Many years "ago."
Erik was sitting in a gloomy waiting room, his heart filled with sadness and injustice, his blue eyes emptied and fatigued by his time spent as a gladiator.
A slave collar sealed his neck, binding his freedom and soul. Many scars littered his warrior body, disfiguring face and back. Shaved beard, half-naked, and a bandage wrapped around his muscular chest hiding rocks that mimicked fake women's breasts. Bear fur covered his thick thighs like a robe. His long red hair was braided the traditional Basara way.
For this special occasion, the celestians had gender-bent his appearance in a ridiculous way, going as far as adding feminine makeup to his face.
Outside, a man screamed in agony.
'For how many more years must I endure this disgrace?' He thought, clenching his fists.
Honor and glory were the most important values of Norse cultivators, but here, in this coliseum, this foreign country, neither were his to claim. He cared little about his current appearance, instead suffering for what was lost.
Losing his honor was comparable to losing a lover. Failing to claim his glory was like uprooting a part of his soul.
The crowd went wild, exclaiming their joy at the bloody display mounted for their entertainment.
'Damnation.' Erik started doubting his cultivation path that had been so clear to him before he fled the Basara clan because of his inability to wield axes.
Before a simple slaver group attacked him, killed his best friend on the road, and enslaved him because of his own powerlessness at fifteen years old.
Before he found his talent as a pugilist and forsook the axe for the fists.
An imperious voice boomed, ordering silence. "We are glad to see the festivities are to your liking, my citizens." Claps and approving shouts. "Now, we ask you, what would you have this emperor order for the loser?"
"Kill! Kill! Kill!" The spectators shouted for more blood to be spilled.
Disgusted, Erik gritted his teeth; one could die during a fight, one could die for his dishonorable acts, one could die to protect but none should die for the sake of another's entertainment. To a Norse cultivator, there was no glory nor honor in that.
Excited voices and laughter echoed in the coliseum and loud anxious steps in the corridor. Someone Erik knew and liked despite his rash ways entered the waiting room.
Maximus Aurelius, his trainer, a burly black man wearing leather armor, approached him. "Are you ready, Erik?"
"I'm always ready for a fight," he replied in fluent celestian, getting to his feet. Measuring around 190 centimeters tall, the Norse cultivator towered his trainer by one head. "But I'm never ready for this humiliation, Max."
"Norsemen and their pride," Maximus grinned. "Well, it's comprehensible in a way since the Celeste System does not reward your people for fighting in the arena."
"Fate System," Erik corrected. "Your emperor's shameless appropriation of the Weavers' creation is irritating"
Depending on the culture, people called the mystical system that helped cultivators reach greater heights differently; Celeste System, Magic System, Fate System, they were all the same but in name.
"Aye, aye, if you say so. I know not the truth, though I know this: today, for your thirtieth birthday, you fight for freedom, my friend."
Erik scoffed. "Again with this nonsense. You know perfectly well they'll never give a 'barbarian' his freedom."
Maximus shrugged and chuckled. He gripped Erik's broad shoulder the warrior way. "Be patient. A day will come when your aura will soar."
"Wyrd, not aura." Erik corrected again.
"Aye, aye, all the same."
Outside, the spectators calmed down, and the arena's entertainer coughed, preparing to announce the next gladiators as the emperor got back to his VIP seat.
"Citizens of our great Celeste Empire! It is almost time for our week-long celebrations to come to an end. As the highlight of the show, we offer you a reenactment of our recent victory against Nurmen's ruling clan!"
The crowd roared their joy.
Erik closed his eyes. He had heard about his family's defeat at the hands of the Celeste Empire but it was hard to swallow. His family might have been violent, power-hungry, and disdainful. They might have mocked, ridiculed, and despised him because of his curse. He might resent and dislike them.
But they were still family, one of the strongest in Ulreon.
"And not just any kind of reenactment. There won't be a mighty celestian army against a brainless northern one." Chuckles replied to the entertainer's crude joke. "No, we offer you today something much, much more special. The glorious fight of our Emperor against the villainous ex-ruler of Nurmen, Skadi Basara!"
Laughters again, thousands of them.
"Most of you have probably forgotten this insignificant barbarian. Commendable, reasonable, and understandable, forgetting savages is not a sin but a benediction for our civilized minds. But I will still refresh your memories. Incapable of expert axemanship, ashamed, he fled his clan who—it pains me to admit—wield axes like no other. Because even there, he was trash."
Giggles and chuckles.
"He survived for fifteen years in the arena, paving an unrefined path of blood and shame with his bare fists. He is a rank 6 pugilist, the weakest and last one of the eradicated Basara family, the last son of Skadi Basara! Ladies and gentlemen, acting as his mother, Erik Basara!"
In the waiting room, gates leading to the arena opened.
"That's your cue," Maximus slapped the Norseman's back for encouragement. "Go kick the emperor's ass, Skadi Basara."
"Fuck off, Max," Erik replied with a grin, welcoming the jest that eased the tension. Under the spectator's booing and laughter over his costume, he stepped bare feet onto the scorching sand already smeared with blood and gore.
