Perfect 10

The latest victory had once again earned Signar an upgrade, a significant one, in terms of accommodations. This one actually had a mirror. He was not a vain person, but he hadn’t seen himself in quite some time, at least not from the perspective that the mirror offered. His outermost layer that had been fire-tested and ultimately forged into obsidian-like armor had cracked, chipped and been torn away in many places. Most concerning though was how hard it was to reshape his face.

In the before times, at least as he remembered his time before this crazy battle-world, Signar had displayed the same habits as the other inhabitants of his home world of Creeateen. His face smiled when happy, frowned when sad. It was just instinct to express emotional states, but Signar had no emotion now, he was a void inside, his thoughts now reduced to thinking about his next battle, and he had precious little to go on until Z arrived with details about the next fighter.

In the meantime, Signar took in his space. He had more of it for one, a nicer bed, even a chest, although he had only one possession, his sword. The weapon was getting duller with each battle, so Signar looked for some place to sharpen the edge. He found the actual clasp of the locking mechanism was made of a decent metal, hard enough to provide the necessary friction and hone the end of the blade. Some time passed, and Signar was focused only on improving the cutting edge. The chest however would not lock again without being refurbished.

“They will take the cost of fixing that damage out of your winnings.” Z had arrived and Signar hadn’t noticed. That bothered Signar more than he wanted to admit. Z unnerved him, and Signar had to fight his own desire to let that show, as rage was one emotion that all too easily came to the surface these days. “However, since you’re extremely wealthy, don’t give it another thought.”

“I’m wealthy?” Signar almost found that funny.

“I’ve been wagering your winnings, on you, every step of the way, as you directed,” Z explained.

“So, can I buy my freedom?”

“That’s not for sale. That is only earned. But should you accomplish that, you’ll want for nothing.”

“Oh, there are a lot of things I want.” Signar murmured.

“I don’t have all good news, however.” Z looked honestly upset. “I have learned of your next foe.”

“I don’t expect them to get easier.” Signar had learned that much, each level up on the ten tier system was a tougher and tougher battle. Skipping a few levels helped magnify that point. He had just finished fighting a level seven opponent, and it just now occurred to him, that the same thing might happen again.

“You’re a fan favorite, which means the runners of the competition need you to fail spectacularly or win quickly, so you’ve been pushed past a level ten fight. You’re going up against a Champion. They don’t fight because they are enslaved, they fight because they want to. They didn’t even ask ME this time.” Z’s disbelief was evident. “You’re up against a Cuthulu.”

“You say that word as if it’s supposed to mean something to me.”

“All your battles thus far have been bouts of strength and cunning. You’ve shown you have both. This will be different. Not only will your opponent be stronger than you, by countless factors, it will attack you mentally. You won’t know what is real or trickery. And once you’re worn out from fighting shadows, it will finish you off…in a most displeasing way…mud or not, it is going to hurt.”

“Tell me.” Signar prompted.

“It will pull you apart, down to the atom, and each time you think you’ll die, you won’t, because it’s all a part of the mind-torture. Once you’re completely immobilized, likely catatonic, it will come in for a spectacular kill. All Champions are undefeated, but instead of having one to ten battles under their belts they have hundreds if not thousands.”

“And so, the odds are against me?”

“You have a gift for understatement.” Z admitted.

“Tell me what happens if I win.”

“You get your freedom, the winnings, respect of the organization. You get the option to fight as a champion, or live a life of leisure.”

“Keep betting on me.” Signar went back to sharpening his sword.

“As you say…” Z then offered his last piece of information. “Either way, after this battle, our relationship has reached it’s end. You’ve made me rich also, and I thank you for that. I don’t expect we shall ever see each other or speak again.” With that Z left.

Signar felt very certain they would come face to face again, one last time, and Z would not enjoy or survive the encounter.

The grinding sound of metal against metal continued to be the only sound in the room.