The spreading warmth was now gone, replaced by burning pain and a violent jolt. Consciousness returned to Thomas not as a gentle light, but as a hard impact with the ground. His shoulder bore the brunt of the collision, and a sharp pain shot through his arm. Hot, coarse sand scraped against his cheek, getting into his mouth.
The air he breathed was heavy and stifling. The sour smell of sweat from dozens of unwashed bodies mingled with the faint, fetid odor of festering wounds and a dry, stinging dust that pricked his lungs. Rough ropes bound his wrists, chafing his skin raw. Around him, desperate groans and stifled sobs formed a gruesome soundtrack.
As his blurry vision began to focus, he saw it. A gigantic wooden gate loomed before him, as if carved from the bones of an ancient behemoth. Its wood was pale, crisscrossed with cracks like scars from constant exposure to Capua's cruel sun. The gate was a statement, the silent maw of a monster, waiting to swallow them all whole. Amidst the confusion and pain, a realization struck him with more force than his fall. This was real. This was no nightmare. This was his new hell.
And precisely at the peak of that despair, something impossible happened. A familiar transparent blue panel from video games appeared before his eyes. Its design was clean, modern, and utterly out of place in this filthy world.
{Legacy System activated.}
{Core Function: Absorb Life Essence through intimate connection.}
{Essence Usage - Short-term: Burn Essence for momentary effects (Physical Surge, Minor Healing, Subtle Influence).}
{Essence Usage - Long-term: Accumulate 100 Essence to unlock one permanent Legacy (Talent or Knowledge).}
{Initialization complete. Displaying host's initial status.}
{Name: Thomas Vance}
{Essence Stored: 0}
{Active Legacy: [None]}
Thomas stared at the lines of text, wide-eyed. His intelligent brain raced, trying to comprehend this madness. Gaining power through sex? This was the premise of some trashy novel he'd read, not something that should be happening in reality. But the pain in his body and the panel floating before his eyes felt incredibly real. Before he could process it further, the sound of heavy bolts being drawn echoed, followed by the long, grating squeal of hinges. The gates of hell began to open.
The light from within was blinding, silhouetting a gigantic man who stood blocking the way. From his position on the ground, Thomas looked up. The man's legs were as solid as ancient temple pillars. His dark muscles were intertwined like tree roots, and his skin was riddled with scar tissue that told tales of endless violence. A thick whip coiled at his hip, silent like a snake waiting to strike. A boy near Thomas began to sob uncontrollably, calling for his mother. The giant man, the Doctore, walked closer. His steps were calm, steady, unhurried. He wasted no breath on shouting. Without changing his stone-hard expression, the Doctore swung the butt of his whip. His movement was efficient, almost effortless. Not a cracking sound was heard, but a wet, dull thud as the wooden handle struck the back of the boy's head. A stifled groan escaped before the small body slumped to the ground, unconscious.
A chilling silence fell over the slaves. The Doctore looked at all of them, his gaze cold and empty, as if appraising livestock. Finally, he spoke. His voice was deep, hoarse, and devoid of any emotion.
"In the House of Batiatus, tears are an invitation to death." He paused, letting his words sink in.
"Stand."
One by one, the trembling, terrified slaves rose, staggering on legs that felt like jelly. Thomas forced his aching body to obey. Every muscle screamed in protest. He could feel the Doctore's gaze sweep over his back, cold and piercing. The system in his head was silent, offering no aid, only presenting the cold facts of his fragility.
He knew his physique, built in modern gyms for aesthetics, not for life-or-death combat, was a death sentence in this place if he didn't do something.
