Chapter 3: The Forging of a Weapon

Chapter 3: The Forging of a Weapon

Year: 296 AC

The days following my second victory bled into a new kind of routine, a rhythm of calculated growth set against the grim backdrop of the pit. The name they chanted, "Void the Husk," was now known in every tavern and back alley of Flea Bottom. I was no longer just a fighter; I was a local legend, a terrifying enigma whispered about over cheap ale. And with that reputation came a change in my station.

Malko, ever the pragmatist, understood that a prize bull needed a better pen. I was moved from the relative comfort of the East Cell to a private chamber in the small, fortified structure above the pit that served as his headquarters. It was a room with a purpose: to keep his asset safe and content. There was a real bed with a straw-stuffed mattress, a small table and chair, and even a narrow, barred window that overlooked the teeming, filthy expanse of King's Landing's poorest district.

From this vantage point, I could see the distant, formidable shape of the Red Keep squatting on Aegon's High Hill. It was a constant, stark reminder of my ultimate goal. Up there, men played the game of thrones with whispers, poisons, and armies. Down here, I was playing my own game, with a currency of flesh and bone.

The guards no longer treated me with fear, but with a kind of reverent caution, like handlers of a beast that was both magnificent and deadly. My food was better—roasted chicken instead of watery stew, bread that wasn't stale, and clean water. These were not acts of kindness; they were investments. Malko was polishing his weapon.

I used the time to master my new acquisitions. The raw, explosive power of Gurn now coexisted with the pragmatic efficiency of the two sellswords. In the solitude of my chamber, I moved through fighting katas that I had never been taught, yet knew intimately. I would practice the wide, powerful swings of Gurn's axe-fighting style, feeling the satisfying pull in my shoulders and back. Then I would shift seamlessly into the tight, economical footwork of a swordsman, my hands tracing parries and thrusts in the air.

The two styles were contradictory, but my mind, operating with a cold, inhuman clarity, began to synthesize them. Gurn's power behind the sellswords' precision. The explosive lunge of a brawler flowing into a technically perfect sword strike. I was becoming something more than the sum of my parts. I was forging myself into a weapon that had never existed before.

My power was a muscle, and I needed to exercise it, to understand its nuances. I couldn't just wait for Malko to throw random opponents at me. I needed to guide my own evolution. I needed to hunt for specific attributes.

After a week of this new routine, I requested an audience with Malko. He received me in his office, a wary but curious glint in his eyes. He sat behind his desk, a flagon of wine at his elbow, the picture of a man enjoying his recent surge in profits.

"Void," he grunted, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Getting bored of your cage?"

"The cage is fine," I replied, my voice a low baritone that felt more natural with each passing day. "The opponents are not."

Malko's eyebrows shot up. "Not to your liking? They die just the same. The crowds are bigger than ever."

"The crowd gets bored of the same show," I said, leaning forward and placing my hands on his desk. My new physique, honed by constant exercise and the absorbed vitality of three men, was impressive. My shoulders were broad, my arms corded with muscle. I let him see the power, a subtle act of intimidation. "A bull goring a dog is amusing the first few times. Then it's just butchery. They want a performance. They want to see the bull dance."

His greedy eyes narrowed. "What are you proposing?"

"I need a challenge. Something different," I said. "Find me someone fast. A bravo from Myr or Lys, perhaps. Someone who relies on speed and daggers, not a brute with an axe or a common sellsword. The spectacle of strength against speed, power against agility… the crowd will pay double to see it."

I was framing it in his language: profit. I painted a picture for him of a thrilling, dynamic fight that would have the bettors on the edge of their seats. The truth, of course, was purely selfish. I had strength. I had a foundation in practical swordsmanship. What I lacked was true, preternatural speed and agility. I needed to absorb it.

Malko stared at me for a long moment, his mind working through the calculations. He saw the risk of pitting his champion against an unknown factor. But he also saw the potential reward. A new narrative. A new level of spectacle.

"A bravo," he mused, a slow smile spreading across his face. "They are not cheap to procure. But you're right. The story… it's good." He looked me up and down, a fresh wave of avarice in his gaze. "Very well, Void. You'll get your dancer. But if you lose… your value plummets."

"I won't lose," I said with absolute certainty. And I knew I wouldn't. The moment my opponent stepped into the pit, he was already dead. He just hadn't begun the process of transferring his assets to me yet.

The next two weeks were a tense period of waiting and preparation. I pushed my body harder, refining the synthesis of my absorbed skills. I would spend hours in my room, my eyes closed, visualizing the coming fight. I knew from the books that the bravos of the Free Cities were duelist-assassins, relying on lightning-fast strikes with slender blades, often coated in poison. They were arrogant, flamboyant, and deadly.

