Weeks passed in a cycle of brutal training and simmering tension. Spartacus, with his fierce defiance, constantly clashed with the Doctore, each training session a battle of wills between discipline and savagery. Crixus, on the other hand, honed his rage into a sharper weapon, his gaze rarely leaving his Thracian rival. Thomas used this chaos as a cloak. He trained with his head down, barely noticeable. At night, he continued his dangerous game, collecting Essence bit by bit. His growth was agonizingly slow, like drops of water trying to fill a large jar. He knew this wouldn't be enough.
One afternoon, Batiatus walked through the training yard with a sour expression. "The gods are squeezing my last coin!" he complained to the Doctore, loud enough for nearby slaves to hear. "I need income, Doctore. Quick income to appease the leeches in the city." "Pit fights are always available, Dominus," the Doctore replied flatly.
"Ah, yes, the pit," Batiatus said, his cunning eyes gleaming. "Filthy, brutal, but the spectators pay well. Prepare some men." The Doctore began to point to several large, fierce-looking lower-tier gladiators, fighters who were regularly sent to such bouts. "Wait," Batiatus suddenly said. His eyes swept over the tired recruits and stopped squarely on Thomas. A faint, curious smile played on his face. "Not them," he said, gesturing at the giants the Doctore had chosen. "I'm tired of seeing beasts tear each other apart. It's predictable." He pointed straight at Thomas. "I want to see this one. I want to see if his cunning in the first trial was just luck, or if there's something more there. Send him." Silence fell over the yard. Varro looked at Thomas in horror. The Doctore raised his eyebrows slightly, his only sign of surprise. Sending an unproven recruit into The Pit was a death sentence.
Thomas felt the blood drain from his face. He couldn't refuse. The Dominus's command was absolute. He could only nod resignedly, his heart pounding with terror.
That night, he found himself in a true hell. A damp, subterranean room, reeking of sweat, cheap wine, and fear. A rough crowd of spectators yelled and gambled wildly. In the center of the room, a circle of hardened earth served as a stage of death. A guard thrust a sica, a sharp, curved dagger, into Thomas's hand. The cold iron felt alien and deadly. His opponent was pushed in from the other side. A massive Germanian man, with a wild beard and eyes full of hatred. He carried a heavy-looking battle-axe.
The fight began. The Germanian man roared and charged instantly. Thomas, propelled by pure adrenaline, immediately applied his lesson: don't fight strength with strength.
He used his agility to dodge sideways. The axe struck the ground where he had stood moments before, sending splinters of wood flying. Thomas kept moving, dancing on the edge of the circle, avoiding his opponent's brutal swings. He could hear the jeers of the crowd, but he didn't care. His mind worked at full speed, analyzing every movement, every opening. The giant before him was strong, but slow and clumsy. After a while, the Germanian man began to get frustrated and his breathing grew heavy. He delivered one last, powerful swing, losing his balance for a moment.
This was the opening Thomas had waited for. He didn't hesitate. Burn one Essence! he commanded inwardly. A "Physical Surge" gave him a momentary burst of speed, allowing him to dart forward like a snake and get inside his opponent's reach. As the man tried to raise his axe again, Thomas plunged his sica forward. Not into the muscular chest, but into the unprotected inner thigh. The dagger slid in easily, tearing through muscle and flesh. The Germanian man screamed in pain and rage, his leg giving out. He fell to his knees, staring at Thomas with wide eyes of disbelief.
This was the moment. Thomas stood over his wounded opponent. He could have retreated. But he looked into his opponent's eyes, and he didn't see pain, he saw an unquenchable hatred. If he let him live, this man would rise and cleave his head with that axe. The rules of The Pit echoed in his mind: kill or be killed.
Hesitation seized him for a split second. The remnants of his old self, the Thomas Vance who would never harm a fly, shrieked in horror. But the man before him, Thomas the slave, the gladiator, knew what had to be done. With a cry more like a desperate groan, he plunged the sica into his opponent's exposed neck. A gruesome tearing sound. Warm blood gushed, splashing onto Thomas's face and chest. The Germanian man's eyes lost their light, and his large body collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.
Silence. Thomas stood trembling in the center of the arena, the blood-stained sica in his hand. He looked at his hands, then at the corpse at his feet. He had just killed a man. A wave of intense nausea rose in his throat.
Then, the crowd erupted in cheers.
