they would not eat tonight. The punishment for losing was hunger, adding another layer of suffering to their already miserable existence.
Velrith stood swaying in the group of losers, blood still running freely from her shattered nose and dripping off her chin onto her chest. Her broken ribs made breathing a careful, painful process. The blood covering her eyes made everything appear as vague red shadows. She could taste copper and salt on her lips, feel the hot liquid running down her throat where she had inhaled it. The pain was overwhelming, a constant roar that dominated her awareness and made coherent thought almost impossible. She had lost badly, been completely outmatched by an opponent who had barely been challenged.
She had learned that her survival instinct could help her dodge a killing blow but could not make up for the vast gap in skill and experience. She had learned that the Arena would continue to match her against superior opponents, would continue to break her body piece by piece, until either she adapted and grew stronger or she died and fed the disposal chutes. The training yard continued around her, more pairings fighting, more violence unfolding, but Velrith could only stand there bleeding and shaking, her body reaching its limits once again, her mind cataloging every moment of pain and humiliation as fuel for the cold hate that continued to grow in her core.