An Irresistible Offer

"Fuck me.."

The worker hissed, eyes lighting up like a rat spotting gold.

"This ain't some slum-rat junk—look at that edge, that shine! Where'd you snag this beauty?"

He snatched the dagger closer, cradling it in his grimy hands, fingers tracing the runes like they were his own.

"Shit like this—mine now, yeah?"

He smirked, possessive, then punched a button on the cracked screen, barely glancing at Scrap.

The machine beeped, spitting out a tally: 150 points—a juicy pile for a slave, enough for food, gear, maybe a leg up. He slid a chipped plastic chit back through the slot, reluctant, like it pained him to let go.

"Take your damn points and fuck off."

Scrap grabbed the chit, stuffed it in his pocket, and turned away.

Training grounds next—same routine, sharper edge now with points to burn.

"Oi, stick!"

The same worker barked, leaning out from the grate.

Scrap paused, half-turning, eyes flat. The worker grinned, yellow teeth glinting.

"Your turn's up in the filler fights, yeah? Fuckin' Spectators can't wait five minutes without some blood to gawk at."

He snorted, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Up there bustin' to every swing, even while the next batch of meat shuffles in—bunch of needy pricks. Bet they'll love your quiet ass spillin' guts."

Scrap didn't blink, just stood there, letting the words bounce off. The worker kept yapping, leaning on the counter, spit flecking his chin.

"Keeps 'em happy, keeps me paid—bring me somethin' else shiny after, eh? Don't fuck it up."

A shuffle sounded behind Scrap—boots, low curses.

He glanced back: four slaves lined up, clutching dented chunks of armor—polished plates, scratched and bloody. Kazira's gear, ripped off her wreck and hauled here for points. No surprise there.

The worker's eyes darted past Scrap, greedy spark flaring again.

"Move it, ya mute bastard—line's pilin' up!"

He waved a hand, shooing Scrap off like a stray dog, already pawing at the next haul sliding through the slot.

Scrap turned, boots scuffing, and headed for the training grounds.

Filler fight coming—didn't change his stride. Points meant options now, and he'd use them.

He hit the training counter, a dented slab under a flickering bulb, same slumped worker behind it—bored, arms crossed, eyes half-shut. Scrap slid the chit through the slot, letting it clack against the metal, and opened his mouth, voice low, hard, like a blade unsheathed.

"Advanced."

"The fuck you say?"

The worker jolted, head snapping up, eyes bugging out like Scrap had spat in his face. He leaned forward, squinting at him.

"You—shit, you are actually capable of using that tight-as-fuck mouth? Since when? And advanced? You're slum trash, stick—basic's your lane!"

He snorted, then glanced at the chit, scanning the points. His jaw dropped a notch.

"Well—150?! Where'd you scrape that haul?"

Scrap just stared—flat, cold, waiting. The worker muttered under his breath, shaking his head, and punched the screen. It beeped, spitting out a sleek black card, edges chipped but glowing faintly.

"Forty points—don't bitch when it chews you up."

He flicked it through the slot, still eyeing Scrap like he'd grown horns.

Scrap took the card, turned, and stepped through the gate.

The Advanced training grounds opened up—wider, darker, stone walls scored with burns and cracks. Holo-pads hummed in the floor, air thick with a metallic tang. He swiped the card at a console, screen flickering:

[Artificial Enemy. Select Difficulty.]

His finger hovered, then stabbed down—Death Wish.

A ripple of light flared, and the hologram snapped into form—a hulking figure, seven feet of muscle and jagged steel.

Broad shoulders, arms like pistons, a spiked mace dangling from one fist. Its eyes glowed red, locking on Scrap.

The [Death Wish] tag pulsed on the screen—fast, relentless, no mercy.

Scrap dropped into a stance, wooden sword up, boots planted. The thing charged, mace swinging for his skull, air whistling with the force.

Scrap sidestepped, quick as a whip. The mace smashed the ground, sparks flying, a crater denting the floor. He pivoted, eyes locked on the thing's shoulders—tension there, telegraphing the next move.

