Night brought no relief, only a thicker darkness that enveloped predator and prey in the same shroud. Thomas lay on the prickly, damp straw, every muscle fiber in his body screaming in protest. The pain in his ribs was a constant reminder of his "victory" earlier that afternoon. A victory that felt like a delayed defeat. He closed his eyes, but all he saw were the brutal swings of the wooden swords, the roars of his opponents, and the Doctore's cold gaze. He didn't need the system to tell him that in this condition, he wouldn't survive past tomorrow's training session. He was a wounded lamb amidst a hungry pack of wolves.
In the silence, broken only by snores and the restless murmurs of other slaves, he felt a movement near him. He slowly opened his eyes. A thin shadow was crouched not far away. In the dim light filtering through a crack in the wall, he could see a pair of large eyes staring at him with a mix of fear and something else, something desperate. It was a female slave, one of the survivors of the initial culling, her face gaunt and dirty.
Thomas didn't move. He knew he had nothing worth stealing, save for the remaining half of his hard bread, which he clutched tightly to his body. The woman seemed to understand. Her eyes glanced at the bread for a moment, then returned to Thomas's face. There was a silent understanding between them. Both were at the bottom of the abyss, struggling for any foothold. Thomas's mind raced again. System. Gaining power through intimate connection. The words felt dirty and alien in his mind, remnants of his old world's morality revolting. But another voice, a more primal and powerful one, whispered to him. The voice of survival.
With slow, silent movements, Thomas extended his hand, offering the remaining bread. It wasn't a question. It was an offer. The woman hesitated for a moment, her eyes scanning the darkness around them. Then, with equally slow movements, she crawled closer. She said nothing. No need. In this place, words were a luxury. Need was their universal language. She lay beside him on the itching straw. Thomas could smell her, the scent of sweat and fear not far removed from his own. There were no kisses, no caresses. This wasn't romance. This was a barter. Bread for warmth. Warmth for Essence. Essence for tomorrow.
His trembling hand undid his crude loincloth. Thomas felt his penis harden, a reaction that felt mechanical and detached from his emotions. It wasn't out of lust, but a faint systemic impulse and the most basic biological need. He positioned himself over the woman's thin body. Their skin made contact, cold in some parts, slightly warm in others. As he entered her, the woman let out a soft sigh that sounded more like a sigh of resignation than pleasure. Her vagina was narrow and only slightly wet. Each thrust in the suffocating darkness felt awkward and heavy. Thomas tried not to think about what he was doing, trying to detach his mind from his body. He focused only on the end goal. On the numbers he needed.
He could feel the woman's hip bones pressing against him. He could hear her ragged breathing close to his ear. He sped up his movements, driven by a desire to complete this transaction as quickly as possible. The wet squishing and friction of skin on straw sounded incredibly loud in his ears, making him fear someone would wake. His climax came quickly, a release that felt more like relief from tension than ecstasy. Warm semen spilled from him, and he collapsed beside the woman, panting.
An awkward silence settled between them. Without a word, the woman took the piece of bread from Thomas's hand. Her figure then slipped away, returning to her dark corner, disappearing as if she had never been there. Thomas lay on his back, staring at the invisible ceiling. Self-loathing began to creep in. He had just traded food for sex with someone as desperate as himself. A part of the old Thomas Vance, the modern prince, had died tonight. Then, the blue panel glowed before his eyes.
{Intimate connection completed. Target: Slave (Category 1).}
{Life Essence gained: +2}
The number was small, but real. He felt no warmth or surge of power. The Essence was simply stored, a cold resource waiting to be used. It wasn't much. But it was a beginning. A beginning bought with his dignity.
Dawn came not with gentleness, but with the brutal impact of a guard's boot to his ribs. "Wake up, you worms!" a hoarse voice bellowed, followed by other kicks that roused the slaves from their fitful sleep. Thomas jolted awake, pain shooting through his body.
His body felt crushed, every muscle screaming. He knew he wouldn't even make it through warm-ups. With quiet panic, he focused his intent on the system. Use one Essence. Physical Surge.
A brief warmth and energy spread from his chest. It wasn't healing. The pain was still there, but for a moment, the small burst of energy dampened it, giving him the strength to force his body upright without his knees giving out. It was a small difference, but in this place, small differences were everything.
After a miserable breakfast of bland gruel and water, the new recruits were herded into the main training yard under the Doctore's cold gaze. The sun had just risen, but its heat was already beginning to sting the skin. "Today," the Doctore said, his voice flat and emotionless, "you will learn the meaning of pain. You will run until your lungs burn. You will lift weights until your muscles tear. You will wish for death. But you will not be allowed to die." And hell began.
They were forced to run laps around the hot, sandy yard. For the experienced gladiators, it was a warm-up. For Thomas and the other recruits, it was torture. The heavy sand sapped energy from every step. The sun beat down on their necks. In front, moving with effortless grace, was Crixus, the Champion of Capua. His mighty muscles worked with terrifying efficiency, his breathing steady. He didn't even seem to be sweating. He was the embodiment of this ludus's apex predator, a god of war among mere mortals. Beside Thomas, Varro gasped for breath, his face pale but his eyes showing burning determination. He glanced at Thomas, giving a short, sympathetic nod, a silent acknowledgment of their shared suffering.
Thomas focused himself. He ignored his burning lungs and his legs that felt like lead. He remembered the transaction in the darkness, the self-loathing, and the brief burst of energy he had just used. This is the price, he thought bitterly. This is what I bought. He kept running, driven by the knowledge that stopping meant feeling the end of the Doctore's whip.
The Doctore walked among them like an angel of death. Whenever a slave slowed, the tip of his whip would crack, leaving red welts on their backs or legs, a brutal and effective correction.
After running, they were ordered to lift large stones and move them from one side of the yard to the other. This was a test of pure strength, and this was where Thomas's weakness was most apparent. He struggled to lift stones that other slaves, whose bodies were more accustomed to hard labor, seemed to lift with ease. His scrawny muscles trembled violently.
He almost dropped his stone when the Doctore stopped in front of him. The man's gaze felt heavier than the stone in his hands. "Use your legs, not just your back, fool!" the Doctore growled, before continuing on his way. It was the first verbal correction Thomas had received.
Training continued with basic attack drills on wooden posts. Thomas, with unaccustomed hands, held the wooden sword awkwardly. But he used his intelligence. He observed how the senior gladiators moved their hips, how they rotated their shoulders. He tried to mimic, his movements stiff and slow, but he was learning.
In another corner, Ashur the Syrian leaned against the wall, his crippled leg crossed. He wasn't training. He merely observed with a cunning smile on his face, his small eyes darting back and forth, noting every weakness, every minor conflict. He was a snake in this sandy garden.
The morning training session ended with one final round of running. This was the final blow. Thomas's body had reached its limit. He could feel his vision blurring. He gritted his teeth and forced his legs to keep moving, crossing the finish line just before he collapsed to his knees, coughing and gasping for air.
He had made it. He had survived the first morning.
As he tried to catch his breath, a shadow fell over him. Crixus walked past haughtily, not even glancing at the sprawled recruits. He grabbed a water jug and drank greedily, water dripping from his chin onto his broad chest. His eyes then met Thomas's for a fleeting moment.
No words. Just a look. A look of disgust, contempt, and absolute certainty. The look of a god at an insect. In Crixus's eyes, Thomas wasn't even worthy of being on the same sand as him.
Thomas looked away, his fists clenched in the hot sand. He might have survived today, but that look was a stark reminder of his place. He was at the bottom. And the path to the top seemed impossible to climb.