Chapter 2: The Currency of Blood

Chapter 2: The Currency of Blood

296 AC, King's Landing

Part I: The New Economy

The days that followed blurred into a brutal, monotonous rhythm, punctuated by moments of ecstatic violence. His life was now measured in blood and coin. He was no longer just a nameless piece of filth; he was an asset, a rising star in the squalid firmament of Flea Bottom's underworld. His new status afforded him certain luxuries. The cell he was kept in was private, the straw changed twice a week, a small mercy that did little to combat the pervasive, soul-deep stench of the place but was a noticeable improvement nonetheless. The food was no longer just watery gruel; now it was the infamous "bowl of brown," a thick, mysterious stew sold in the pot-shops of Flea Bottom, rumored to contain everything from rats and pigeons to, on occasion, the less fortunate denizens of the slum. He ate it without question. It was protein. It was fuel.

His new master, the hulking, scarred Pit Master he had first seen upon his awakening, was a man named Borgo. Borgo was a creature of pure pragmatism, a perfect product of the city's corrupt ecosystem. He was not a lord, nor a knight, but a businessman whose trade was human suffering. He saw the protagonist not as a person, but as a champion in the making, a fighting cock that laid golden eggs. Borgo's investment in him was directly proportional to his earning potential. After his first victory, Borgo had approached his cell, not with a guard, but alone.

"You fight smart," he'd grunted, his voice a gravelly rasp. His eyes, small and shrewd, raked over the protagonist's form. "Not just strong. People will bet on that. They'll bet against it, too. Good odds."

The protagonist had remained silent, watching, learning. He understood the unspoken contract. As long as he won, as long as he made the fights interesting, he would be cared for. The moment he ceased to be profitable, he would be discarded, left to bleed out in the mud like the dozens he had seen before him. This was a kleptocracy in its purest form, a society ruled by thieves and plunderers where strength and cunning were the only laws that mattered.

He spent his time between fights in a state of focused observation. He studied the flow of the operation. He watched the guards, off-duty Gold Cloaks mostly, their loyalty bought for a few extra coppers a night. He watched the bettors: desperate laborers, hardened sailors, and the occasional slumming noble trying to hide their fine features under a drab cloak. He saw the money change hands, the crude system of wagers and payouts that fueled this entire enterprise. It was a microcosm of the greater world, a raw, unveiled version of the game played in the Red Keep. Here, the currency was just more honest. It was blood.

His mind, the one asset that was truly his own, was constantly at work. He was not just a fighter; he was a strategist, a long-term planner. He knew the political landscape of Westeros was a precarious house of cards, built on Robert Baratheon's apathy and the simmering resentments of the great houses. The Small Council was a nest of schemers: the ambitious Littlefinger, the enigmatic Varys, the proud Baratheon brothers, Stannis and Renly, and the aging Jon Arryn, whose death would be the spark that ignited the realm. They were all blind to the rot festering in the city's foundations, this world of illegal fighting pits, smuggling rings, and desperate poverty that existed just beneath their notice. This anonymity was his greatest shield. While they played their game of thrones, he would play his own, a far more fundamental game of survival and ascension.

Each night, he would catalogue the skills he was accumulating. The brawler's raw power from the Checkered Beast was the foundation. But he needed more. He needed speed, agility, and the refined techniques of trained warriors. He needed to become a living library of martial arts, a walking weapon forged from the lives of his victims. He looked upon the other fighters not as men, but as collections of skills waiting to be harvested. His ambition was a cold, burning fire within him, and this pit was his forge.

Part II: A Library of Violence

Borgo, ever the savvy promoter, did not throw him back into the pit immediately. He let the story of his first victory marinate, letting the odds shift and the wagers grow. When he was finally matched again, it was against a different kind of opponent. Not a mountain of muscle, but a wiry, quick-footed man known only as "the Rat-Catcher." He was a local thief, likely from a gang that operated in the twisting alleys of Flea Bottom, his body lean and his movements swift.

The fight was a dance of speed versus strength. The Rat-Catcher was fast, darting in and out, landing quick, stinging blows before retreating out of reach. He fought like a cornered animal, all desperate energy and unpredictable movement. But the protagonist, armed with the Checkered Beast's brawling instincts and his own cold analysis, was patient. He absorbed the blows, letting the man tire himself out. He learned his rhythm, the slight hesitation before each lunge, the way he favored his right side.

In the third minute of the fight, the Rat-Catcher feinted left and darted right, a sharpened piece of bone hidden in his palm flashing towards the protagonist's eyes. It was a classic underhanded trick, one born of desperation. But the protagonist was ready. He turned his head, letting the point scrape harmlessly against his cheekbone, and in that same motion, his arm shot out, not to punch, but to grab. His hand, now possessing a crushing strength the Rat-Catcher could never have anticipated, closed around the man's wrist.

