Author's Nightmare: Chapter 172

Beam POV: Day 155

Current Wealth: 170 gold 21 silver 6 copper

I’d been having a very “Solitairish” afternoon. Which was to say, I’d been listening to a voice in my head and going where it told me to with the intent of hurting someone. In this case it sent me to some fighting ring, not a proper amphitheater like the one I’d competed in though. A smaller, derelict and shittier place that smelled of grunge, blood and sweat. I’d have called it underground, except it actually wasn’t illegal to horribly injure people for recreational purposes in this society. So it was just a sea-level arena. 

So this is where I’ll find my…Worthy opponent, feat?

Just watch.

Putting aside how chatty the voice was being today, perhaps a direct consequence of my cooperation, it had at least been giving good intel. I found my place in the ground, paid for my position and shouldered my way up to the front ranks just as a new fight started. A champion’s bout this time, though the challenger was actually bigger. Neither was particularly large by earth’s standards, and both were decently armed and armoured. Good steel, chainmail rather than plate. I figured that was a feature of the arena itself- these people seemed more interested in blood than sport. The bleeding began.

They were both good, actually. I tried to remember if I’d seen either in the Tourney, but couldn’t. If I had they’d probably have gotten to the second round. Or the champion would have, at least, the other guy…Well, he was a cut or two above average. Just not enough for this fight. 

It lasted maybe half a minute, and in that time easily fifty swings were exchanged. Sparks spat off the steel weapons, links of chain sprayed out like shrapnel from exploding shells. Both of them did their darndest to dismantle the other, but there could never have been any doubt about the outcome. 

The challenger went down in a spray of his own blood and mangledmanged armour, and the crowd went wild. I just watched as the fallen man hit the dirt and scrambled back, weapons discarded, defence forgotten, completely at the mercy of his opponent.

“I forfeit, I forfeit!” He cried out, hands held high and limbs shivering as he gestured for mercy. 

“He forfeits!” The champion laughed, looming over his beaten enemy and raising his weapon high. It was a nasty thing, a big, barbed mace that looked too heavy for most men to wield with both hands. This fighter had it in just the one, with his shield taking up the other. It came down like a guillotine blade, caving in the wounded man’s helmet and making a grizzly puddle of blood and brain matter all around him. 

The crowd seemed to approve. 

Fucking prick. I’d seen my fair share of executions- come to think of it, more than half had been done by one of my best friends- but this one still made my blood boil. It was the fucking pointlessness of it, the mindlessness. When Solitaire was a crazy psycho frothing at the mouth, it scared people. It got results. This was just…This was just madness.

You hate this man. The voice noted. You wish to hurt him.

Yeah, I do. No point hiding it, it would know even if I tried. 

Good, that will make what comes next easier. Fight him. Defeat him. Claim his spine for a trophy.

Jesus Christ. 

Well, as Solitaire used to say…Uh. Actually I didn’t think even he had a saying that applied to this specific situation. I guess it just goes to sho- oh, no, he did. “People with strong spines lose them once the vertebra start coming out”. Weirdo. Anyway, I hopped into the ring and started beating my chest to let the idiot know he was being challenged. 

He took umbrageumbridge with this, and began circling me. The crowd was thrilled of course, thrilled at first to see him fighting again- then, once a few recognised me- the thrill took on an altogether different note. I decided to strike fast. If the idiot realised he was fighting the dude who came in second at the Tourney, he might deny me a fight altogether.

My first swing was caught by his shield, which surprised me by surviving the effort. But then, I’d promised not to use any of my weapon conjuring, and thatand I that included armour. I was doing this practically uncovered. There was a risk here, of some kind. His mace came swinging to exploit it, missing me by a mile and countered as my heel crunched out for his gut. It hit a hip instead, almost breaking the bone and launching him back. His feet slid and scraped at the ground, his footing almost gave, and I was on him with another swing before he fully recovered.

He blocked this one too, but the physical force of it blasted him off his feet. I lunged before he even landed, sword coming down hard and splitting through chainmail like it wasn’t even there. His blood spurted up high just as the ground caught him, and he rolled back. He’d landed a good few metres from where he’d been first hit, and now it seemed even standing was a struggle for him. 

The crowd had gone silent, and I stalked towards the killer with the blood turning to slush in my veins.

“I forfeit.” He croaked.

Well, of course he did. That’s what you did when you feared death. This whole situation was reminding me of a similar one I’d seen, just a minute or two ago in fact. How had that ended again?

“You didn’t spare your opponent, why?” I asked. I was surprised by how quiet my own voice was, how soft. I was practically murmuring it, but he heard me well enough. The question terrified him, eyes widening, mouth gaping, body trembling. I gave him a good few seconds to respond.

Then I swung my rapier down. The light blade wasn’t made to hack through armour, but sheer strength and speed gave it the energy to cut through the man’s mailed shoulder and leave the corresponding arm completely useless. I tore it out amid another squirt of blood, then mangled the other limb. Then, while he was screaming, I kicked him over. 

My knife wasn’t exactly a surgical tool, and I wasn’t exactly a surgeon. Real life isn’t Mortal Kombat and if you try to tear a human spine out- even if you have the strength to do it all at once- you’re just gonna rip chunks off. So I extracted his more carefully, cutting around the bone and finally pulling it out amid a shell of sliced connective tissue and dripping nerves. 

It was one of the more disgusting things I’d ever done but…Honestly, at this point what did that even matter? You can only spend so much time hacking off limbs and watching cocks get bitten off before your stomach toughens up a bit. I straightened, standing tall and hoisting my gory prize high. 

“Beam Belahont killed this man!” I roared. “And this trophy is mine now!”

A silence ran out across the room, and I waited for the inevitable backlash. The explosion of disgust and scorn, the devastation of whatever reputation I’d been building. Part of me looked forwards to it, I was tired of being glorified for all the worst things I did. 

Then the cheering started. 

It stunned me at first, and I just stood there frowning, confused, waiting for everything to make sense. But it never did, because more and more people picked up the momentum. Soon my name was being called, fists were pounding the air, laughter was ringing out all while I stood there proudly displaying a dead man’s spine like some housecat with a dead rodent. I didn’t know what to say, think, or feel. So I stayed silent and still while I took it all in. My hands were still dirty with blood, ichor starting to crust and congeal, nostrils flooded with the reek of iron and life. 

And they were praising me for it, almost venerating me. 

You have won, my Champion. Victory is yours. Drink in the glory, feast upon it. Let it strengthen you.

Even the fucking voice in my head was agreeing with them. But somehow, as I held that mangled bit of tissue, I found my spirits actually lifting. There was something infectious about this, about seeing people cheer for the right person at least. If nothing else, worshippingelse worshipping the guy who ripped out a psycho’s spine was better than worshipping the psycho, right?

And it was necessary for my family. It was necessary.