Night brought no relief, only a denser darkness that cloaked both 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" from the afternoon. A victory that felt like a delayed defeat.
He closed his eyes, but all he saw was the brutal swing of the wooden sword, his opponent's roar, and Doctore's cold gaze. He didn't need the system to tell him that in this condition, he wouldn't survive tomorrow's training session. He was a wounded lamb amidst a pack of hungry wolves.
Amidst the silence, broken only by snores and the uneasy murmurs of other slaves, he sensed a movement nearby. He opened his eyes slowly. A thin shadow was crouching not far from him. 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, except 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. The System. Gaining power through intimate relationships. The words felt dirty and alien in his mind, the vestiges of morality from his old world rebelling. But another voice, a more primal and stronger voice, whispered to him. It was the voice of survival.
With slow movements to avoid making noise, Thomas extended his hand, displaying the leftover 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. There was no need. In this place, words were a luxury. Need was their universal language.
She lay down beside him on the itchy straw. Thomas could smell her body, the scent of sweat and fear not unlike his own. There were no kisses, no caresses. This wasn't romance. This was a barter. Bread for warmth. Warmth for Points. Points for tomorrow.
His trembling hands untied his coarse trousers. Thomas felt his penis harden, a reaction that felt mechanical and detached from his emotions. It wasn't from arousal, but from the faint urge of the system and the most basic biological need. He positioned himself over the woman's thin body. Their skin touched, feeling cold in some places, and slightly warm in others.
As he entered her, the woman let out a soft sigh that sounded more like a breath of resignation than pleasure. Her vagina was tight and only slightly wet. Every thrust in the suffocating darkness felt awkward and heavy. Thomas tried not to think about what he was doing, tried 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 his body. He could hear her ragged breaths close to his ear. He sped up his movements, driven by the desire to complete this transaction as quickly as possible. The wet squelching sounds and the rustle of skin on straw seemed incredibly loud to his ears, making him fear someone would wake up.
The climax came quickly, a release that felt more like relief from tension than ecstasy. Warm semen flowed from him, and he collapsed beside the woman, gasping for breath.
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, vanishing as if she had never been there.
Thomas lay on his back, staring at the invisible ceiling. Self-loathing began to creep over him. He had just traded food for sex with someone as desperate as himself. A part of the old Thomas Vance, that modern prince, had died tonight.
Then, the blue panel glowed before his eyes.
{Intimate relation completed. Target: Slave (No influence).}
{Points gained: +0.001}
The number was so small, so negligible. But it was something. It was his.
Without hesitation, Thomas opened the system menu in his mind. The choice was clear. Strength to fight, or stamina to endure. Tomorrow was about enduring.
{Allocate 0.001 Points to Stamina.}
An extremely faint warmth, barely perceptible, flowed into his battered body. The pain didn't disappear, but a hint of new energy snaked into his tired muscles.
It wasn't much. But it was a beginning. A beginning bought with his self-respect.
Dawn came not with gentleness, but with the harsh thump of a guard's boot against his ribs. "Wake up, you worms!" a hoarse voice yelled, followed by more kicks that roused the slaves from their fitful sleep.
Thomas jolted awake, pain shooting through his body. But something was different this morning. The faint warmth from the Stamina Points he'd gained last night still lingered, like a drop of water in a desert. His body still screamed, but it was no longer on the verge of total collapse. He could stand without feeling his knees would give out. It was a small difference, but in this place, small differences were everything.
After a miserable breakfast of bland porridge and water, the new recruits were herded into the main training yard under Doctore's cold gaze. The sun had only just risen, but its heat was already beginning to sting the skin.
"Today," 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 to die. But you will not be allowed to die."
And hell began.
They were forced to run laps around the hot, sandy yard. For experienced gladiators, it was a warm-up. For Thomas and the other recruits, it was torture. The heavy sand sucked energy from every step. The sun beat down on their necks.
At the front, moving with effortless speed, was Crixus, the Champion of Capua. His mighty muscles worked with frightening efficiency, his breathing steady. He didn't even look like he was sweating. He was the embodiment of the apex of this ludus's pyramid, a god of war among mere mortals.
Beside Thomas, Varro gasped for breath, his face pale but his eyes showing a burning determination. He glanced at Thomas, giving a brief, sympathetic nod, a silent acknowledgment of their shared suffering.
Thomas focused. He ignored his burning lungs and his legs that felt like lead. He remembered the transaction in the dark, the self-loathing, and the faint warmth of the Points he'd gained. 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 Doctore's whip.
Doctore walked among them like a grim reaper. Whenever a slave slowed, the tip of his whip would crack, leaving a red welt on their back or leg, 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 it was where Thomas's weakness was most apparent. He struggled to lift a stone that other slaves, whose bodies were more accustomed to hard labor, seemed to lift with ease. His lean muscles trembled violently.
He almost dropped his stone when 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!" Doctore growled, before continuing his stride. It was the first verbal correction Thomas had received, a surprising anomaly.
The training continued with basic attack practice on wooden posts. Thomas, with his 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 imitate, his movements stiff and slow, but he learned.
In another corner, Ashur the Syrian leaned against the wall, his deformed leg crossed. He wasn't training. He simply watched with a sly smile on his face, his beady eyes darting back and forth, noting every weakness, every small conflict. He was a snake in this sandy garden.
The morning training session ended with one final round of running. This was the finishing blow. Thomas's body was already at its limit. He could feel his vision starting to blur. But then, he felt again the remnants of that Stamina Point's power. It was his last reserve of energy. 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 breath.
He made it. He survived the first morning.
As he tried to regain his breath, a shadow passed over him. Crixus walked by haughtily, not even sparing a glance for the sprawled recruits. He grabbed a pitcher of water and drank greedily, water dripping from his chin onto his broad chest. His eyes then met Thomas's for a fleeting moment.
There were no words. Just a look. A look of disdain, disgust, 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 fist clenched on 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.