A sharp twist. A scream of agony as bone snapped. The fight was over. He finished it quickly, a single, brutal blow to the temple.

The absorption was different this time. It wasn't a tidal wave of raw power, but a sharp, electric infusion. He felt the man's agility flow into him, a lightness in his feet, a new nimbleness in his joints. His reflexes sharpened, the world seeming to slow down by a fraction of a second. He gained the instinctual knowledge of the city's dark places—how to move silently through an alley, how to use shadows as a cloak, the muscle memory of a lifetime spent running, climbing, and hiding.

His next opponent was a disgraced knight, a man whose shield once bore the sigil of a minor house from the Riverlands, now scoured away. The man was older, his body gone to seed, but the training was still there. He moved with a stiff formality, his stance and guard a product of years of drilling in a castle yard. He fought with a kind of weary honor, a stark contrast to the pit's usual savagery.

This was the fight the protagonist craved. It wasn't about strength or speed; it was about technique. He met the knight's formal style with the brutal, unpredictable brawling he had absorbed. He broke the rhythm of the fight, refusing to engage in a traditional exchange of blows. He used feints learned from the thief, and raw power from the brawler. The knight, trained to fight other knights, was confounded by this hybrid style. He expected a parry, but got a shoulder charge. He expected a sword thrust, but got a kick to the knee.

The end was almost pitiful. The knight, exhausted and demoralized, stumbled, and the protagonist was on him, ending the fight with a chokehold that was brutally efficient and utterly devoid of chivalry. The power that flowed into him was a revelation. It was the cool, precise knowledge of a trained swordsman. He didn't get memories, but he got the form. He understood the proper way to hold a longsword, the mechanics of a parry, the footwork of a duel. He absorbed the discipline, the countless hours of practice, the very essence of a Westerosi knight's martial education.

He was becoming a monster. A composite of all the men he had killed. With each victory, his physical prowess grew, but more importantly, his arsenal of skills expanded. He was no longer just a man with a strange power; he was a warrior of terrifying versatility, and his hunger for more, for all of it, was becoming insatiable.

Part III: The Main Attraction

He was now Borgo's prized possession. His victories were clean, brutal, and varied enough to keep the crowds roaring and the money flowing. He was given a new name in the pit: "the Chimera," a nod to his strange, cobbled-together fighting style that seemed to shift with each opponent. He was an enigma, and in the world of illegal gambling, enigmas were profitable.

One evening, Borgo came to his cell with two guards and a torch. There was a different look in the Pit Master's eyes—a mixture of greed and a sliver of fear.

"We have a special event," Borgo said, his voice low. "Big purse. The biggest yet. Some nobles are coming down from the Hill to watch. They get bored of tourneys."

The protagonist waited, his expression unreadable.

"It's not a man," Borgo continued, licking his lips. "It's a beast. From the Basilisk Isles. A corsair sold it to me for a small fortune."

A basilisk. The name sent a jolt through him, a thrill that was equal parts terror and predatory excitement. He knew of basilisks from the books. Fierce, venomous reptiles used in fighting pits in the far east. But he knew something else, a detail that the ignorant crowds and even Borgo would not. He remembered Arya's lessons with the Faceless Men. A paste spiced with basilisk blood… induces a violent madness… a mouse will attack a lion after a taste.

This was not just a fight. This was an opportunity. A chance to acquire something truly exotic, something non-human. The power of a beast, its venom, its primal fury. It was a risk of an entirely new magnitude, but the potential reward was a quantum leap forward in his quest for godhood.

"The odds will be against you," Borgo said, misinterpreting his silence as fear. "People love to bet on a man against a beast. Win or lose, I'll make a fortune. If you win… you'll get a share you can't even imagine."

The protagonist gave a slow, deliberate nod. He didn't care about the money. He cared about the harvest.

When they led him to the pit, the atmosphere was electric. The usual rabble was there, but pressed in among them were figures in dark, hooded cloaks, their finer clothes and softer hands betraying their noble status. The air was thick with the smell of fear-sweat and expensive perfume, a nauseating combination. The stakes were higher, the bloodlust more refined, but no less savage.

From the opposite side of the pit, a heavy iron cage was wheeled out. Inside, coiled like a venomous spring, was the basilisk. It was larger than he'd imagined, nearly the size of a lion, with mottled green-and-black scales that seemed to drink the torchlight. Its head was a reptilian nightmare, with a jaw full of needle-sharp teeth and cold, intelligent eyes that tracked the crowd with unnerving focus. It hissed, a sound like grinding stone, and the crowd fell silent for a moment, a collective intake of breath.

