First came biting cold, then the world shifted and Bob was yanked sideways into darkness. This time, it was not silent nor empty. It was.. busy. As if viewing the world from behind closed eyelids while sunlight tries to claw its way in. Then code-script and glyphs flickered past like cascading meteor-showers: error strings, hash values, fragmented file-paths blinking out of existence as fast as they appeared. Beneath it all, barely brushing the edges of awareness, a steady sound pulsed. ‘Beep. Beep. Beep.’ Mechanical, clinical and painfully out of place. Somewhere far beyond this cracked space, a scent teased at Bob’s mind. Mouthwash? No, focus!
"Mortals." an unfamiliar voice hissed, unmoored from air and vibrating along the spine of reality. "Always bargaining with pieces they do not own."
Bob tried to speak, but the words caught somewhere between thought and breath. A grasp tightened. Not around his throat, that would have been mercy. Instead, it clenched around something deeper: the scaffold of his existence.
"You, however, intrigue us." the voice murmured, curving into part-time admiration, if coded gods knew such things. "Despite all odds your ledger remains untallied. Will you continue to defy our design? You.. A mere glitch wearing meat. Go on then. Prove what your soul can truly undo."
And just like that Bob plummeted until his back slammed onto fine grit. Above, the busy dark warped. For one nauseating instant, his senses caught a glimpse of elsewhere: Sterile flicker of white light. The faint outline of a bed. A beeping that refused to die.
WTF? One reality at a time, mate.
[System] Soul-latch activated. Pocket dimension entered. Quest: Fight to the death. Reward: The victor shall return to the living.
.. Restoring basic resources.
.. [HP: 20, SP: 20, MP: 5]
.. Removing and storing gear.
He opened his eyes. A quick gaze confirmed the truth: everything Bob had worn was gone and replaced by a single strip of linen, cinched to his hips with coarse twine.
Paint on some dots and that is one hell of a call back.
Across the circle of sand etched in living white flame the Emperor stood waiting. He was clad in equally meager wrap. At Least ten feet tall. Shoulders wide as a portcullis framed a torso latticed with scars. Hair spilled past his collarbone, the mask nowhere in sight. His uncovered eyes gleamed like hammered steel fresh from the forge, unblinking, unreadable.
Flanking them both, iron racks towered like cathedral organs, every tier sagging beneath the impossible weight of countless weaponry. Falchions were scything the air, bolas lay coiled beside tower shields, spears had nested among rapiers and great-bows carved from black yew. Each master-craft whispered of crimson thirst - the museum of murder awaiting its curators.
The Emperor was a bored gourmand sampling wine. A zweih?nder whistled through an elegant practice arc, then clanged back onto the rack. A great-hammer rose, fell, ‘thud’, abandoned. A poleaxe followed, discarded with a sigh that sounded older than dynasties.
Bob flexed his solitary arm. The limb prickled with phantom weight where its twin used to be; fingers flutter-tested the air.
“Choose your weapon wisely,” the Emperor said - less an order than a favor, as though they were strangers browsing a market stall instead of prisoners of fate. His tone, stripped of the ceremonial veil, surprised Bob: almost conversational, definitely tired.
“You really can’t hide disappointment well, can you.” Bob observed, championing sarcasm over terror. “Does running an empire not offer much in ‘sparring variety’?”
His opponent chuckled, a human sound, startling in its warmth. “To rule is to rot by inches. It is a long, drawn out war, with none of the obligations tasting like real battle. A century of victory parades earned from my throne room - and I am.. starving.” His eyes tracked the racks the way wolves track deer. “Your stunt.. You have shown this old warrior a spark of a fight that matters. I doubt it will be more than that.”
Bob flapped his lone arm like a broken hinge and nodded at the two-handed axe the Emperor had just gripped. “Truth. In my state I can’t even shoulder one of those overgrown can openers.”
The Emperor ignored the jab. “A duel to the death is honest mathematics. An Honour we bestow upon one another: two variables and one solution.”
“Great stuff man.” Bob gazed at the racks. “Throw me a dagger and you a toothpick; then we’ll talk about honour and variables.”
The Emperor’s brows knit, not in anger but reflection. He let the axe drop, stepped away from the arsenal and exhaled like a man laying down a crown no one else could lift.