The Doctore paced back and forth in front of their pathetic line, his whip swinging lazily at his side. His sharp eyes scanned every face, every trembling body, searching for cracks, searching for weakness. "You are nothing," his voice was deep and resonant, every word a condemnation. "You are worms crawling out of the mud. Here, in the House of Batiatus, you will gain the chance to be more. To be Men." He paused, then with a sudden movement, he kicked over a wooden basket, spilling its contents onto the sandy ground. Dozens of blunt, crude, splinter-filled wooden swords rolled among their feet. "But that chance must be seized," the Doctore continued, his tone growing colder. "Only the strong deserve to live. Only those who stand at the end deserve food tonight." He lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping over all of them. "Take a sword. Fight until only you remain standing. Those who fall..." He smiled faintly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "...will become worm food."
For a moment, no one moved. Then, as if an invisible dam had burst, chaos erupted.
Desperate slaves lunged forward, pushing and trampling each other to snatch weapons. Wild roars and cries of terror filled the air. Thomas was shoved aside, almost falling. His survival instinct took over. He didn't run to the center. Instead, he grabbed the nearest wooden sword that rolled towards him. It felt heavy and awkward in his hand, splinters instantly piercing his palm.
"GRAAAH!"
A large shadow fell upon him. Thomas instinctively raised his wooden sword in defense. The heavy clash made his arm tremble to the shoulder. Before him stood a giant of a man with dreadlocks and eyes red with rage and despair. He was much larger, his arms as thick as Thomas's thighs.
The giant swung his sword again, a brutal movement aimed to crush, not to fight. Thomas, his heart feeling like it would explode, dropped to the side. The tip of the wooden sword whizzed inches from his face, kicking up sand.
I can't fight him directly, Thomas thought in a panic, his brain working faster than ever. Strength won't work. I need... something else.
He rolled away, avoiding the giant's stomping foot. He continued to retreat, keeping his distance, letting his enraged opponent exhaust his energy with wild swings. He observed. His opponent's feet, the way he shifted his weight, his swings always coming from the right side. There was a pattern. A clumsy, angry pattern.
The giant roared in frustration and lunged forward once more, raising his sword high for a killing blow.
This was his chance.
As his opponent stepped forward with his right leg, Thomas didn't try to parry the incoming swing. Instead, he ducked low and swung his own wooden sword, aiming not for the body, but for his opponent's leading ankle.
It was an awkward, desperate, and utterly inelegant move.
But it worked.
The tip of Thomas's wooden sword struck the giant's shin hard. The man lost his balance. His eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, he swayed in the air like a falling tree.
Thomas wasted no time. He pushed himself forward and slammed the hilt of his sword with all his might into the side of his opponent's knee. There was a sickening crack, followed by a piercing scream of pain. The giant fell to his knees, then collapsed sideways, clutching his injured leg and roaring in agony.
Thomas stood over him, panting, his chest heaving rapidly. He didn't feel like a victor. He felt sick. But he was still standing.
Slowly, the chaos around him subsided. One by one, the fights ended. Only a handful of slaves remained standing, surrounded by bodies groaning in pain on the sand.
Thomas's gaze met the Doctore's. The large man looked at him, not at his fallen opponent, but directly into Thomas's eyes. There was no smile, no nod. Just a sharp, calculating gaze that lasted a few seconds longer than it should have. A gaze that seemed to say, I saw what you did. You are different.
Then, the Doctore turned. "Enough," he said. "Give those who stand their reward. Get rid of this trash."
That night, Thomas sat in the corner of his dark, damp cell. His reward: a piece of rock-hard bread and a bowl of murky water. He chewed the bread with difficulty, each bite feeling like both triumph and bitterness. He had proven himself worthy of eating. He had survived.
However, a cold reality hit him. The fight just now, that hard-won victory, had drained every ounce of energy from his weakened body. His muscles felt like jelly, and every breath came with a faint ache in his ribs.
He won today. But what about tomorrow? And the day after? He couldn't constantly rely on luck and cheap tricks. He needed real power. True power.
His mind returned to the blue panel, to the brief explanation of the system's function. Gaining power through intimate connection.
Amidst the darkness and despair, a plan began to form in his mind. A dangerous, humiliating, but perhaps the only way out.