It spun, mace whipping sideways, and Scrap ducked low, feeling the wind rip past his ear. Too close.

He lunged, sword slashing up, aiming for the armpit—soft spot, weak joint. The wood cracked against steel plating, jarring his wrists, but the hologram flinched, mace dipping an inch.

It swung again, overhead, predictable.

Scrap rolled left, stone biting his shoulder, and sprang up, darting behind. The thing's back was exposed—broad, plated, but slow to turn. He thrust, sword tip ramming the spine's base, wood splintering against metal. A glitch flickered in its frame, red eyes dimming, then flaring brighter.

It roared, twisting fast—faster than he'd clocked—and the mace caught his ribs.

Pain exploded, white-hot, air punched out of him. Scrap staggered, boots slipping, one hand clutching his side—wet, warm, blood seeping through his shirt. The hit was solid, ribs bruised, maybe cracked. He sucked a ragged breath, vision blurring, but kept moving.

The hologram pressed, mace swinging wild, a flurry of arcs. Scrap dodged right, too slow—spikes grazed his arm, tearing skin, blood spraying the stone. He stumbled, knee hitting the ground, sword wobbling in his grip.

It loomed, mace raised, victory in its glitchy snarl.

Scrap's head snapped up, eyes narrowing—pattern locked. Left shoulder dipped before every swing, right leg braced too long.

He rolled forward, pain screaming in his ribs, and slashed up—wood cracking the knee joint, forcing a stagger. The mace dropped, off-balance, and Scrap surged, speed back, slamming the sword into its chest plate. A hollow thunk, then a screech as the hologram flickered, red eyes stutters.

It swung a fist, clumsy, and Scrap weaved, boots sliding, blood dripping from his arm. He struck again—throat, fast, precise—wood splintering more, digging into the hologram's neck seam.

It lurched, mace flailing, and Scrap danced back, then in, slashing the wrist, the elbow, every angle he'd mapped. The thing's arm locked, mace clattering free, and Scrap drove the sword into its gut—hard, final.

The hologram froze, glitched hard, and burst apart in a shower of light, gone.

Scrap stood there, chest heaving, blood pooling under his boots—arm gashed deep, ribs throbbing, shirt soaked red. He staggered, one step, two, then caught himself, leaning on the sword like a crutch.

The console beeped, screen flashing:

[Death Wish—Cleared.]

He spat blood onto the stone, wiped his mouth, and straightened, slow, sword back on his shoulder.

The console whirred again, a slot spitting out a small copper statue—crudely shaped, a thumbs-up, edges rough but gleaming faintly.

Scrap stared at it, breath ragged, then snatched it with his good hand, stuffing it into his pocket. Didn't toss it, didn't question it—just took it, too damn tired to care. He sank to the ground, resting his back against a stone, legs splayed.

Deep breaths rasped out, each one stabbing his ribs, blood dripping steady from his arm onto the stone. He glanced at the mess—torn skin, bruises blooming—then away, eyes half-shut, not moving yet.

Then, out of nowhere, a shadow slid across the floor, tall and liquid, boots silent on the stone. Scrap's head tilted, just enough.

She stepped into the light—lean and wiry, draped in a tattered cloak that rippled like oil. Her hair hung dark and jagged, framing a face too sharp, too still, lips curled in a grin that didn't touch her eyes—bright, unblinking, like a predator playing nice.

She moved with a sway, hips loose, hands tucked in her cloak, every step screaming wrong.

"Nice little dance, quiet boy."

She stopped, looming over him, head cocked.

"I watch them all, you know—every fight, every swing. Sometimes from up there."

She flicked a finger toward the dark rafters.

"Sometimes close enough to smell the blood."

Her grin widened, teeth flashing.

"Gotta check the meat, see who's worth a damn. And you—you ain't the usual good-for-nothing trash they drag in here, are you?"

Scrap didn't move, just breathed, slow and heavy, eyes locked on her boots. She crouched, elbows on her knees, leaning in—too close, her breath sour with something sharp.

