Chapter 365: The Dark Tower

Ten o’clock. The time for the doors to open.

Qi Sense deactivated, Dasha made himself aware of every strong fighter in proximity, especially Heidi of Old Blood and Guts. He suspected he could learn from her. The way she wielded her Qi and focused into her legs was intriguing. He figured she was cycling Qi within her legs for double the affect. While that explained the power, it didn’t explain the speed. Simply funnelling Qi in an area would lead to power and weight. Weight slowed down limbs. So what precisely was she doing? He needed a better look next time.

The massive double doors to the Dark Tower creaked open. The noise doubled and the crowd flooded into the foreboding Dark tower.

Dasha stood at the edge of the crowd, his hands locked behind his back, his posture calm and composed. As people swarmed past him, jostling and shoving in their haste to enter, he moved with a quiet grace. It was as if an invisible barrier surrounded him, subtly parting the crowd as he made his way into the tower.

The immediate area inside was bustling and agitating. Stalls had been set up along the walls, vendors hawking their wares with loud, insistent cries. Everything from enchanted weapons to dubious potions was available for purchase. The employees of the Dark Tower, identifiable by their dark uniforms and harried expressions, were stationed at various desks, managing the influx of fighters and spectators.

Dasha approached the reception area, where a line had formed in front of the sign-up desks. He took his place at the end. The walls were plastered with faded banners. The line, like everything else here, buzzed with the conversations, shouts, and laughter.

Dasha glanced over to where most of the people were being sucked in. A huge arch, an opening, where there were stairs. The distant roar of a crowd and the clash of weapons echoed down the stairs into the hall. ’That must be where the spectators go for the stadiums.’

No tickets, nothing. Only the people who wanted to go could go.

The line moved forward and Dasha observed the employees behind the desks. They worked quickly and processed every participant with what must have been years of experience. Behind each station of desks were small doors where registered participants went.

When it was his turn, Dasha stepped up to the desk and met the bored gaze of a young man with dark circles under his eyes.

“Name?” the employee asked, not bothering to look up from his ledger.

“The Professor.”

“Floor?”

“Fifth.”

The employee nodded and scribbled something in his book. “Entry fee is twenty gold coins,” he said, flat and disinterested. Whether he was an amateur playing up his abilities or a veteran that was killing the weak, it did not matter.

Dasha reached into his pockets and pulled out a small pouch. With a heavy thump, he placed it on the desk. The employee scooped up the money.

“You’ll be fighting on Floor 5, Stadium 3 in three hours,” the employee said. “Please proceed up the stairs, make a right turn, and wait for your name to be called.”

Dasha walked through doors and went up the stairs. First floor, second floor, third floor, fourth floor. The staircase was damn dark even with the torches. Finally, the fifth floor came and he made the turn.

The transition from the bustling reception area to the dark staircase and now walls of blood and muck was striking. Warriors did not care for the immense smell of blood or dirt or piss. The noise level lowered dramatically. From the walls, he could hear the roar of the crowd and the clash of combat filling the air. The torches here hardly lit up a thing.

Like easy pickings, he was eyed up. Scanned and checked to see if he was a threat. It was discreet and quiet. An amateur may not notice but Dasha did.

His nose picked up the stench of death. Then he saw groups huddled together. Then he glanced down and saw a corpse.

’Participants kill their rivals before their matches. As expected.’

Dasha found a spot to lean on the wall and observe the cliques and warriors with his eyes closed and his ears open. The competitors were a mix of semi-seasoned warriors and ambitious novices. Those with no talent and those that were hoping to show their talent.

His Qi Sense spread and he counted nearly a hundred fighters. The nature of Qi in this area was mucky and dirty. So much blood and so many forces melded together.

It was intoxicating.

Dasha closed his eyes and entered a semi-meditative form. The pores of his skin tingled. He had never experienced such dirty natural Qi before.

The din of the area washed over him: the grunts of fighters nursing wounds, the murmurs of hushed conversations, and the occasional scream of agony. None of it mattered to Dasha; he was focused inward.

Suddenly, a commotion to his right nearly broke his concentration. He opened his eyes just enough to see a bobbed brunette, probably no older than seventeen, being cornered by a group of rowdy women. They were tall, muscular, and bore a striking resemblance to the Amazon warriors of legend.

’Fakes Amazons or perhaps descendent of one’

“Do you really think you can get away with stealing from us,” the leader of the fake Amazons snarled. “Us!?”

“I didn’t steal anything.” The bobbed brunette’s face twisted in anger. “And I am not giving you anything,” she snapped, drawing a slender dagger from her belt.

The women laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the filthy walls.

“Little dagger with a little girl.”

“At least we have a fighter,” another one of them added mockingly. “This will be fun. I won’t even use my spear!”

The leader walked up to the bobbed brunette who tried to fight back, slashing with her dagger, but she was outnumbered and outmatched. The leader stepped in close, grabbed her wrist, and drove a knee into her stomach. The little girl coughed up blood but miraculously was able to break from the grip and cut the fake Amazon’s lip.

The leader was not pleased. This time, she went at the bobbed brunette with everything she had—but at the very last moment, smirked and switched out with her friend. Bam! The bobbed brunette’s temple was punished by a kick. Two more hits followed by two other women, her body stumbling toward each like a drunk.

The bobbed brunette managed to swing a few times. Swings that missed. The women were faster and stronger than her, knocking her around and then deciding to punch her down and beat her with savage kicks. Her cries of pain filled the room, mingling with the silence and casual conversation of the onlookers.

No longer standing, no longer wielding a dagger, her ribs broke and her cries became louder.

Dasha remained where he was, his eyes closed again. The sounds of the bobbed brunette’s struggle and subsequent brutal defeat did not move him.

Then they stopped.

The bobbed brunette lay on the ground, her body bruised and bleeding. The leader of the fake Amazons stood over her, a cruel smile on her lips. “You’re not so tough now, are you?” she sneered.

One of the women spat on her. “To think she has divine blood.”

The leader snickered. “Right? They say she’s descended from Itzpapalotl, the Obsidian Butterfly. Couldn’t even fly from us, ha!”

They were laughing and keeling over, slapping their knees, about to move on—until suddenly, a man was there. Dasha Pang had come to inspect her near dead body.

The fake Amazon stepped back. “W-what the hell—how did you…!?”

Dasha ignored her, kneeling beside the bobbed brunette. He placed a hand on her chest, feeling the faint flutter of her heartbeat. Without a word, he drove his hand into her chest, the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone filling the room. Blood sprayed as he ripped the girl’s heart from her body.

The Amazonians stared in shock, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. Dasha held the still-beating semi-divine heart for a moment, then slipped it into his inventory.

Slowly, he turned toward them.

As for the fakes…

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