Chapter 2: The Currency of Flesh

Chapter 2: The Currency of Flesh

Year: 296 AC

The silence in the pit was a held breath, a moment of collective shock that stretched for an eternity. The roar of the bloodthirsty crowd had died, replaced by a low, murmuring hum of disbelief and awe. They had come for a spectacle of brutal, predictable violence, and they had gotten something else entirely. They had witnessed an execution, yes, but also a metamorphosis.

I stood over the hollowed-out corpse of the brute called Gurn, the borrowed axe feeling like a natural extension of my arm. The warmth of his life still thrummed under my skin, a vibrant, stolen energy that had banished my former self—the weak, terrified software developer—to a distant memory. My mind was a razor, slicing through the new sensations. The strength in my limbs was a solid, reassuring presence. The brawler's instincts Gurn had spent a lifetime accumulating were now a part of me, a violent library of motion and reflex I could access at will.

My gaze lifted, sweeping over the sea of stunned faces. I saw them not as individuals, but as a field of wheat ready for harvest. Each person was a flickering candle of vitality, some brighter, some dimmer. The fat merchant in the front row, his life-thread a greasy yellow; the hard-faced Gold Cloak, his a steady, disciplined orange; the ragged urchin who'd snuck in, a faint, desperate blue. They were all potential. All fuel.

The spell was broken by the heavy, unlatching groan of the gate. The two guards who had dragged me here entered the pit, their approach hesitant, their clubs held uncertainly. Their expressions were no longer filled with contemptuous superiority, but with a new, wary respect. Fear. I could smell it on them. The human animal is exquisitely sensitive to shifts in the predator-prey dynamic.

Behind them, at the edge of the pit, stood the man in the silk vest. He was fat, as so many men of minor, ill-gotten authority are, with sweat-sheened jowls and small, greedy eyes that were now fixed on me with an intensity that was almost physical. This was the pit boss. This was my owner.

For now.

"Get the body out of there," he barked, his voice a wheezing rasp. His eyes never left me. "And you," he pointed a sausage-like finger in my direction. "Drop the axe."

My first instinct, a primal surge of dominance born from Gurn's absorbed aggression, was to refuse. To hold the weapon that had given me my first taste of real power. But the cold, analytical part of my mind, the part that had read the books and knew the long game, took control. Defiance now would be stupid. It would earn me a beating, or worse, mark me as uncontrollably dangerous. I needed to appear manageable. A fearsome beast, yes, but one that could be leashed.

With a deliberate, almost casual motion, I let the heavy axe fall. It thudded into the blood-soaked sand, a punctuation mark on my first kill. I showed them my empty hands, my posture relaxed but ready. I was letting them believe they were in control.

The guards scurried forward, grabbing Gurn's strangely light corpse by the arms and legs. They struggled more than they should have, their disgust at the body's unnatural state warring with their fear of me. They hauled the husk out of the pit, leaving a shallow trench in the sand.

"Come," the pit boss commanded.

I walked towards the gate, my steps steady, my senses alive. The stench of the pit no longer bothered me; it was just another data point in this new, visceral world. As I passed through the gate, the crowd began to stir, finding their voices again. Shouts and questions filled the air. They were trying to make sense of what they'd seen. A new name was being chanted, tentatively at first, then with more vigor. Not my name, but a title born of their crude observations.

"The Husk!" "Husk!" "Husk!"

They had no idea how accurate they were.

The pit boss, Malko, as I would learn his name was, led me not back to the squalid cell, but up a short flight of rickety wooden stairs to a chamber overlooking the arena. It was his office, a small, cluttered room that smelled of spiced wine, sweat, and coin. A heavy oak table dominated the space, covered in parchments and pouches. A single, grimy window offered a view of a narrow, filth-strewn alleyway.

The two guards stood by the door, their hands on their clubs. They were trying to be intimidating, but I could feel the thrum of their fear. My power, whatever it was, had left an indelible mark on their psyche.

Malko poured two cups of deep red wine from a flagon. He pushed one across the table to me. I didn't move to take it. Poison was a common tool in King's Landing, and I was taking no chances.

He seemed to understand, a greasy smile spreading across his face. "It's not poisoned, boy. You're worth more to me alive than you have been for the last hour." He took a deep gulp from his own cup, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Far more."

I remained silent, my eyes fixed on him, my expression a carefully constructed mask of wary neutrality. I was cataloging everything. The way he spoke, the slight tremor in his hand that suggested a man who drank too much, the ledger on his desk that was likely filled with his finances. Information was power, and I intended to accumulate it just as voraciously as I accumulated life force.

"You fought well," Malko continued, leaning back in his creaking chair. "Or rather, you didn't. You fought like a cornered rat. But you won. And that… that ending…" He shivered, despite the stuffy heat of the room. "What you did to Gurn. I've never seen a body look like that. Like a wineskin after a long feast. The crowd loved it. They are terrified, and they are fascinated. And that, my boy, is the secret to making coin in this business."

He leaned forward, his small eyes gleaming with avarice. "Where did you come from? The story was a shipwreck. Some merchant captain sold you to my men for the price of a night with a cheap whore. Said you were babbling in a strange tongue at first. What are you?"