“You are correct,” he conceded. “A warrior measures himself against equals, not advantages. A staged slaughter is still a slaughter.”
He planted his feet, gripped his own right biceps, and pulled. Cartilage popped like corks. Muscle peeled with a soggy rip. Dark blood sheeted down the granite planes of his torso before his wound healed shut in a matter of seconds.
Fuck me! Psycho-Adonis.
The severed arm hit the sand with the hush of falling silk. The Emperor rolled his remaining shoulder, calm as a blacksmith testing new tongs. “No crutches,” he rumbled. “or borrowed edges. One arm each.”
Bob’s stomach executed an Olympic cartwheel. Self-amputation as sportsmanship? New patch notes just dropped. “Adorable symmetry. Give us matching swim caps and we’re ready for a Paralympic team-up.
The Emperor smiled. A bit of amusement, a ton of hunger. Without further words he exploded forward closing twenty paces in two heartbeats. Bob dodge-rolled right, creating distance.
[SP: 19/20]
Wind howled as a single-armed punch cratered through sand and basalt - the top layers of floor fracturing like ice on a pond. A split second of breathing time followed the assault. Bob grinned through the sweat. The Emperor might hit like a siege engine, but that kind of power came with a rhythm Bob was trained in exploiting.
Fast. Powerful. Leaves openings. I can dance with this.
Bob went for the weapons, eyes scanning the glittering chaos of metal. A dagger. Perfect, light, fast, familiar. But then he saw another option: a main-gauche, nestled between curved blades and broken promises.
Maybe this game has parry windows. That could mean..
Bob grabbed the main-gauche and tucked it behind his back, feigning uncertainty. “Alright,” he called across the arena, voice steady. “You win. I’ve picked my weapon. Now it’s your turn.”
The Emperor gave a solemn nod. He stepped forward and selected a gladius: short, sturdy, balanced. A soldier’s blade. No flair or frills, just pure lethality. He closed the distance between them in long, deliberate strides and lunged into a wide, sweeping slash.
Now. ‘Parry!’
[SP: 18/20]
Bob caught the blade on the angled quillon, deflecting the damage, force pushing him back a few feet. My timing is off; Too early and too shallow.
The Emperor stepped back, eyes narrowing as he examined his gladius.
“You.. Still stand.” the Emperor said, tone cool. “If you can stop my strike again this may yet become interesting.”
Without warning, the Emperor surged forward in a combo. ‘Left slash, Right slash. Stab’. Each movement faster than the last.
‘Parry! Parry! Dodge-roll!’ .. SP: 15/20.. Bob barely kept pace. His heart was hammering. His muscles burned. But;
I almost had it. One more exchange. I’ll nail it next time. Come at me, big guy.
The Emperor tilted his head, then dropped the gladius with a casual shrug. He strode back to the rack, letting fingers trail across hilts and hafts. Then, he made his selection. A simple long spear. He gave it a few lazy jabs into the air, testing weight and reach when wielded one-handed. Then he shifted his stance and grinned.
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Bob’s instincts flared. “Oh, fuck-” ‘Blood.. ’
Too late. The Emperor had already leapt, and with inhuman precision, hurled the spear like divine punishment: A surprise throw. Mid-duel. No wind-up or warning. I LOVE this game!
The steel-tip punched straight through Bob’s shoulder.
[HP: 6/20]
He screamed in pain through clenched teeth, body writhing, blood flowing down the wooden shaft pooling on top soaked grit. The weapon pulsed with residual energy, pinning him like an insect in a display case.
The Emperor walked, unhurried, toward the racks, pausing only to select a flail. He tested it with a lazy rotation, iron spheres clinking like bells tolling doom.
Bob had to free himself fast. ‘Arcane Dash’ and pain exploded. The world lurched as unseen force yanked him off the embedded spear, body shooting forward.. [HP: 5/20].. Agony tore through his shoulder like wildfire as he hit the ground hard. He blinked, and the flail came down like a falling star.
‘Dodge-roll!’
[System] Dodge-roll from prone: Stamina cost x2.. SP: 13..
He barely escaped as the flail cratered the floor behind him.