This was a true monster, a creature of primal violence. And it was his next meal.

Part IV: The Serpent's Kiss

The cage door was raised with a screech of rusty metal. The basilisk slithered out into the pit, its body moving with a fluid, unnatural grace. It tasted the air with a forked tongue, its head swiveling, taking in its new environment. The crowd roared, a wave of sound that washed over the arena.

The protagonist stood his ground, his body a coiled spring of stolen power. He had the strength of the brawler, the speed of the thief, and the discipline of the knight. But against this, he knew brute force would be suicide. The basilisk was faster, its hide was thick, and its venom was a death sentence. He had to use his mind.

The basilisk struck first, a blur of motion. It didn't charge; it launched itself across the pit, its jaw gaping. He threw himself to the side, the instincts of the Rat-Catcher saving him by a hair's breadth. The creature's jaws snapped shut on empty air with a sound like a bear trap. It was impossibly fast.

He circled, keeping his distance, using the full extent of the pit. He needed a weapon, an advantage. His eyes darted around the arena. The dirt floor, the rickety fence, the torches… the torches.

The basilisk came at him again, its tail lashing out like a whip. He dodged, but the tip caught his leg, sending a searing pain up his thigh and tearing through his trousers. He stumbled, and the beast was on him. He rolled, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws, and came up with a handful of dirt, flinging it at the creature's eyes as he had with the Checkered Beast.

It had no effect. The basilisk's eyes were protected by nictitating membranes that flickered shut and open in an instant. It hissed in annoyance, not pain. This was no dumb brute.

He needed to change the battlefield. He feinted towards the center of the pit, drawing the basilisk after him. As it lunged, he pivoted and sprinted towards the wall, towards one of the sputtering torches. He leaped, his new agility allowing him to grab the iron sconce, and ripped the burning brand from its holder.

The crowd roared its approval at the spectacle. He now held a crude weapon, a stick of fire and smoke. The basilisk paused, its head cocked, wary of the flame. He had its attention. He had a chance.

He waved the torch in front of him, keeping the beast at bay. He needed to get close, to land a killing blow, but its reach was too great, its speed too terrifying. He remembered the stories. Venom. He had to avoid being bitten at all costs. But he also remembered the other story. Basilisk blood.

A plan, insane and desperate, formed in his mind. He couldn't outfight it. So he would have to outlast it, and use its own nature against it.

He backed away slowly, torch held high, until his back was against the sharpened stakes of the fence. He took a deep breath, centering himself. Then, he deliberately lowered the torch and drove the burning end into his own left forearm.

The pain was excruciating, a white-hot agony that threatened to overwhelm him. The smell of his own searing flesh filled his nostrils. He grit his teeth, suppressing a scream. The crowd gasped, confused and horrified. Borgo's face was a mask of disbelief.

But the basilisk reacted. Its head snapped up, its nostrils flared. It could smell the blood, the cooked meat. It was a scent that triggered something deep within its predatory brain. It hissed, a low, hungry sound, and its body began to tremble.

He had made himself the bait.

It charged, no longer cautious, but driven by an unnatural, maddened hunger. This was what he was waiting for. At the last possible second, as its jaws lunged for his wounded arm, he dropped the torch and threw himself sideways, rolling along the fence.

The basilisk, consumed by the scent-driven rage, couldn't stop. It crashed headfirst into the sharpened wooden stakes he had been standing in front of. One thick, fire-hardened stake, meant to keep the crowd out, punched straight through the creature's throat, just below its jaw, bursting out the other side in a spray of dark, viscous blood.

The beast thrashed, impaled and dying, its claws tearing up the earth. The protagonist, ignoring the searing pain in his arm, scrambled forward. He couldn't let it die on its own. He had to be the one to kill it. He grabbed the discarded torch, and with a final, desperate surge of strength, he drove the still-smoldering end into the creature's eye socket.

There was a final, terrible shriek, and then silence.

He stood over the twitching corpse, his body screaming in agony, his burned arm a ruin. And then the power came. It was unlike anything before. It was cold, alien, and utterly intoxicating. He felt the primal vitality of the reptile flood his system, his wounds beginning to seal with unnatural speed. The burn on his arm began to fade, the flesh knitting itself back together. He felt its lightning reflexes, its reptilian senses, the very essence of its venomous nature pouring into him. He could feel the poison in his own blood now, not as a threat, but as a weapon, a tool he instinctively knew how to control.

He had killed a monster. And in doing so, he had taken a giant leap toward becoming a god. The roar of the crowd was a distant, meaningless sound. All that mattered was the cold, serpentine power now coiling within his soul.