Here was the first test. The first move in a new game. My old identity was gone. Alex the software developer was dead. In his place was the Husk, the killer. I needed a new narrative, a simple one that was difficult to disprove.

"I don't remember," I said, my voice low and raspy. I let a flicker of confusion touch my features. "A blow to the head. I remember a ship. A storm. Then… waking up in your cell."

It was close enough to the truth to be believable. Amnesia was a convenient cloak.

Malko studied me, stroking his fleshy chin. "Convenient. No name?"

I thought for a moment. Alex was too foreign. I needed something simple, something that fit this world but held a private meaning. I thought of the void I had fallen through to get here, the utter emptiness between worlds.

"They called me Void," I lied, the name tasting strange and powerful on my tongue. It was a secret nod to my own impossible origins.

"Void," Malko repeated, savoring it. "Mysterious. I like it. It has a ring. Void the Husk." He grinned. "We can sell that."

He drained his cup and slammed it down on the table. "Alright, Void. Here are the new terms of your existence. You no longer sleep in the common cage. You will have a private cell. You will get better food. You will be kept healthy. In return, you will fight when I tell you to fight, and you will win. You will create a spectacle. You will make me very, very rich. Do you understand?"

I gave a slow, deliberate nod. Compliance was my shield. For now.

"Good," he grunted. "You're a valuable property. Don't try to run. There's nowhere in this city a man like you can hide. Every Gold Cloak, every gang, every cutthroat would sell you back to me for the right price. This pit is your world now. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life will be."

He gestured to the guards. "Take him to the East Cell. Get him cleaned up and fed. He fights again in two days."

The guards led me away, their demeanor markedly different. They kept a respectful distance, their eyes averted. I was no longer scum; I was Malko's champion, a monster to be handled with care.

The East Cell was a marginal improvement. It was larger, cleaner, and had a pile of relatively fresh straw for a bed. Crucially, it was isolated. I was alone. For the first time since my awakening, I had a moment to truly think, to process the cataclysmic shift in my reality without the immediate threat of death.

I sat on the straw, the phantom strength of Gurn a comforting hum in my muscles. I closed my eyes and focused inward, exploring the changes. It wasn't just strength. It was a change in my very structure. My once-soft hands felt calloused and hard. My posture, which had always been a slight slouch from years at a desk, was now ramrod straight, my center of gravity lower, more balanced. I felt the instinctual knowledge of how to block a blow, how to spot an opening, how to kill with brutal efficiency.

My power. I needed to understand it. It was a complete absorption. Not just the abstract concept of 'strength', but the physical, biological reality of it. It had repaired the damage to my own body and then reinforced it, overwriting my weakness with Gurn's brawn. I had taken his life, his vitality, his physical prowess, and his skills, leaving behind an empty vessel. It was vampiric, but far more absolute.

Not memories, the user request had specified in my old life. The thought came unbidden, a ghost of a memory from another existence. And it was true. I had no echo of Gurn's thoughts or feelings. I felt no remorse for killing him, no connection to him as a person. He was simply a resource I had consumed. The coldness of that realization didn't frighten me. It empowered me. Emotion was a liability. Attachment was a weakness. My old self might have been horrified. The new me, the one forged in the pit, saw only the beautiful, brutal logic of it.

Kill. Absorb. Ascend.

My mind, now sharp and clear, turned to strategy. My goal was godhood. A ridiculous, insane ambition. But in a world with dragons and ice zombies and shadow babies, was it truly? My power was a direct path to personal apotheosis. I was a singularity in this world.

But godhood was the end of a very long road. I needed to map the first few miles.

Phase One: Dominate the Pit.

This was my current reality. I was a slave, a gladiator. My first priority was to become so valuable, so unbeatable, that Malko wouldn't risk me in a fair fight. I would become his legend, his cash cow. This would grant me better treatment, more information, and a degree of control over my situation. To do this, I needed to keep winning. And each win would make me stronger, creating a feedback loop of escalating power. I would choose my opponents carefully, if I was ever given a choice. I didn't just need brute strength. I needed speed, agility, weapon skills. I would hunt for attributes.

Phase Two: Escape and Establish a Base.

Slavery was untenable. At some point, when I was strong enough, I would have to leave the pit. Killing Malko and his guards would be the final act. I would need to do it cleanly and disappear into the chaos of King's Landing. I would need money, a new identity, and a secure location. My knowledge from the books was paramount here. I knew the city's layout, its factions, its hidden paths. Littlefinger's brothels were cash cows. The black market thrived in Flea Bottom. I could use my powers to become the perfect thief or assassin to build a resource base.

Phase Three: The Great Game.

This was the long-term vision. Once I was established and powerful, I could begin to influence the world. I knew what was coming. The War of the Five Kings. The return of dragons. The Long Night. These were not threats to me; they were opportunities. A battlefield was a feast. An army of the dead was a banquet of power waiting to be consumed.

