Now Shæz was the kind of woman Gideon admired—not the flirty kind with soft hands and painted smiles, but the kind who could throw a punch hard enough to knock a bear's teeth loose. That's the stuff his heart did backflips for. So, as a reward for his successful raid and for keeping Dalab entertained, Queen Fien gave Shæz to him—not as a slave, but as a companion of muscle and presence. Gideon wasn't one to chase skirts, but he liked having her near. She was his blade in public, his shadow in private.
Meanwhile, the Miteon girl, tied and beautiful, wasn't so lucky. She was sent to the depths of the sex dungeon—a grimy underground luxury palace where beauty was a curse and pleasure was just another performance.
Now, it was the day Dalab had been beating its drums for: Judgment Day. Not the apocalyptic one—though with the way the arena was packed, it might as well have been. The air was electric. This was the biggest event in Dalab's chaotic history, and Queen Fien had promised a guest of honor unlike any the city had ever seen.
"A Setrum," she had whispered to the nobles. A god. One of the mighty. The crowd didn't believe it. I mean, come on—Setrums didn't do gladiator shows. They weren't into sweaty screaming or sand-stained seats. They ruled from the stars. Still, there was buzz. Hope. Doubt. Betting lines.
But then, as the crowd's chant reached fever pitch, Queen Fien stood in her tower and lifted her golden arms, glowing like a flame in the dusk. "Citizens of Dalab," she shouted, "today, history bends in your favor! Today, I welcome our honored guest—not just a Setrum, but a legend—Hennekas!"
Boom. The arena shook with gasps. Hennekas, the Hero of the High Flame, the Keeper of the Sword of Arven, had entered the pit. And oh, he didn't come quietly.
Draped in ancient Ozelean robes, his golden skin pulsing with energy, he descended into the arena like a god taking a stroll through chaos. Behind him, a legion of Ozelean warriors in full armor—faces hidden, discipline sharp. Even the Oxeds perched high in the arena balconies bowed their horned heads.
This wasn't just a show anymore. Dalab was no longer the back-alley Vegas of Senedro. This was political now. This was power.
And in the ring, the three gladiators were lined up like sacrifices... or stars. Depending on how the fight would go.
"Dalab!" the Queen's hype-man roared, his voice booming through the packed arena like thunder on steroids. "We have in the ring... Gulutel of Zela! Shean of Zela! And—Nameless of Das!"
The crowd exploded. Horns blared. Cups flew. Somewhere, someone probably passed out from the sheer drama.
The sand cracked under their feet as the three gladiators stepped forward, faces carved in stone. Then came the Bala—rolling in on a golden platform carried by four Denefremims. A magical cube of shimmering black energy, pulsing like a caged heart. This was it.
Now, for anyone not in the loop—Judgment Day wasn't about gladiators. It was about Shams. The twisted half-spirit offspring of Setrums and Senedro mortals. Usually too chaotic to be trusted, but too powerful to ignore. On this day, any Sham who dared to dream of freedom had to earn it the old-fashioned way—by surviving the arena. Gladiators were their final exam.
The Queen's hype-man raised both arms like he was conducting a storm.
"Dalab!" he bellowed, "give it all for... Gezz the Sham! Son of Jessen, son of the Ozeleans!"
Boom. The locks of the Bala cracked open like the earth splitting. Light exploded from it, and from within the chaos stepped Gezz. Not just any Sham.
This one was carved from nightmare. No wings—but six arms, each one bulging with divine rage. Glowing tattoos ran down his charcoal skin, shifting like fire under oil. His eyes—two suns, burning orange.
The arena fell silent. No one sipped, no one shouted. Even the Oxeds above leaned forward. This was no ordinary blood sport anymore. This was myth. Gezz didn't roar. He didn't shout. He just moved—and the ground felt it. With every step, the sand hissed and shifted.
And then— He attacked.
The gladiators moved like one—tight formation, sharp minds, blades drawn. The crowd went electric. Even Hennekas leaned forward in his seat, eyes locked on the arena. This wasn't just entertainment anymore. It was art.
Jim was the first to lunge, faster than a Miteon whisper, and locked eyes with the Sham. Time slowed. The crowd held its breath.
The one-winged Miteon shot into the air, defying logic and gravity alike. Somehow, that lone wing kept him balanced as he spiraled, dodging the first punch—then the second—then a third that came from a different angle. But the fourth caught him clean. A crunch. A scream. He crashed down.
Gulutel, fueled by rage, took to the air with a primal roar, blade flashing. One clean slice—he hacked off one of the Sham's six arms. The arena erupted. Jim didn't waste the moment—he zipped in like lightning, legs of the Sham sliced beneath it. It toppled.
Victory, it seemed, had been served. But no—this was a Sham. And this Sham, Gezz, was different. Its flesh pulsed. Regrew. Regenerated. The limbs came back—not the same, but stronger. Thicker. Vicious. And it rose—taller. Meaner.
Then it struck.
The Miteon, mid-air again, was met with a hand the size of a Denefremim beast. One moment he was whole, the next—sliced in two. Gasps. Screams. Applause.
Gulutel screamed and charged with the fury of ten. He was a blur of power—but Gezz met him with something cold and final. A swipe. A thud. Gulutel's head rolled to the sand.
The crowd was wild now. Some in horror. Most in ecstasy. Blood was the price of entertainment in Dalab.
Jim stood alone. He moved with precision. Reading the Sham. Dodging, weaving, striking. It was a deadly dance—but Gezz was evolving, adapting. Jim leapt in, blade out, one final move to end it—
And missed.
One slam. One hit.
And Jim, the fastest Denefremim the arena had seen, lost his head.
Silence. Then chaos. The battle was over. Gezz, son of Jessen, half-Ozelean, stood victorious. Yes, victorious and free.