"Most of them flail and die, scream loud, bleed fast. Boring as fuck. But you—"

She chuckled, low, like a secret.

"You cut smart, move quick, take a beating and keep standing. That's something. Got my eye twitching now."

She straightened, still grinnin, still yappin.

"Wonder how long you'll last, huh? Filler fights ain't shit, but they'll throw worse at you."

"Bet they will."

"Bet I'll be watching when they do."

Her eyes glinted, playful, dangerous, like she'd already seen him gutted and liked the picture.

Scrap shifted, one hand pressing his ribs, blood smearing his fingers. Didn't answer. Just breathed, waiting her out.

She straightened, cloak swaying, then paced—slow, deliberate, circling him like a vulture. Her grin faded, eyes narrowing, voice dropping low.

"That's enough small talk for now. Time to get to it—why I'm here."

She stopped, planting one foot on a cracked holo-pad, leaning forward, hands on her hips.

"You're clawing to get strong, yeah? Before that filler fight chews you up. I see it—quiet little killer, sharpening himself.."

She kicked off the pad, stalking closer as she gestured sharp with one hand.

"I've got an irresistible offer for you. New bastard's climbing the Main Leaderboard—Krenvar, they call him. Big fucker, skin like molten glass, all sharp edges and heat."

"A Skothir—born in fire-pits, bleed lava when you cut 'em. Spectators are drooling—pact offers piling up for The Choosing. He's strutted into the next Event, chest puffed, thinking he's untouchable."

She leaned in again, grin back, teeth bared like a blade.

"Give him a death—slow, nasty, fucking torturous. Rip him open, let him scream, make it last."

"Do that, and I'll aide you in your training. Get you ready to gut anything they throw."

She straightened, arms crossed, pacing once more, voice dropping to a hiss.

"What do you say, quiet boy? Deal's on the table."

Scrap sucked a slow breath, then pushed up—slow, deliberate. His arm hung limp, gashed deep, shirt clinging wet with red, but he stood, swaying just a beat before steadying.

He looked up, eyes flat, locking on hers, and spoke—voice low, firm.

"Forty."

She blinked, grin faltering, head tilting sharp.

"Excuse me?"

Her voice spiked, half-laugh, half-snarl as she stepped closer.

"Points."

He was practically a walking corpse, but he'd squeeze profit from it.

She stared, then laughed.

"Fuck me, you're a greedy little shit, ain't you?"

She didn't spit it—grinned wider, eyes glinting, impressed, not pissed.

"Half-dead and still haggling. Balls on you, quiet boy."

She sauntered up, close—too close—her cloak brushing his boots, sour breath hot on his face. Her hand shot out, palm smacking his cheek, rough but steady, fingers cold against his skin.

"We've got a deal then."

Her grin stretched, feral, and the air shifted—thick, heavy. Black tendrils spilled from her cloak, oily and slick, writhing like smoke made solid. They snaked around Scrap, fast, coiling up his legs, his chest, his arms—cold, wet, clinging like tar.

He didn't flinch, just breathed, feeling it seep in. The gash on his arm burned, then dulled—skin stitching shut, raw edges pulling tight, blood crusting over. His ribs ached less, a sharp stab fading to a thud, chest loosening as the oil sank deep.

Strength crept back, slow, steady—not whole, but enough, like a machine grinding back to life.

The black.. whatever.. yeah, it pulsed once, then peeled away, slithering back into her cloak. She stepped back, three paces, grin still sharp, hands on her hips.

"Perk of the deal, quiet boy—keeps you kicking for the killing."

She dug in her pocket, flicked a chit—40 points stamped on it—across the stone. It skidded to his feet, glinting dull under the bulbs.

"Krenvar's yours. Slow. Brutal. Make it hurt. I'll be watching."

Scrap bent, slow, snagging the chit with blood-streaked fingers, pocketing it next to the copper statue. He straightened, sword back on his shoulder, eyes steady—no nod, no thanks, just done.