Desolate Mage: A Legend Reborn! 11 Sacrifice/ Scheming is Strength 6

Coughing, sputtering and retching could be heard as the girl on the brink of drowning struggled to regain control of her body. Her hair was plastered against her face and head; looking pathetic. But she couldn't care less. Her life was at stake.

Despite all her self-control; her muscles, control and skills honed through arduous training were not enough to overcome the physiological consequences of near-death.

Oxygen-starved, swallowing water and lungs beginning to fill with far too much moisture. Blood cut off from her limbs from the vice-like grip the gang had subjected her to. Struggling with all her might for minutes to survive.

She was still on all fours, vertigo washing over her; unable to get to her feet.

Slowly, she heard the clinking and clanking of Linges' chains draw nearer. The "thud" of each weighty footstep that fell; the raspy heavy breaths he took… And the silhouette of the giant 8-foot tall "boy", shadow cast into the washing area by the flickering torchlight.

She closed her eyes; lowering her head.

She only had one opportunity; one way out of sure-death – the moment when the monster's spawn came close enough. That would be her only chance of survival.

* * * * *

[Less than 2 minutes ago]

[Lars' Point of View]

The boy who was hurtling through the Arena halls in search of a solution knew that taking on 6 trainees and 2 lookouts were impossible; no matter how big the gap in rank.

He needed backup… A concept unheard of except for the few gangs of skulking hyenas that had banded together for mutual survival and gain. Groups that would sooner tie him down and kill him rather than help him save a top-ranked competitor.

He scowled at the thought of these groups – what was the point of forming such a partnership with "allies" who would instantly pounce on you the moment you showed any weakness…? "Friends" that would not hesitate in the slightest to strike you down in the ring.

But for once, he needed such a "friend" and "ally"; one strong enough to make a difference.

There were no weaklings in the Arena.

This was an established fact; one solidified through countless years since the founding of this assassins' death-camp. By the end of even the first year, every weakling would have perished; weeded out and culled by the system of inhumane training, psychological torture and the suffocating atmosphere of fear.

None of the remaining trainees could remember how many there were when they started. They roughly guessed there were more than a thousand at the start; with many more new entrants of the same age trickling in slowly over the years.

Then every time the group shrunk to below a 100 or so trainees, several large batches of already trained children would arrive from who knows where; swelling the number back to above 500.

The ones that remained – above 400; all seasoned fighters.

The difference between the top 10 and the bottom 50 was small enough that even the rank number 2 would fall to a group of 3 trainees – assuming the group fought well together. Teamwork and synergy were not something taught in the Arena, only scheming, betrayal, plotting and the best place in another trainee's spine to insert your knife in for a backstab.

Nonetheless, a group of 3 trainees, even the lowest of the lowest, was more than even Lars and Moira could take on together.

"2-on-1 is possible; 3-on-1 you flee; 4-on-1 is more meat for tomorrows lunch." This saying had come to be called the law of numbers. It was another established fact; with not a single trainee able to guard themselves or escape with their lives once they were ganged up on – the only solution was not to find yourself in such a situation in the first place; to constantly be on guard – to never trust anybody.

For the moment one was surrounded by more than 3 opponents; it was over. This was an indisputable truth; one that held true even for the top-ranked fighters.

Which was why the thin, wiry boy rushing down the tunnels could only hope to beg, grovel, pay or do whatever it took to find help… Even help in the most unexpected places.

And save the lover who he could no longer possess - even if it cost him his life.

He could only pray that he was not too late.

* * * * *

[Moira's Point of View]

She kept her forehead against the ground, pretending to be unconscious as she listened intently. The chains went silent; a slinking, splashing then plopping sound heard as if they were dropped into a deep pool of water.

Then the footsteps came closer; sounding light-footed despite the beastman boy's immense size.

'5 steps more... 4... 3...' Moira counted down the seconds and steps until the giant entered her range; until it was time for her to launch her last-ditch effort. She carefully held a knife under her prone body; cautious not to show signs of movement even as she prepared for her ambush.

'2 steps... 1 step...! Almost; almost!'

Then the footsteps stopped.

Fear gripped her heart. 'Did... Did he notice...?'

What should she do? Strike now; despite him not being in range? Wait and see what happened? But what if he attacked her from the current distance? Wouldn't she then die for nothing?

She had to decide. She set her jaw in place; her muscles tightening and her body tensing up in the split seconds before pouncing and--

"Moira...?" She heard his voice afar off - like a dream come true, but real.

'How... Why...?!' That voice...!' Unbidden, tear flooded her eyes; shock then relief washing over her like the waters had enveloped her head just moments ago.

The voice of the one she loved; and thought she belonged to - but had cruelly rejected her; with his reasons unspoken.

Lars.

But the dream soon turned into a nightmare - fear and dismay ran through her body like electric shocks; jolting her awake from her mulling.

No, no no no! Not now; not in this situation! Not when he would...

He would surely fight Linges to the death to save her.

'No... No! I can't let that happen! Lars! You must live; let me the only one to die today!'

"YAAAAAAAAAA!!!" Roaring a battle cry to stoke up her own spirits; the cold-blooded, disciplined killer could not fight the tuggings of her still-pure heart; her love for her man.

She leapt up to her feet in one smooth motion and slashed at the massive trainee who had been staring down at her; long knife aimed straight at his throat.

'Please! Just let this one strike connect! That's all I ask of you!!' She silently prayed to whichever god would hear her.

Then she felt extreme pain as a colossal hand almost as large as her upper body smashed into her, and everything turned black.

Chapter end