The warmth that had spread through him was now gone, replaced by burning pain and a violent jolt. Thomas's consciousness returned not as a gentle light, but as a hard impact with the ground. His shoulder bore the brunt of the collision, and a sharp pain shot up his arm. Hot, coarse sand scraped against his cheek, getting into his mouth.
The air he breathed was heavy and suffocating. The sour smell of sweat from dozens of unwashed bodies mingled with the faint, fetid aroma of festering wounds and dry dust that pricked his lungs. Rough ropes bound his wrists, chafing his skin until it was raw. Around him, desperate moans and stifled sobs formed a dreadful background music.
As his blurry vision began to focus, he saw it. A gigantic wooden gate loomed before him, as if carved from the bones of ancient giants. Its wood was pale, full of cracks like scars from constant baking under Capua's cruel sun. The gate was a statement, a silent monster's maw, waiting to swallow them all alive.
Amidst the confusion and pain, a realization struck him with greater force than his fall. This was real. This wasn't a nightmare. This was his new hell.
And precisely at the peak of that despair, something impossible happened.
A familiar transparent blue panel, like something from a video game, materialized before his eyes. Its design was clean, modern, and utterly out of place in this filthy world.
{System activated. Beginning initialization for new host.}
{Core system function: Gain power through intimate relationships.}
{Mechanism: Complete intimate relations with female targets to earn Points. Points earned depend on the target's social status and narrative influence.}
{Point Usage: Allocate Points to increase Basic Stats or unlock new Skills.} {Initialization complete. Displaying host's initial status.}
{Host Name: Thomas Vance}
{Strength: 3}
{Agility: 4}
{Stamina: 3}
{Intelligence: 7}
{Charisma: 6}
{Points: 0}
Thomas stared at the rows of text and numbers with wide eyes. His intelligent brain spun rapidly, trying to comprehend this madness. Gaining power through sex? This was the premise of trashy novels he'd read, not something that was supposed to happen in reality. But the pain in his body and the numbers floating before his eyes felt very real.
Before he could process further, the sound of heavy bolts being drawn echoed, followed by the long, agonizing creak of hinges. The gates of hell began to open.
The light from within was blinding, silhouetting a colossal man who stood blocking the way. From his position on the ground, Thomas looked up. The man's legs were solid like ancient temple pillars. His dark muscles were interwoven like tree roots, and his skin was covered in scars that told tales of endless violence. A thick whip was coiled at his waist, silent like a snake waiting to strike.
A young boy near Thomas began to sob uncontrollably, calling for his mother. The giant man, Doctore, walked closer. His steps were calm, steady, unhurried. He didn't waste his breath on yelling.
Without changing his stone-hard expression, Doctore swung the butt of his whip. His movement was efficient, almost effortless. There was no crack of a whip, but rather a wet, dull thud as the wooden handle struck the back of the boy's head. A stifled groan escaped before the small body slumped limply to the ground, unconscious.
An eerie silence fell over the slaves. Doctore looked at all of them, his gaze cold and empty, as if assessing livestock. Finally, he spoke. His voice was deep, hoarse, and utterly devoid of emotion.
"In the House of Batiatus, tears are an invitation to death."
He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in.
"Stand."
One by one, the trembling, terrified slaves rose, staggering on legs that felt like jelly. Thomas forced his aching body to obey. Every muscle screamed in protest. He could feel Doctore's gaze sweep over his back, cold and piercing. The System in his head was silent, offering no aid, only presenting the cold facts of his weakness. Strength 3. Stamina 3. Those numbers were a death sentence if he didn't do something.
Doctore paced back and forth before their pathetic line, his whip swinging idly at his side. His sharp eyes scanned every face, every trembling body, searching for cracks, searching for weakness.
"You are nothing," his voice was deep and resonant, every word a verdict. "You are worms crawling out of the mud. Here, in the House of Batiatus, you will get a chance to become more. To become Men."