My internal strategic map of King's Landing was also growing more detailed. I was in the year 296 AC. Stannis Baratheon was on Dragonstone, brooding and likely investigating the legitimacy of Robert's children with Jon Arryn. Littlefinger was Master of Coin, weaving his intricate webs of debt and deceit throughout the city. Varys, the Master of Whisperers, knew everything that happened, and the thought that one of his 'little birds' might be watching the pit was a constant, nagging concern. My unnatural abilities were my greatest asset, but if the wrong people learned of them too early, I would become a specimen in Qyburn's laboratory or a chained monster in the Red Keep's dungeons.

For now, I was safe in my relative obscurity. I was a sensation in Flea Bottom, but to the lords and ladies on Aegon's Hill, I was less than nothing. That was my shield. I would grow in the shadows, feasting on the city's underbelly until I was strong enough to step into the light and consume it.

Then, the day came. A guard, his face pale with excitement, informed me that Malko had found my "dancer."

When they led me to the gates of the pit that night, the energy was different. The air was electric. The crowd was a packed, sweating mass of humanity, their faces alight with anticipation. Malko had done his job well, hyping the fight for all it was worth. It was the talk of the slums: the unstoppable brute, the Husk, versus a genuine Myrish bravo.

My opponent was already in the pit, preening for the crowd. He was exactly as I had pictured him. He was slender and graceful, moving with a liquid ease that spoke of a lifetime of training. He wore flamboyant silks of purple and green, a stark contrast to my practical leather breeches and bare chest. In each hand, he held a long, thin dagger that glittered in the torchlight like a shard of ice. His face was handsome in a sharp, predatory way, and a mocking smile played on his lips. His life force was a brilliant, flashing silver, vibrating with nervous energy and arrogant confidence.

His name was Lyren, and he bowed to the crowd with a flourish, eliciting a smattering of cheers from those who appreciated his style and a chorus of boos from my "fans."

The gate opened, and I stepped onto the sand. I had been given a heavy, single-edged shortsword and a round, steel-plated buckler—the tools of the sellswords I had absorbed. They felt solid and familiar in my hands.

Lyren's mocking smile widened as he saw me. "They send a lumbering ox to face a wasp," he called out, his voice light and accented. "I will sting you a thousand times before your dull mind even knows you are dead."

I said nothing. I planted my feet in the sand, adopting a low, stable stance that was a hybrid of Gurn's solid base and a swordsman's readiness. I let his taunts wash over me. Arrogance was a weakness. It made a man predictable.

The bell rang, and the fight began.

Lyren was a blur of motion. He didn't charge; he flowed, circling me like a shark. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground. He was testing my reactions, his daggers feinting and flickering in the torchlight, seeking an opening.

I remained still, my eyes tracking him, my body a coiled spring of Gurn's power. I let him come to me. I knew I couldn't match his speed. To even try would be suicide. I had to fight on my own terms. I had to turn the pit into a cage, my reach and power into walls he couldn't bypass.

He darted in, a flash of purple silk. His left dagger lashed out, aiming for my eyes to make me flinch. I brought my buckler up, the sellsword's instinct guiding the motion perfectly. His blade scraped against the steel with a high-pitched shriek. At the same moment, his right dagger stabbed towards my ribs.

Instead of trying to parry, I twisted my torso, letting the blade slice through the air just past my side. It was a graze, drawing a thin line of blood, but it was shallow. He was fast, but my new body was tougher, my skin more resilient.

I used his momentum against him. As he recovered from his lunge, I swung my shortsword in a low, brutal arc, not with the finesse of a swordsman, but with all the raw, brutish power I had taken from Gurn. I wasn't aiming to cut him; I was aiming to break him.

Lyren hissed, his speed saving him. He danced back, out of the arc of my swing, his eyes wide with surprise. He had expected me to be slow and clumsy. He had not expected that level of explosive power. The wind from my blade alone had made him flinch.

The fight fell into a pattern. He would dart in, a flurry of lightning-fast stabs and slashes. I would weather the storm, using my buckler and small, efficient movements to block or deflect the worst of it. I took cuts. A slice on my arm, another on my leg. They were shallow, stinging wounds, but they bled, adding to the spectacle for the roaring crowd. I ignored the pain. It was a trivial thing now.

With every failed attack, a flicker of frustration appeared in the bravo's eyes. His arrogance was beginning to crack. He was a duelist, used to ending fights in seconds with a single, perfect thrust. I was a stone wall, absorbing his best attacks and waiting.

He changed tactics, feinting high and then dropping low, his dagger streaking towards my knee. It was the same move the sellsword had tried. But Lyren was infinitely faster.