“You move well for someone who is broken.” The Emperor acknowledged.
Bob rose, swaying. One arm gone, the other almost useless. He couldn’t swing it anymore, yet somehow his hand still gripped the main gauge. He mustered all his strength to raise it, butt of the handle pressed against his own chest. Right. Parrying a flail, and in this state, is damn near impossible. Exactly what made it mandatory.
The Emperor advanced and the dance began; ‘Swing, Dodge, Combo, Dodge x3, Swing..
“ARRRRGHHHGFFF!”
.. Perfect parry!’
Steel met chain in impeccable timing. The Emperor blinked, genuinely stunned by his own hubris; flail spun from hand and clattered across the arena.
[System] Void Emperor Staggered. 2s.
Now.
Bob lunged. ‘Arcane Dash.’ He closed the distance instantly, the main-gauche plunged toward the Emperor’s chest. It struck home, jamming into the top-layer of skin.
DAMN IT! Not.. far.. enough.. More force. ‘Arcane Dash, Arcane Dash, Arcane Dash.. ARCANE DASH!’
Each yank drove the blade deeper, until momentum, and mana-pool finally failed.
The Emperors eyes had widened, body dropping to his knees. Blood flooded his mouth as his head slumped forward curtained by his crown of hair.
“Got you in the heart.” Bob rasped. Time to double-tap this bastard.
Before he could act a hand snapped around his throat.
The Emperor’s voice came guttural, low and cruel. “Did you think it would be that easy? You forgot to pull out your tiny little poker. My heart.. merely beats around it.”
Bob choked, fingers clawing at the weapon still buried in the Emperor’s chest. He yanked. Once. Twice. It wouldn’t budge.
Shit.
Then a familiar voice - dry, amused - echoed in his mind. “Okay, okay. I’ll admit it. This is the perfect time for some proper tool use.”
With a metallic ‘clink’, Rebar appeared in his hand and Bob didn’t hesitate. He locked the crowbar against the hilt of the main-gauche, braced at foot against the emperor's thigh and used his leverage.
‘CRACK!’
The blade tore free from the Emperor’s chest, beating heart still attached. The massive figures eyes went hollow with disbelief. Blood gushed from the open wound like water from a burst dam.
The Emperor coughed, sputtering words: “Good fight, Champion.” He let go of Bob’s throat and fell onto his back.
Bob stood, locking eyes with the felled giant, Rebar gripped in hand. “Yeah. No. Alys, the others.. they didn’t deserve that shit.”
The Emperor gazed skywards, something unreadable flickering in his steel-grey eyes.
Bob took a step forward. “Those visions. The hospital. The voice in the void. Was that your tricks too?”
‘Pause.’
“Champion.. I do not know what you speak.” The Emperor’s voice had lost its edge. “This is where I end.” And then he crumbled, the body gusting into sand, grain by grain, until nothing remained but ripples of echoes. At the center of the arena, a rift split open, a jagged hole in reality.
[System] Secret Boss defeated. Updating progress: 4/7. Victory achieved. Rewards pending.
The rift pulsed once, like a heartbeat, and opened wide. Bob went through it and returned to the colosseum.
[System] Tier 5 Vault Accessible. Claim your rewards, and may you bear them well..
.. Curses pooling.. curses returning to owners..
Bob's breath came ragged, body trembling. The warmth of a worthy battle still echoed in his bones. Caleb and Jem were the first to reach him, their silhouettes barely holding shape beneath fatigue. They grabbed for him, steadying his core with urgency.
“What happened? He took you somewhere.. and you beat his ass.. Are you alright?” Caleb inquired.
“I’m.. good,” Bob muttered and forced himself from their grasp and faced Axe-Dad with a stern look. “Boss’s dead. PvP’s off.”
The big man, punctured, bruised, but still standing, looked from Bob to the others, and gave a slow, approving nod. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Whatever the hell you just pulled off certainly sealed the deal. Good job.”
Bob didn’t need his recognition.
Twitchy swayed forward, eyes bloodshot but sparkling with manic glee. “Almost good on my end too,” she said with a grin. From her satchel, she pulled a small linen-wrapped flask, tied off with a crooked shoelace bow. “For you. A small parting gift from my personal stash of revelries and experiments.”
