The same guard that had brought me here stood waiting at the end of the hall, spear grounded, shoulders rigid.

He nodded once when I approached. I returned it with a small, polite smile.

He didn't smile back. His face stayed carved in that same cold seriousness—the look of a man who served out of duty, not belief.

Without a word, he turned and led me down the winding corridor, our footsteps echoing evenly in the silence.

When we reached the last bend, the sound changed. A low hum, a chorus of voices. The air smelled of roasted meat, smoke, and ferment.

The guard pushed open the double doors.

And the world changed.

Where the Colosseum should have been—where I'd stood surrounded by crimson hills and open sky—stood something else entirely. A dome covered the heavens, vast and seamless, its inner surface shimmering faintly like living glass. The walls were now lined in dark banners and carvings.

The ground was no longer dirt and blood and dust. It was tiled in smooth white marble, gleaming under torchlight. Beyond it stretched long tables, dozens of them, covered in food, hides, and gleaming plates of blackened bone.

Hundreds of people filled the space. Men and women in layered leather and bone armor. Children darting between them with wooden cups and skewers. Laughter rose in waves, punctuated by the clink of knives and goblets. Somewhere in the corner, a trio of Wildlings played a strange stringed instrument---its tone deep, mournful, but steady.

I stopped at the threshold, caught between awe and confusion.

How in the world…?

The guard glanced at me, noted the hesitation, then snorted and left without a word.

I stood there alone, watching the gathered crowd. In less than an hour, the Dhrokari had turned a battlefield into a hall fit for kings.

The Chieftain's words came back to me—"The Serpent's corpse will serve the Clan."

I hadn't expected this to be what he meant.

"Outsider."

The voice cut through the noise like a thrown blade.

I turned.

The bronze-ranked youth I had once tried to save stood behind me, his giant greatsword strapped across his back in a harness not dissimilar to mine, hair tied in the same loose knot I'd seen him wear.

His blue eyes still held that same sharp disdain.

"You…" I said.

"I challenge you," he said flatly.

"..."

He took another step closer. "Do you dare to accept?"

"..."

I'd have refused if it weren't for that talk with the Chieftain.

Refusing a Challenge would be seen as cowardice here. I couldn't have that, but at the same time...

I sighed. "Your challenge is futile. I am Silver. You are Bronze. You cannot win."

"DO YOU ACCEPT?"

"..."

"Accept what, you buffoon?"

"My challenge!"

My jaw tightened. Is he one of those? What was the word...something about a turd...tart? No, that's not right...

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Look. I just told you---"

"DO YOU ACCE—"

My body moved on its own.

SMACK!

The impact rang out like a crack of thunder. The boy's feet left the floor. He sailed back a good few meters, disappearing into the dark of the corridor I'd come out from.

It was the first time someone had gotten on my nerves without injuring me.

And yet, the satisfying thuds of a body rolling down flights of stairs never graced my ears. Instead, out walked the Chieftain himself, the blonde-haired boy grasped by the collar of his shirt, hoisted in the air like a stray pup.

Intisak's gaze moved from me to the boy and back again. Realization flickering behind his eyes.

He sighed. "Axel. We just spoke of this."

I said nothing. But my confused expression said enough.

"I told you they would challenge you."

"And I told him," I said, pointing, "that challenging me is futile when I'm a full Rank above him."

"Have you already forgotten my words? That doesn't instill much hope for our Pact, boy."

I frowned.

"I told you...challenges are not limited to duels."

My eyes squinted at the boy meaningfully.

He twisted free of the Chieftain's grip, spat blood, then grinned, blue eyes glinting, "We shall see who can devour the most Serpent Meat!"

"..."

I blinked.

He grinned wider, teeth red with blood.

I glanced at the tables behind him---massive slabs of flesh, steaming, carved from the corpse of the great Serpent that had nearly ended me. The air was heavy with its scent.

"…What are the stakes?"

The boy folded his arms, thinking. Intisak left us with a small shake of the head, muttering something about idiocy under his breath.

"The loser must serve the other for one year."

I sliced open my palm and held it out before the boy could have any second thoughts. The boy followed suit, and we shook.

[A New Quest has been offered.]

It was my turn to grin.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[Blood Pact - Horus]

Consume more Serpent meat than Horus before the Feast ends.

