Longing is a beautiful flower that can bloom in the madness of resentment.

  - Unknown.

  Always have I found that hope could bloom wildly in the most unlikely of soil. For without it, I’m certain mankind would have never ventured out of the caves. That bad thing will never happen to me; there’s always a chance, was the common thought echoing through our collective minds across the ages. It defied logic and reason. But, for every tale of happiness and success, there were ten dire warnings of the opposite.

  Yet, still, man hoped—hoped for a better present, a better tomorrow. Hoped against all odds, like the man who almost still a boy standing before me now.

  A girl of perhaps just ten years stood by the arena, looking seriously at the man. Shouting at him to do his best. Crying out with all of her heart for him to win. There, hope shone in her eyes, a bright light that was soon reflected in the man’s own. She believed in him.

  The fires of hope should be stoked. And, a part of me hoped that this one would provide me with entertainment, but I prepared myself for disappointment.

  The judge cut lazily down with his wooden sword, signaling that we should begin our fight to the death.

  I rolled my shoulders, relaxing myself. “Before we begin, I will do you the honor of letting you tell me your name,” I opened mildly, my voice slightly muffled by my face covering.

  The light of new determination shone in the man’s eyes. He was lithe and limber, the thin clothes provided by the organizers of the tournament doing little to hide muscles that seemed as if carved of dark ebony. “I am Khalil al-Farouq,” he stated plainly, his courage refound.

  I raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “And, why do you fight, Khalil? That you risk life and limb? Knowing that ardently you court death.”

  “For my sister, she has a weak heart. She needs medicine and healing to cure her of her condition,” he stated, glancing to his right back to the girl who had been shouting him encouragement.

  I had to suppress a laugh at the cliche.

  It was time to give Khalil a little extra encouragement. I cast Identify, weaving the spell into tendrils that sped toward the girl who I believed to be his younger sister.

  “A noble cause. Once, I am done with you and have won this competition, I will be sure to give my loving regards to your little sister Melis. She is known to me, now.”

  The young man’s eyes widened in shock. “How did you…?” he said aghast, eyes wild and unbelieving.

  “You were right, of course. This is an execution. Know that if you resist me, your Melis will suffer terribly,” was my cold statement of fact. I relished each syllable delivered, enjoying the play of emotions that warred across Khalil’s face.

  “Do you think any one of those remaining losers can stop me? Think on it, I just need to make my way through Vindication and retire to fulfill my promise to you, Khalil Al-Farouq. Know that my touch is slow and unkind,” I added coldly.

  And just like that, hope withered and died.

  Like a shocked woman, Khalil knelt on the warm stone, all power drained from him and all the fight gone. A puppet with its string cut. The crowd booed, robbed of their ration of violence. I raised both hands, thumbs down and the masses understood. They stood up, almost as one, mimicking my gesture, and calling for his execution. The cruelty of a combined humanity made a mockery of all the small mercies.

  An eminent Chinese philosopher-scholar had been correct, the supreme art was to subdue your opponent without fighting. Still, a part of me cursed the unfair rules of the game that did not reward with a point in Charisma for such a well-delivered threat.

  My next move, a spinning kick that had the power of an Entropic Strike behind it, smacked into his skull, all but decapitating his head cleanly from his shoulders. I had reduced Khalil to so much meat and a number.

  “You have nothing but your own weakness to blame,” I whispered to his corpse.

  Looking to my left, I took in the sight of Melis, her face a story of unbelieving, abject horror, and shattered hope. Khalil your life had not been in vain, for right at the end it had meaning. You have my thanks, and for that, I might even go about and heal your sister if the whim takes me. Having gained in skills, I had a reason to be generous.

  Hidden beneath my face covering, I smiled a secret smile and I congratulated myself on my growth as a person, basking in the crowd's adulation. The beast roared as I fed it what it wanted. And, feed more it would until we were both sated.

  *****

  What followed the death of Khalil was a lesson in the frailties of the human condition. I twisted limbs into odd shapes, spilled guts with my bare hands, and once, all but caved in a man’s chest with a powerful blow. To one such as I, a man who had been chosen, these easy victories were proof of my holy mandate.

  My purpose.

  I came to realize how truly weak was the human body not blessed by divine providence. The Mother had been right, you were either the sacrifice or the priest with the knife. One after another, they offered their lives to me, some with screams of challenge and others with the mewling of the lost.

  But, none were quite as satisfying as one of the first. That had been an offering given that most sweet, but his name was lost to me. Lost in the repetition of system messages that heralded my achievements. Overall, I had reaped a harvest of another two hundred experience points. It was a small, but considerable, step to my next level in power. A symbol of my devotion to my path to growing my power.

  Now, before stood the lizardman, the Beastkin, his claws and maw stained red with the blood of his innocent victims.

  Oh, honored dead, I will avenge you soon. Khalil, your death will be avenged, on your sister’s life I swear it. I will water the stone with this animal’s blood.