He accepted it hesitantly, eyeing the gift with suspicion. “Thanks.”
Twitchy began backing away. Something about her smile fractured, too wide, too still. And then he remembered:
The deal.
Her face twitched. Real fear now. “Throw it away,” she whispered. “Now.”
‘POOF!’
The flask exploded into a plume of green smoke, swallowing Bob whole. His limbs wound tight. Muscles stopped listening. His vision dimmed to grey static. Distantly, through the rush in his ears, he heard Twitchy laughing, high-pitched, giddy, unhinged.
[System] De-buff acquired: Paralyzed. 2m 59s.. 58s.
Axe-Dad’s voice cut through next: “Run guys. I’ll get the bitch.”
‘Three thunderous booms.’
‘Three screams of agony.’
The toxic fog dispersed in a single, shivering breath of air. The paralysis still locked Bob’s body to an invisible crucifix - Time slowed to a merciless crawl.
Jem and?Caleb were no longer people - just an obscene constellation of meat and bone drifting through a murky red tide like macabre confetti. Axe-Dad thrashed nearby; limbs blown to stumps. His torn face pawed the surface, begging for help his lungs could no longer claim. A final, pleading look found Bob’s eyes before the large man sank into silence.
Across the arena, Twitchy blew Bob a jaunty kiss - half tease, half epitaph - and slipped through a newly yawned fissure in the wall: the vault.
Something moved on the imperial dais.
The late Emperor’s Bride drifted toward Bob, her gown unspooling across the rising water like a bridal train woven from moonlight. Cradled on a velvet pillow resting in her arm; a crown as black as a collapsed star. Threads and fabric raised her petite frame as she lowered the crown onto Bob’s head until cold metal kissed his skull.
“Thank you,” she whispered, expression hidden behind her mask.
Tendrils erupted and coiled around her ankles, yanking her into the depths. A single ripple marked her passing; then that too was gone.
[Item acquired]?Void?Crown, Unique, Bonus (Active): Compel target of Medium size or smaller into a pocket-dimension duel. Usage: Once per encounter.
.. Paralysis:?2?seconds.. 1?second..
Sorry guys. At least you’ll respawn.
He waded toward the vault, vengeance pulling his strings. Inside, 6 stone plinths waited in cathedral stillness, five crowned with radiant Path Orbs: his own towered with 5, the others glimmered 3?|?3?|?1?|?1. The sixth plinth was empty: Claimed unique?
And there, abandoned in the corner, lay Twitchy. Or what remained. Her body, desiccated to parchment skin and twig bones, curled like a discarded marionette in the steadily climbing water. Ecstasy - pure, terrifying - was frozen on her face. Around her throat, Bob’s old amulet Mandi Bling hung, jade colour pulsing with crimson filament and quiet triumph.
As Bob stepped closer, the clasp clicked open with a wet ‘snick.’ The necklace dropped into the water, bobbing, then floated free, drifting toward him like a famished leech returning to its master.
“Alright, alright. I get it,” Bob muttered, watching the amulets lazy glide. “You’ve chosen ‘our’ path, huh? You took care of.. her.. Guess I’ll take care of you.”
.. ‘Mandi-Bling equipped’ ..
It pulses - Warm, possessive - before settling against his chest with a 'purr’ish' screech.
“Take notes, Rebar. That’s what real gear-loyalty looks like.”
“Pff, none taken,” the crowbar quipped, its metal shivering with mock offense. “I’m still letting you wrap those sweaty mitts around my handle, aren’t I? Count your blessings, bro.”
Bob snorted, but a question still gnawed at him. “Seriously. How did you dodge the system’s locker? That pocket dimension was supposed to strip everything.”
Rebar gave a low, rolling chuckle, like a prank rattling in a tin can. “You mean why I wasn’t shelved with the rest of your disposable trinkets?” The crowbar vibrated, resonance thrumming through Bob’s bones. “Simple, champ: I’m not gear anymore.”
Bob arched a brow. “Then what?”
“I’m a Bar-God, baby!” Rebar crowed. “Ready to drop hot, reverberatin’ rhythm-slang on any fool who doubts my divinity. Now c’mon-let’s riff this vault to pieces and bounce!”