I was ready. Gurn's strength was not just in my arms, but in my legs. I stomped my foot down hard, right beside his lunging leg. The impact shook the compacted sand. It wasn't an attack, but it was enough to disrupt his delicate balance for a microsecond.

In that microsecond, I struck. I didn't swing my sword. I dropped it. I lunged forward, closing the distance, and smashed my steel buckler directly into his face.

There was a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. Lyren screamed, a high, piercing sound of pure agony, as he stumbled back, clutching his ruined nose. Blood poured between his fingers. His daggers, his beautiful, deadly daggers, fell from his nerveless grasp.

The predator had become prey.

I did not give him a moment. I kicked one of his fallen daggers, sending it spinning into the air, and caught it by the hilt. The move was fluid, instinctive, a piece of battlefield opportunism I hadn't known I possessed. The dagger felt light and alien in my large hand, but I knew how to use it.

He was still blinded by the pain and the blood. I stepped in, wrapped my left arm around his neck in a crushing chokehold born of Gurn's raw power, and plunged the Myrish dagger into his kidney. I twisted it, brutally.

His body went rigid, a final, shuddering gasp escaping his lips. And as the last spark of his arrogant, silver life extinguished, the hurricane hit me.

This absorption was entirely different. It was not the heavy, grounding power of Gurn, nor the sturdy, practical skill of the sellswords. This was like drinking lightning. It was a sharp, electrifying rush of pure, unadulterated speed.

I felt the change in my nervous system, a profound recalibration. My reflexes, already sharp, were honed to a razor's edge. My muscle fibers, already strong, were re-laced with something new—an explosive, fast-twitch capability. The knowledge of his acrobatic grace, his nimble footwork, his mastery of the swift, killing strike, all poured into me. It was the knowledge of a dancer whose stage was a battlefield, whose partner was death.

When the torrent subsided, I let his body fall. It was a husk, like the others, but somehow more tragic in its deflated finery.

I stood in the center of the pit, my body thrumming with a new, vibrant energy. The minor cuts I had sustained were already beginning to heal, the process accelerated by the massive influx of vitality. I took a deep breath and moved, testing my new gift. I flowed from one stance to another, my feet light on the sand, my movements possessing a lethal grace I had lacked only moments before. I was no longer just a stone wall. I was a rockslide.

The silence from the crowd was absolute. They had not just seen a victory. They had seen an evolution. They had seen their monster devour a wasp and gain its sting.

I looked up at Malko's perch. His face was ashen, but his eyes… his eyes were on fire. He was looking at me as if I were a god. He was terrified, and he was ecstatic. He had no idea what I was, but he knew I was the greatest discovery of his miserable life.

I held up the bloody Myrish dagger, a salute to my terrified owner and a promise to myself. I had absorbed strength, then skill, and now speed. I was assembling the attributes of a perfect killer, one piece at a time.

Later that night, as I sat in my chamber, feeling the new, restless energy coursing through me, there was a knock on my door. It was Malko himself, without his guards. This was a first. He carried a bottle of wine—far better quality than his usual swill—and two clean cups.

He entered and poured the cups, his hand shaking slightly.

"That," he said, his voice raspy with emotion, "was the most magnificent, terrifying thing I have ever seen. They are calling you the God of the Pit."

I took the cup he offered. I could feel no ill intent from him, only a profound, overwhelming sense of awe and fear.

"They talk of you in the Street of Silk and the Red Keep's barracks now," he continued, his voice low. "Your fame is spreading beyond the slums, Void. And with fame comes… opportunity."

He took a long swallow of wine before looking at me, his eyes gleaming with a new, dangerous idea.

"There are people in this city," he whispered, "rich, powerful people, who have problems that cannot be solved with coin or influence. They need... a blunter instrument. They have heard stories of an unstoppable killer in a Flea Bottom pit who leaves his victims looking like… well, like husks."

My heart, which had been beating with a slow, powerful rhythm, gave a single, hard thump. This was it. The next step.

"A man who represents a very powerful client came to see me tonight," Malko said, his voice barely audible. "He wants to hire you. Not for the pit. For a private task. He wants you to kill someone. Someone well-protected. He is willing to pay more than I make from this entire pit in a year."

He was offering me a leash, but it was a leash that led out of the cage. An assassination. A chance to test my horrifying new abilities in the real world. A chance to prey on bigger game.

My mind raced. Who was the client? Who was the target? It could be a merchant, a rival gang leader. Or it could be someone connected to the Great Game. A knight. A minor lord. A piece on the board.

My cold, hungry soul thrilled at the prospect. The pit had been a fine nursery, a perfect crucible. But I was outgrowing it. It was time to hunt.

"Tell me more," I said, my voice a low rumble, the voice of a god of a squalid, bloody pit, ready to claim a wider dominion.