  These thoughts felt odd to me, disjointed and untrue. But, the feelings behind them, that was as true, as straight and as true as the path I walked. Knowing that to doubt oneself was a sign of weakness, I shrugged off my doubt like an unwanted garment. I would add the Beastkin as an offering, a new token of experience, and at the same avenge an old friend.

  Khalil had deserved better than being ripped apart by this, this, this animal. I quivered with mad, holy rage.

  “Melis, don’t worry I’ll get his one for your brother,” I swore under my breath, glaring across at the hulking form of the lizardman.

  The judge gave me an odd, worried look. He had seen me reap my holy harvest. His previous looks of disinterest had changed from mild disinterest to almost unholy fascination. The wooden ceremonial shook in his hand as he cut down with it before racing off the stone platform.

  The Beastkin, like all of their kind, was a nightmarish fusion of man and animal. It was as if a hulking alligator had one day decided to rise on two legs and mimic the movements of a man. Thick, corded muscles rippled beneath his rough, uneven scales, which gleamed a dull, swampy green, flecked with shades of bronze where the afternoon light caught them. His front arms, disproportionately long and knotted with sinew, hung low, claws dragging inches from the stone of the arena like the mittens of some twisted reptilian gorilla. Each dirty talon was curved and stained red with blood, scratching at the stone as if eager to carve through flesh. His long fat tail thumped the hard stone floor in an angry beat, a code for his primal rage.

  Hunched wide were in a perpetual forward lean, emphasizing the monstrous difference between his hulking forelimbs and his squat, stumpy hind legs. The scales along his back were rougher still, thicker, layered protective plates that shifted as he moved. The lizardman Beastkin’s was heavy and plodding, yet at the same time, somehow disturbingly fluid in its predatory grace.

  His eyes were cold and reptilian, unblinking as he stared at me as if I were a lump of meat. A long pink tongue slithered between sharp teeth that promised cruel savagery.

  If I had my way, I would turn him into shoes and a handbag for Larynda.

  The Beastkin was a cheater. Being encased in such natural armor and equipped with natural weapons, this one’s existence made a mockery of the Festival’s rules. However, to one such as I, it presented not a threat, but an opportunity. An opportunity to test one of my skills without any real repercussion.

  Wrapped up as I was in these thoughts, the lizardman thought it saw an opportunity. The creature lunged forward and spun around, its meaty tail whipping through the air with a sharp crack. I sidestepped and ducked under the whip with ease, watching the powerful limb sail past, narrowly missing me. A flash of jagged teeth followed, jaws snapping shut in a vicious attempt to catch me, but I was already moving, weaving through an attack of its raking claws. Its movements, though fluid, were predictable. Its near-human form made it so.

  “You are a monster!” it screeched in frustration.

  Chuckling to myself, I could not help but appreciate the irony of the statement.

  I centered myself, waiting for the perfect moment. The technique required a shout from within that quietened the roar of the void within to create a subtle flow of energy. An energy not born of Mana, but Kai, that would pierce the beast’s thick hide. As it reared back, preparing for another strike, I surged forward with Dash. My open palm connected with its armored chest, right where a human’s heart would be For a moment, nothing happened, the beast’s cold eyes blinking in confusion.

  Then the resonance began.

  I felt the energy of it rippling subtly through where my hand touched its body, an unseen but unmistakable force that vibrated beneath the layers of its thick scale hide.

  Revelation came to me in that moment. I realized then that it was not the external force of the blow that mattered, but the internal disruption that followed soon after. The energy released by the blow needed armor to keep in the subtle force. And thick scale did not have the resonance a metal hide could provide.

  However, the lizardman’s movements faltered nonetheless.

  A pained hiss escaped its throat, slit eyes widening as it tried to comprehend the source of the damage. It had not been a killing blow, nowhere near close,

  Still, it had been an education.

  With grim satisfaction, I watched as it roared at me, tail thumping at the ground with anger. The Beastkin thought me weak. Lotus Palm, after all, was but a level one skill.

  I would have to go about this the old-fashioned way.

  The lizard lashed its tail at me again, but this time I caught it mid-swing, rolling with its momentum and adding my own strength to the rotation. In one fluid motion, I hurled the Beastkin, smashing its massive body into the stone floor. I had used an adapted version of Willow Weeps, a technique designed to divert the force of a kick. It had not been an overly difficult proposition to substitute a leg with a tail.

  I straddled the stunned creature’s crocodilian head, glancing around at the crowd for their reaction. Almost every hand pointed downward, their thumbs signaling for its death. The bloodthirsty demand hung in the air.

  And who was I to deny them their spectacle?

  With a grim smile, I grabbed the ends of its snout and ripped its mouth open in a violent, bloody tear and explosion of violence. The Beastkin’s cold-blooded body twitched, its nerves still processing what had just happened. Moments later, its quivering stopped.

  Then, the familiar message appeared, a confirmation of my absolute victory.