He stopped, then with a sudden movement, he kicked over a wooden basket, spilling its contents onto the sandy ground. Dozens of dull, rough, splintered wooden swords rolled among their feet.
"But that chance must be seized," Doctore continued, his tone growing colder. "Only the strong deserve to live. Only those who stand at the end deserve tonight's meal."
He lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping over them all. "Take a sword. Fight until only you remain standing. Those who fall..." He offered a thin smile, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "...will be food for worms."
For a moment, no one moved. Then, as if an invisible dam had broken, chaos erupted.
The desperate slaves lunged forward, pushing and stepping on each other to grab weapons. Wild roars and shouts of fear filled the air. Thomas was shoved aside, nearly falling. His survival instinct, driven by his Intelligence of 7, took over. He didn't run into the center. Instead, he grabbed the nearest wooden sword that rolled towards him. It felt heavy and clumsy in his hand, splinters instantly pricking his palm.
"GRAAAH!"
A large shadow fell over him. Thomas instinctively raised his wooden sword to defend himself. The hard impact made his arm vibrate all the way to his shoulder. Before him stood a giant man with dreadlocks and eyes red with rage and despair. He was much larger, his arms as thick as Thomas's thighs.
The giant swung his sword again, a brutal motion aimed at crushing, not fighting. Thomas, his heart feeling like it would explode, dropped to the side. The tip of the wooden sword whistled inches from his face, kicking up sand.
I can't fight him directly, Thomas thought in a panic, his brain working faster than ever. Strength won't work. I need... something else.
He rolled away, avoiding the giant's stomping foot. He kept moving backward, maintaining distance, letting his enraged opponent expend his energy with wild swings. He observed. His opponent's feet, the way he shifted his weight, his swings that always came from the right side. There was a pattern. A sloppy, angry pattern.
The giant roared in frustration and lunged forward once more, raising his sword high for a killing blow.
This was his chance.
As his opponent stepped forward with his right leg, Thomas didn't try to parry the incoming swing. Instead, he ducked low and swung his own wooden sword, aiming not for the body, but for his opponent's leading ankle.
It was an awkward, desperate, and utterly inelegant move.
But it worked.
The tip of Thomas's wooden sword struck the giant's shin hard. The man lost his balance. His eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, he swayed in the air like a falling tree.
Thomas wasted no time. He pushed himself forward and slammed the hilt of his sword with all his might into the side of his opponent's knee. There was a sickening crack, followed by a piercing scream of pain. The giant fell to his knees, then collapsed to the side, clutching his injured leg and roaring in agony.
Thomas stood over him, panting, his chest heaving violently. He didn't feel like a victor. He felt nauseous. But he was still standing.
Slowly, the chaos around him subsided. One by one, the fights ended. Only a handful of slaves still stood, surrounded by bodies moaning in pain on the sand.
Thomas's gaze met Doctore's. The large man looked at him, not at his fallen opponent, but directly into Thomas's eyes. There was no smile, no nod. Just a sharp, calculating gaze that lasted a few seconds longer than it should have. A gaze that seemed to say, I saw what you did. You're different.
Then, Doctore turned away. "Enough," he said. "Give those who stand their reward. Remove this refuse."
That night, Thomas sat in the corner of his dark, damp cell. His reward: a piece of bread as hard as a rock and a bowl of murky water. He chewed the bread with difficulty, each bite feeling like both a triumph and bitterness. He had proven himself worthy of eating. He had survived.
However, a cold reality hit him. The fight earlier, that hard-won victory, had drained every ounce of energy from his weak body. His muscles felt like jelly, and every breath was accompanied by a faint ache in his ribs.
He won today. But what about tomorrow? And the day after? He couldn't constantly rely on luck and cheap tricks. He needed real strength. True power.
His mind returned to the blue panel, to the brief explanation of the system's function. Gaining power through intimate relationships.
In the midst of the darkness and despair, a plan began to form in his mind. A dangerous, humiliating, but perhaps the only way out.