Back at the ludus, Batiatus summoned him to his chambers. His master poured himself a glass of wine, looking at Thomas with a new, calculating gaze. "I must confess, I didn't expect it," Batiatus said. "I thought I was sending a lamb to slaughter. Turns out, inside that lamb was a cruel little wolf." He smiled. "You didn't just win. You killed without hesitation when the opportunity arose. That's an instinct that cannot be taught, only possessed. That is valuable." Batiatus tossed a leather pouch larger than Thomas expected towards him. It contained several silver coins. "Your earnings. Keep surprising me, and perhaps you'll live long enough to enjoy them."
The following nights, Thomas couldn't sleep soundly. The shadow of the Germanian man haunted him. The silver coins in his hand felt cold, a silent reminder of the life he had taken. He knew keeping them was useless. These coins were a tool to buy power.
He waited for his opportunity and found it a few days later. Ashur was alone near the armory.
Thomas approached him quietly. "I need to talk to you."
Ashur smiled cunningly. "Ah, the hero of The Pit," he mocked. "I'm surprised to see you still walking after your little dance."
"I hear you can arrange 'entertainment' for those who can pay," Thomas said in a low voice.
Ashur's smile widened. Thomas pulled out his leather pouch, letting the coins jingle. The Syrian's eyes fixated on the pouch. "So, you have coins. What do you seek? A little warmth for cold nights?"
"I need something regular," Thomas said, choosing his words carefully. "An arrangement where I can get 'entertainment' periodically. And of course, you will be properly compensated for each arrangement." Ashur chuckled softly... "Agreed," Thomas said after a moment of silence. He handed Ashur several silver coins. Ashur took the coins with a swift motion, concealing them within his robes. "A wise decision," he said, patting Thomas's shoulder in an overly friendly manner. "Just wait in your cell tonight. Don't fall asleep too soundly. Your entertainment will come." ...
That night, Thomas couldn't sleep. He wasn't waiting with lust, but with the anxiety of an investor awaiting the delivery of his valuable asset. A few hours after the ludus fell silent, the unlocked door to his cell creaked softly.
A woman stepped in with quiet, practiced movements. She was not a ludus slave. Her clothes were better, though simple, and her hair was neatly styled. Her face was beautiful in a weary way, and her eyes looked at Thomas without emotion, only with professional assessment.
"Ashur sent me," she whispered, her voice low and husky.
Thomas simply nodded, rising from his seat. No other words were needed. This was business.
He led the woman to the darkest corner of their cell, onto the scratchy straw. The woman moved with cold efficiency. She disrobed without shame, her body her trade, displayed in the dim light filtering through cracks in the wall.
As they lay down, Thomas felt a distinct difference. This wasn't about desperation or a game of trust. This was a task to be completed. His hands explored the woman's body, but his mind remained clear, analyzing. He positioned himself over the woman, his penis ready, a reaction that now felt more like a system function than authentic arousal.
As he entered the woman's ready, wet vagina, the woman let out a practiced sigh. Thomas moved his hips with a steady, strong rhythm. His mind didn't wander, but was acutely focused. He concentrated on the physical sensations, on every friction and thrust, trying to feel the process. For him, this was a resource extraction process.
The woman played her part well. Her hands gripped Thomas's shoulders, and small moans escaped her lips to the rhythm of Thomas's thrusts. "Ah... yes... like that..." she murmured, words she had likely uttered a thousand times.
Thomas didn't care if it was fake. He wasn't seeking intimacy. He was seeking results. He gripped the woman's hips, accelerating his pace, thrusting deeper, fully in control of the interaction. He could feel his own heartbeat quicken, not from passion, but from anticipation of the coming reward.
His release came with controlled force. He spilled his seed inside the woman, efficiently completing his task.
As soon as he was done, the atmosphere instantly changed. There was no post-coital tenderness. The woman quickly disengaged, rose, and dressed herself with the same professional movements as she had disrobed. She did not look at Thomas. Her contract had been fulfilled.
Without another word, she slipped out of the cell, disappearing into the darkness. Thomas was left alone, the scent of unfamiliar sex still lingering in the stale air of his cell. He felt empty, but also satisfied in a cold way. His investment had been executed. He had successfully converted coins earned from blood into power.
The blue panel he had been waiting for appeared.
{Intimate connection completed. Target: Prostitute (Category 1).}
{Life Essence gained: +2}
He stared at the panel until it faded. He had created his own cycle: Fight, kill, earn money, trade money for Essence, and use that Essence to fight better. A brutal cycle that would be his only way to survive and grow in this place.