Pain. Sharp and deep, like a shiv between the ribs. That's what dragged Levi up from the dark. He sucked air through gritted teeth – each breath scraping like a rusty saw on bone. Infirmary. Dank stone walls. Bandages crusted brown and reeking of cheap rot-gut alcohol and old blood. He knew places like this. Back-alley butcher shops posing as clinics. Places where you woke up lighter – a coin purse gone, a kidney missing. His good hand flew to his chest. Still there. Still whole. Mostly.
His eyes swept the room. Empty cots. Stripped bare. Floors scrubbed raw, but the ghosts of bloodstains lingered in the cracks like accusing shadows. Gone. All of them. giant, with his crooked grin and knack for slipping stale bread from the guards' trash. the Old Man, coughing his lungs into rags in the corner. The silent twins who huddled together like frightened birds. Cleared out. Like rubbish tossed after market day. No tears. Slum rats like him learned young: tears watered nothing but the dirt you'd end up buried in. A cold, hard fist squeezed his gut anyway. Just meat to them. We were always just meat.
The door crashed open. No knock. Never a knock. Two slabs of muscle armored in polished arena-black iron filled the doorway. They hauled him upright like a sack of grain. Levi bit down on the scream that clawed up his throat – only a strangled grunt escaped as his shoulder shifted, grinding bone on bone. No use fighting. Conserve energy. Read the room. They dragged him, boots scraping stone, past lurid tapestries that screamed silently: painted monsters tearing apart painted men beneath painted, cheering crowds. Real monsters, Levi thought bitterly, tasting copper in his mouth, pay better. Up. Always up. Where the air grew thick with the cloying stench of roasted meat and sickly-sweet perfume. VIPs. The ones who placed bets on how long his blood would stain the sand.
They flung him through towering double doors carved with seven interlocking masks – grinning, weeping, roaring – a chain of frozen torment. He hit the floor, pain exploding through his ribs.
The room beyond swallowed sound. Plush crimson carpets drank his ragged breaths. Walls paneled in dark, oily wood absorbed the light from guttering braziers. At its center stood a massive circular table of black, glassy stone – a butcher's block polished to a cruel shine. Seven figures sat around it, draped in robes the color of dried, flaking blood. Hoods cast deep shadows… but beneath them, where faces should have been… nothing. Smooth as river-worn stone. No eyes. No mouths. No nostrils. Just… blank flesh stretched taut over unseen bone. Levi's slum-honed instincts screamed a single word: Predators.
The central figure – Xeno – gestured with a sleeve that ended in nothingness. His voice was cold grease sliding over stone: "Sit, Victor, what is your name."
Victor. The word tasted like ash and bile. Levi pushed himself up, ignoring the fire in his side, and slumped into the heavy chair facing them. His eyes darted, assessing, cataloging threats like valuables in a mark's pocket:
Xeno (Father): Utterly still. A grave marker given voice. Authority radiated from him like cold.
Nyx (Mother): To Xeno's right. Motionless. Cold as a winter well dug too deep. Watching.
Kael (Brother): To Xeno's left. Leaned back in his chair, radiating arrogant boredom like a stink. Dangerous idleness.
Lita (Sister): Twitching. Fingers drumming the obsidian tabletop with the skittering rhythm of spider legs. Pure, unhinged energy barely contained.
Vorlag (Uncle): Thick neck corded with muscle, flushed a deep, angry red. Fists like lumpy anvils clenched on the table. Barely leashed violence.
Silas (Grandfather) & Moraine (Grandmother): Flanking the others. Utterly silent. Observing with the unnerving stillness of ancient, weathered stones.
Xeno's blank visage seemed to fix on Levi, a void demanding focus. "You killed our Krag. A cheap beast. But… efficient." The compliment was colder than the dungeon stones.
Kael snorted, a dismissive puff of air. "Got lucky. Thing was arena-soft. Fat and slow." Contempt dripped from every syllable.
Lita's giggle shattered the air like dropped glass. "Lucky? He BIT its spine OUT! Dug it free like a grub! Glorious, messy, WONDERFUL!" She vibrated in her seat.
Vorlag slammed one massive fist onto the table. The impact was a dull, heavy thud like a body hitting packed earth. "Enough chatter. His choice: Serve. Or scream." His voice was gravel grinding bone.
Xeno raised a sleeve. Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. "We offer service, Levi. Become a Venator." He let the title hang. "Hunt what flees the Carnifex. Beasts that slip their chains. Prisoners who dream of freedom. Traitors who forget their place. Do this… earn your freedom. One hunt at a time. you also have to fight to the death in the arena to amuse your audience."
Levi's jaw clenched. Hunt people? Round them up like stray dogs for the knacker's yard? He'd seen it done in the Warrens. Knew the price paid in blood and broken souls. He met Xeno's non-gaze, voice scraping raw from his throat. "And if I say no?" Gotta know the trap, the slum rat whispered in his mind, before you step in it.
The air curdled. Moraine's smooth head tilted sharply, a bird spotting carrion. Silas remained impassive. Vorlag rumbled, a sound like distant thunder.
Xeno leaned forward. The smooth blankness of his face felt like a sinkhole threatening to pull Levi in. "Refuse?" The word slithered out, thick with slaughterhouse promise. "Then you return to the sand. Not as fighter. As bait. Weekly. We patch you up. Feed you strength. Let the crowd roar for your death... And then…" A pause, heavy as a coffin lid. "...we loose something new. A Bonegnasher that cracks marrow for the sweetness.Or maybe a Screamweaver that spins agony into song. Things that take days to finish their meal. and if you manage to survive again?" That smooth void seemed almost to smile. "We drag you back. Heal you. Perfectly. Do it again. And again. An eternity of agony."
Lita clapped her hands, a rapid, brittle sound. "Season Pass! 'Levi's Agony: Reloaded!' Oh, the merch alone!"
Ice flooded Levi's veins, colder than the deepest Warren winter. Not death. Harvest. Endless. Recycled torment. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the cold stone arms of the chair. He saw the Krag's horn punching into wet jelly. Saw Jax's empty cot. Heard the crowd's roar, hungry and insatiable. The rules of the gutter were clear: When the alley's blocked by wolves, you take the sewer. Survival was never clean. It was always ugly. Always paid in blood.
He met the void where Xeno's face wasn't. No dramatics. No grand speech. Just the flat, cold calculus of the streets laid bare. "I guess I don't have a choice then."
Nyx gave a single, slow, almost imperceptible nod. Lita vibrated with glee. Vorlag grunted, satisfied.
Xeno spread his sleeve-less arms wide in a grotesque parody of welcome. "Smart, levi. Very smart. Report to the Blood Pit at dawn." The faceless head tilted, a final, chilling punctuation. "Welcome to the Carnifex, Venator."
The words weren't an invitation. They were a brand. Seared onto his soul.