Reward: Horus's Loyalty and Servitude for a duration of 1 Year.

Failure: Serve Horus loyally for 1 Year.

Time Remaining: 6 hours 00 minutes 00 seconds

Quest Reward Scale: 99/1 (in Favor of the Host)

Quest Difficulty: Very Easy

[Do you wish to accept? (Yes/No)]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I accept."

---------------------

The tables shook when the first slabs were brought out. The crowd began chanting Horus's name, slamming cutlery into the wood in sync.

Plates piled high. Slices thick as shields. Meat roasted in crimson fat, still smoking.

We began.

The first bite hit like fire and salt. The Serpent's flesh was dense, its fat almost sweet. It felt alive in my mouth---mana-rich, dense with power. Each swallow burned faintly on the way down, but it was pleasant.

Horus tore through his first few plates with feral determination, blue eyes locked on mine. The crowd roared with every handful he stuffed into his mouth.

I kept a steady pace. My Gift worked quietly in the background—digesting, repairing, assimilating. The pain of overeating didn't come. It simply… flattened, adapted, vanished.

Five minutes in, Horus was still going strong.

Twenty minutes, and his movements slowed.

Thirty-five minutes, and his face was pale, sweat beading down his neck.

I hadn't stopped. My plate emptied, refilled, emptied again.

An hour later, the boy's body sagged forward. He dropped his knife, hand trembling.

"I…" he croaked, "I yield…"

[Quest: Blood Pact – Horus has been successfully completed.]

[You have acquired the complete loyalty and servitude of Horus Ferilier.]

The hall erupted in laughter and cheers. Some pounded their cups on the tables, others whistled or clapped their hands.

Horus slumped to his knees, face buried in his palms. His shoulders shook. The sound he made wasn't anger---it was something closer to despair.

He had just lost his freedom for a year.

And yet, not one Dhrokari mocked him.

Instead, they raised their cups, shouting his name. To them, a loss in a challenge was an oath sealed in pride, not humiliation.

The tension around me eased. A few warriors came forward with cups of their drink, grinning as they slapped my back. One thrust a skewer into my hand---a chunk of meat dripping with spice. Another poured thick amber liquid into a cup and shoved it toward me.

I drank. I coughed unwittingly when the liquid burned my throat, but it dissipated just as quickly. Except I was sure the liquid was neither hot nor cold...

The warriors buckled over laughing at my reaction, but I soon learned that it the golden liquid was called "Beer". I grew to enjoy it.

The feast carried on.

Around me, the Dhrokari celebrated in every form imaginable. Some dueled with tankards of the same golden liquid, others arm-wrestled atop tables, their roars echoing off the dome. A pair of drunken hunters were swinging actual weapons in a slow, clumsy dance, laughing as sparks flew. No one stopped them.

Challenges were sacred here. If two men agreed to fight while drunk, then that was the challenge's rule.

I stayed for a while, watching them. It was chaos---raw, unfiltered, alive.

Even so, there was something oddly orderly beneath it all. Every shout, every contest, every raised blade followed a rhythm---a culture built around balance and trial.

I found Horus again, sitting cross-legged beside a pillar, his greatsword lying beside him. He saw me and looked away, shame still heavy in his expression.

"You fought well," I said.

He grunted. "You… ate well."

"Eat more next time."

He gave a reluctant snort of laughter.

Perhaps I was too quick to judge these people. They are...lively.

The Chieftain sat at the head of the central table, his laughter booming louder than anyone else's. Every so often, his eyes would flick toward me, lingering, watching my interactions. His gaze never went unnoticed, though I tried to make it seem like they did.

Hours went by as I continued to eat and drink to my heart's content.

When the fires began to die and most had collapsed in drunken heaps, I stood.

The Chieftain noticed. "Leaving already?"

"I need rest." I said, hesitating, "When are we returning to the city?"

He blinked. Then he laughed. "City? Boy, this is our city."

I frowned. "The Trial Grounds?"

"Aye." He gestured around us. "And everything beneath it."

I followed his hand—toward the corridors leading deeper underground. Toward the black stone halls that wound beneath this dome.

"We are the Children of the Sand, boy. Where do you think we got that name?"

He grinned.

"The High Table has the Wildlands, but the depths below…" He raised his cup. "…are ours alone."

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