Erik shielded his eyes from the sun, gazing up to better see those mocking him. Celestia's Colossus Coliseum certainly was an architectural wonder capable to accommodate around a hundred thousand people.
A near-invisible magical dome separated the arena from spectators, preventing mishaps. Giant screens floated about the air like flying mirrors, showing what was happening below to those too far to see.
Hovering about the arena on a flying sword, the entertainer waited for the laughter to die down, let out a chuckle at Erik's attire, and continued his speech.
"Acting as the emperor, the third prince, our gladiator champion, a pure-blooded celestian and free citizen fighting for the honor of the empire, one whose fame requires no reminders: Augustus Optimus!"
Applauds and cheers welcomed a colossal man even taller than Erik, armed with a giant sword longer than his size. Cladded in durelite plated armor, the most durable metal on Ulreon, he emanated blood lust and an incredible aura that would shake most people.
Erik eyed the champion from head to toe, analyzing, looking for weaknesses in the armor out of habit. 'None, huh? This armor has no holes. Hum, certainly they overgeared him.'
There were two rules in the arena: Gladiators' cultivation realm could not exceed rank 6 and they always wore simple clothes or minimal armor.
'Clearly, those celestian bastards broke a rule, perhaps both.'
"Commence!" The entertainer ordered and then flew off to safety outside the protective barrier, even he might be endangered by those two gladiators' fight if he stayed in the arena.
"Skadi!" Augustus fondled the air, as if groping breasts, "Come to me whore, come play with this prince."
Annoyed, Erik's hand reached for the bandage. Before he could rip it off, runes glowed on his slave collar, and a shockwave traveled through his entire body, "kindly" warning him to leave his attire alone.
"Well if you won't come to me, I'll come to you, she-man." Augustus's massive sword glowed purple and slashed the very air for what appeared one-like strike to those spectating.
'Damnation,' Erik cursed, seeing the color of his opponent's energy. Under rank 6, everyone's wyrd shone goldenly, at rank 7, however, it changed color for some reason. 'The fucker is at least rank 7 if not higher!'
There was a tremendous gap in power separating both ranks.
"Celestial Sword: Razor Leaves!" The Goliath shouted his cultivation art.
Five purple blades flew towards him at incredible speed.
Erik channeled a buffing cultivation art.
[Martial Art: Increased Speed]
He dashed while dodging the blades with the dexterity of a leopard, one cut a shallow wound on his leg adding one more scar to his collection if he ever survived.
Erik's fists shone golden preparing a counterattack, becoming blurry as he unleashed a deluge of blows without uttering the technique's name aloud; that was a peculiarity of eastern cultivators.
[Pugilist Art: Flying Fists]
Golden fists traveled to their target. Augustus lifted his heavy weapon with one hand and easily sliced off the incoming strikes.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The golden fists switched target as Erik aimed for the sand that spread upon impact. Clouds of dust blinded the spectators' sight along with the champion's.
Erik sped in, trying to close the distance, confident he would surprise his enemy. However, a figure joined him in the sandy fog.
Head low, he crouched to avoid instant death, feeling air move about his neck while a humongous blade passed above.
His right fist shone golden, launching a mighty uppercut aiming at Augustus's jaw.
[Martial Art: Increased Strength]
[Pugilist Art: Rising Vengeance]
Crack!
Erik gritted his teeth, feeling the pain of his fractured fingers, the durelite armor coated with the champion's energy was too resilient for him.
"It tickles, she-man," Augustus chuckled behind his helmet. "Surely you can do better than that."
"Raaah!" Anger boiled within him, activating [Berserk], the bloodline ability he hated, increasing Erik's strength as he lost his mind.
[Pugilist Art: Meteor Fists]
Erik unleashed hundreds of golden punches within one second, each packed with enough power to destroy a brick house, shaking the arena. When the wind pressure dispersed the clouds of dust, his fists had turned into bloody mush and yet he continued striking the impenetrable armor, his sanity lost to the bloodline ability.
Unharmed, Augustus chuckled, joined by the spectators. "You hit like a little girl, she-man. Let me show you how it's done."
BAM!
A huge fist fissured Erik's jaw faster than he could react, lifting his body, and hurling him dozens of meters away before he crashed into the coliseum wall, embedded in brick and wood.
Celestians went wild.
"Augustus! Agustus! Augustus!"
Cheers and applause honored the champion.
Stunned, his mind foggy, the bloodline ability faded, allowing Erik to take back control over his consciousness and the pain to hit his nervous system as Augustus followed through with a deluge of punches.
Showered by mockeries and a body shattered beyond repair, something broke inside him. The accumulated pain, shame, dishonor, guilt, powerlessness, rage, and envy.
Freed by his overwhelming sorrow, the tears he had locked away for so long threaten to surge but he denied his enemy this pleasure, forcing them back as he stared at death.
Augustus uttered one last technique.
"Celestial Sword: Cleaving the Sky."
Slash!
And all went dark.
***
Lore Extract:
"Wyrd represents the strength of an individual's fate. The stronger it is, the more one can influence reality, bend it to their will, cast spells, and possess inhuman powers. Those who follow and accumulate more wyrd are called cultivators. The Fate System is but a means to organize, acquire more wyrd and power."
—Diary of a Retired Warrior.