Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Brian McGoldrick
cannot think that far ahead. It is more likely he is thinking, “duh big beats man duh small man.”
The smaller gladiator picks up a pair of swords similar to scimitars, except with a heavier curve to the blade than a normal scimitar. He is resting the backs of the blades on his shoulders as he takes his position.
“Begin!”
The remaining noob slaves are exchanging grins and whispering among themselves. I do not recognize the language they are using. It is not the Slave Tongue. While it has that odd rolling quality to the words that Swedish does, I doubt that it is Swedish.
The slave opens up with a charging stab, using his greatsword more like a lance than an edged weapon, and the gladiator avoids it with a small side step. When the slave follows up by trying to hit the gladiator with the hilt, the gladiator dances out of range. As the slave lashes out with a vertical slash at waist height, the gladiator rolls under it and steps past him.
Time and again the pattern is repeated. The slave attacks, and the gladiator makes him look completely incompetent.
“Even an incompetent Gladiator will turn you into a meat bag, bleeding out all over the arena sands. The Masters will love you! Well, they'll love you for the one fight you'll die in. Time to end this.”
The gladiator attacks for the first time. Jumping over a low slash, he hammers the hilts of both his swords into the slaves face. As the slave staggers back, the Gladiator begins to hammer his slashing blades into the vulnerable nerve clusters on the slave's body. It takes him less than thirty seconds to turn the slave into a quivering wretch, cowering on the sand.
I have seldom seen the inhabitants of the Labyrinth or Yggr stripped of their Power. These slaves are moving as though they have virtually no training in actual combat skills. Could they have relied entirely on their Power fueled abilities, without ever learning the physical skills of combat?
During the Great Fuck Over, the majority of the Damned were like that. Even after dozens or hundreds of battles, they had only limited skill and relied their mana driven abilities. The few who were ki adepts seemed to be different. They had a different mindset and studied martial styles that caught their interest. There were the ones like Thorrin as well, older men with experience in the US military before the changeover to drones or in foreign militaries that still used people. They always had real skill and worked hard to improve it. They were among the most lethal of the Damned.
The next seven fights follow the same pattern. Other than the slave with the broken shoulder, I am the only one left.
The Throd'nahk glares at me, and I meet it with a mocking smile. He turns his attention to the slave whose shoulder he broke.
“You join the rest of your trash tribe. You aren't worth a Gladiator's time.”
Shame, anger, and fear warring on his face, the slave sullenly moves over to the group of defeated slaves. Most of those slaves are staring at me with a mix of hate and mockery. They are expecting me to fare the same as or worse than themselves.
I lock stares with the Throd'nahk again. He is big and filled with hate, but he is not dumb. His narrowed eyes reveal a cold, calculating intelligence.
The Throd'nahk looks at the blond pretty boy and uses the DokkAlfar language. “Cletus, you are fighting this one.”
Cletus stares at the Throd'nahk, his mouth hanging agape. “Why should I fight him? I'm the Champion of Gor'achen! He's nothing but new trash!”
Gor'achen would be Gor'achen Citadel. I am in one of the Seven Great Citadels. With that citadel that was hanging over the ocean, it is not surprising that DokkAlfar slut is actually a resident of the Citadel. Escape is going to more difficult than I would like.
The Throd'nahk's expression turns cold, and his lethal intent fills the arena. “I am Throd'nahk. You will do as I tell you.”
Cletus bows his head, but his eyes are still filled with
The smaller gladiator picks up a pair of swords similar to scimitars, except with a heavier curve to the blade than a normal scimitar. He is resting the backs of the blades on his shoulders as he takes his position.
“Begin!”
The remaining noob slaves are exchanging grins and whispering among themselves. I do not recognize the language they are using. It is not the Slave Tongue. While it has that odd rolling quality to the words that Swedish does, I doubt that it is Swedish.
The slave opens up with a charging stab, using his greatsword more like a lance than an edged weapon, and the gladiator avoids it with a small side step. When the slave follows up by trying to hit the gladiator with the hilt, the gladiator dances out of range. As the slave lashes out with a vertical slash at waist height, the gladiator rolls under it and steps past him.
Time and again the pattern is repeated. The slave attacks, and the gladiator makes him look completely incompetent.
“Even an incompetent Gladiator will turn you into a meat bag, bleeding out all over the arena sands. The Masters will love you! Well, they'll love you for the one fight you'll die in. Time to end this.”
The gladiator attacks for the first time. Jumping over a low slash, he hammers the hilts of both his swords into the slaves face. As the slave staggers back, the Gladiator begins to hammer his slashing blades into the vulnerable nerve clusters on the slave's body. It takes him less than thirty seconds to turn the slave into a quivering wretch, cowering on the sand.
I have seldom seen the inhabitants of the Labyrinth or Yggr stripped of their Power. These slaves are moving as though they have virtually no training in actual combat skills. Could they have relied entirely on their Power fueled abilities, without ever learning the physical skills of combat?
During the Great Fuck Over, the majority of the Damned were like that. Even after dozens or hundreds of battles, they had only limited skill and relied their mana driven abilities. The few who were ki adepts seemed to be different. They had a different mindset and studied martial styles that caught their interest. There were the ones like Thorrin as well, older men with experience in the US military before the changeover to drones or in foreign militaries that still used people. They always had real skill and worked hard to improve it. They were among the most lethal of the Damned.
The next seven fights follow the same pattern. Other than the slave with the broken shoulder, I am the only one left.
The Throd'nahk glares at me, and I meet it with a mocking smile. He turns his attention to the slave whose shoulder he broke.
“You join the rest of your trash tribe. You aren't worth a Gladiator's time.”
Shame, anger, and fear warring on his face, the slave sullenly moves over to the group of defeated slaves. Most of those slaves are staring at me with a mix of hate and mockery. They are expecting me to fare the same as or worse than themselves.
I lock stares with the Throd'nahk again. He is big and filled with hate, but he is not dumb. His narrowed eyes reveal a cold, calculating intelligence.
The Throd'nahk looks at the blond pretty boy and uses the DokkAlfar language. “Cletus, you are fighting this one.”
Cletus stares at the Throd'nahk, his mouth hanging agape. “Why should I fight him? I'm the Champion of Gor'achen! He's nothing but new trash!”
Gor'achen would be Gor'achen Citadel. I am in one of the Seven Great Citadels. With that citadel that was hanging over the ocean, it is not surprising that DokkAlfar slut is actually a resident of the Citadel. Escape is going to more difficult than I would like.
The Throd'nahk's expression turns cold, and his lethal intent fills the arena. “I am Throd'nahk. You will do as I tell you.”
Cletus bows his head, but his eyes are still filled with
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