I could target key individuals. Ser Gregor Clegane, "The Mountain." Imagine absorbing his monstrous size and strength. A master swordsman like Ser Barristan Selmy, or even a younger, less experienced Jaime Lannister. What would their legendary skill feel like when added to my own? And what of magic? Qyburn was in this city, a disgraced maester dabbling in necromancy. What secrets, what essence, did he hold? Could I absorb his intellect, his knowledge of forbidden arts? Varys and his network of "little birds"—each one a small spark of life, but also a repository of information and skills in espionage.

My ambition was cold and vast. I would not be a hero. I would not choose a side. The Starks, the Lannisters, the Targaryens—they were all pieces on a board I intended to flip over. My only allegiance was to my own ascension. I would become a force of nature, a walking cataclysm, and I would feast on the chaos of this world until I was strong enough to unmake and remake it in my own image.

A guard brought me a bowl of watery stew with a chunk of greasy meat in it and a wooden cup of water. It was disgusting, but it was sustenance. As I ate, I felt the absorbed vitality from Gurn working, efficiently converting the meager meal into usable energy. My body was now a hyper-efficient engine.

Two days passed in a haze of focused waiting. I spent the time exercising, testing the limits of my new body. I did push-ups until the stone floor should have been slick with my sweat, but I barely felt the strain. I practiced the fighting stances Gurn's instincts provided, the movements feeling more natural with every repetition. I was a method actor sinking into a role, except the role was real, and the mask was fusing with my face.

On the third day, they came for me.

The pit was even more crowded than before. Word had spread. The spectacle of "Void the Husk" was an attraction. Malko was practically vibrating with greed.

This time, my opponents were two men. They were lean and wiry, armed with short swords and small bucklers. They were sellswords, caught cheating at cards, now forced to fight for their freedom. They were professionals, their movements economical, their eyes hard and calculating. They circled me, one on each side, their strategy obvious: flank and overwhelm.

The crowd was roaring my new name. "Husk! Husk! Husk!"

I stood in the center of the pit, breathing slowly. I could see their life forces, two flickering flames of nervous energy, one slightly brighter than the other. They were skilled, more skilled with a blade than Gurn had been with his axe. Good. I needed that.

They attacked simultaneously. The one on my right feinted high while the one on my left lunged for my legs. It was a classic pincer maneuver.

Gurn's instincts screamed at me. I didn't think; I reacted. I sidestepped the low attack, letting the sellsword's blade swish through empty air. At the same time, I used the shaft of the short spear I'd been given to parry the high strike from the other man. The clash of metal on wood vibrated up my arm.

The fight was a blur of motion. It was faster, more technical than the brawl with Gurn. These men were a team. They pressed their advantage, their swords a flurry of steel. But I was stronger and, thanks to Gurn, I could take a punch. One of them got past my spear and slammed his buckler into my ribs. The blow would have staggered my old self. Now, it felt like a hard shove.

I ignored the pain, my mind a cold calculator. I needed to separate them. I focused on the one who seemed slightly more aggressive, the one with the brighter flame. I feigned a stumble, drawing him in. He saw an opening and lunged, his sword aimed at my chest.

It was exactly what I wanted.

I pivoted, letting his momentum carry him past me, and drove the butt of my spear into the back of his knee. His leg buckled with a wet snap, and he went down with a cry of agony.

His partner hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening at his comrade's sudden fall. That was all the time I needed. I spun, the spear now a deadly point, and drove it through his chest. He gasped, his sword falling from his hand as he stared at me with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

The familiar, ecstatic rush began. The hurricane of power erupted, siphoning his life into me. It was a different flavor from Gurn's. It was leaner, sharper. His vitality wasn't as potent, but his skills… oh, his skills were exquisite. The knowledge of swordsmanship flooded me. Not the refined technique of a master, but the practical, dirty, effective fighting style of a career sellsword. I understood parries, ripostes, feints, not as concepts, but as instincts. My grip on the spear changed subtly, my stance adjusting for a perfect balance of offense and defense.

His body slumped to the ground, a drained husk.

One left.

The first sellsword was trying to crawl away, his broken leg dragging behind him. He looked back at me, his face a mask of pure terror. He had seen what happened to his friend. He had seen the life leave his body in an unnatural, horrifying instant.

I walked towards him, the newly absorbed swordsman's grace making my movements fluid and predatory. I felt no pity. Pity was a luxury I could not afford. He was not a person. He was a final course.

"No… please…" he whimpered, holding up a hand as if it could stop me.

I raised my spear and brought it down, ending his plea and his life.

The second absorption was just as intense. More skills flooded me—this one was better with a shield, his buckler work now a part of my repertoire. When it was over, I stood over two hollowed corpses, my own power having doubled in the span of a few minutes. I felt the strength of three men in my limbs, the combat skills of three warriors in my soul.

I turned to face Malko, who was watching from his perch, his face pale but his eyes burning with a feverish light. I had done it again. I had delivered the spectacle. I had given the crowd their monster.

Lifting my spear, I saluted him, a gesture of a loyal champion. A lie. It was a promise, but not to him. It was a promise to myself. Every fight, every kill, was a step. I would drink this city dry, starting with its dregs. I would consume every warrior, every killer, every scrap of power I could find, until the name they chanted in fear became a prophecy.