Life and death

The giant bear changed back into humanoid form at the edge of the arena.

The Night Elf forced himself to cast a Healing Touch on himself, but the wound was too large. The slightest sign of closing was followed by it tearing open again. Blood spurted like spring water from the wound in his side, soaking a large patch of ground. He stuffed an emerald-green seed of the Tree of Life into the wound, then cast Rejuvenation, Lifebloom, Regrowth, Healing Touch-almost every healing spell he could use.

Well, the Druid had been put out of action in practically a single exchange. For the time being, Diago would have to face this terrifying enemy alone.

Diago fired again without hesitation, but the Arena of Order's Annual Golden Crown was stronger than any enemy he had ever encountered. Garrosh dodged deftly, moving in an irregular zigzag-the opponents the Orc had faced here included plenty of Dwarven riflemen, and he had no shortage of experience dealing with this kind of weapon.

Bullets struck the stone walls, throwing up showers of sparks.

Diago fired another five shots in succession, even using Arcane Shot twice, but they either missed or were knocked aside by the flat of the Orc's axe. The Orc attacked as fiercely as a Warrior, yet dodged as nimbly as a Rogue. He even avoided a Frost Trap Diago had secretly laid on the ground.

Diago felt his heart slowly grow cold. The shadow of death hung over him like the gloom of the stone dome overhead. This was the first time he had felt the despair of death creeping closer while he was powerless to struggle. He knew he had to change something.

Acting on that thought, Diago immediately decided to change tactics. He channeled spell energy through the rifle's action and into the bullet. This was his first time using this skill.

I'll succeed! he told himself, then pulled the trigger.

The rifle fired, spitting out a searing bullet, but just then, with a ding, Diago discovered to his horror that an empty clip had popped out of the magazine.

He had finally run out of bullets.

Although he did not know what had happened, the Orc Warrior could tell from the Hunter's panicked expression that the battle was taking a turn in his favor. Grinning viciously, he launched a Charge. To him, the bullet whistling toward him posed no threat whatsoever. In fact, just as he had judged, it barely grazed past his ear as he took his second charging step. Barring an accident, the bullet would hit the arena wall. Had it been a little higher, it might even have struck some unlucky spectator.

But accidents always happened under the most unlikely circumstances. Just as the bullet passed the Orc, the spell energy within it erupted, sending a powerful shockwave spreading outward. The Orc's head was clearly within its range. Inside his body, certain organs began resonating with the wave. He felt nauseated and could not help becoming dizzy.

The Orc swayed, looking as though he had lost the ability to fight. But Diago knew an Orc would never surrender so easily. He swiftly pulled out a fresh clip and pushed it toward the magazine.

Just then, an enormous roar thundered throughout the arena. The Dark Iron spectators in the surrounding stands all jumped in fright, craning their necks nervously to see what had happened.

"Trk'hsk!" the Orc roared furiously. He struck his battle-axes together, and a scarlet halo spread from the Orcish runes on them, enveloping the Orc Warrior.

His entire body grew a size larger, and his eyes turned blood-red. He shook his head, as though trying to shake off the discomfort from the violent concussion. The next instant, his scarlet eyes found their target.

"Maggot!" he roared, charging at the Hunter more fiercely than on any previous Charge.

At that moment, Diago had not even finished replacing the clip.

He decisively abandoned reloading and hurled his rifle forward, trying to slow his enemy's approach-he did not even have time to sling this weapon he prized more than his life over his shoulder. He lowered his right hand and reached for the handgun on the outside of his thigh.

But it was already too late. The Orc Warrior knocked the thrown rifle away with a single blow and lunged before him, swinging his battle-axes. The skin of Diago's face could even feel the needlelike chill of the keen axe blade.

But at this critical instant, Masley's spell support arrived. Ignoring his still-profusely bleeding wound, the Night Elf cast a Druid spell in their direction-the fastest spell in his entire repertoire. Entangling Roots normally required casting time, but the group version of this Druid spell was instantaneous.

The vine seeds Masley had previously scattered on the ground sprouted under the spell's stimulus. A great mass of vines suddenly appeared beneath the Orc's feet, writhing and twisting like octopus tentacles, and wrapped around his left foot. They lasted less than half a second before Garrosh tore them apart with brute force, but that brief instant had already allowed the Hunter to roll clear of his attack.

The Orc Warrior's missed axe blow slammed into the ground, throwing up a trail of sparks. But before he could swing the axe in his right hand and attack again, a fierce burst of orange muzzle fire appeared between him and the Hunter like leaping lava.

They were far too close together. With nowhere to dodge, Garrosh only had time to hold the flat of his axe before his chest, but that did nothing to change his fate. The powerful 12.7-millimeter handgun round struck the axe head with the kinetic force of a giant hammer, breaking the Thorium-forged axe with a single hit, then driving both broken pieces into his chest. The tremendous force bent him backward, and he could not suppress a grunt.

He heard his ribs give a muffled crack. It was actually the sound of several ribs breaking at once, though it sounded like only one. But it was not over. Everything had only just begun.

Diago pressed his left hand hard against his right wrist to control the muzzle's jump, while his right index finger pulled the trigger again and again, firing continuously. In this somewhat dim underground world, the roaring handgun flashed like a thunderbolt, over and over in the center of the arena.

Powder smoke almost completely enveloped them both. That was the problem with Dense Powder: it packed enough punch and left little residue, but produced far too much smoke.

But Diago could hear the dull sounds of bullets striking flesh. He pulled the trigger until he had fired the last round in the cylinder and the hammer struck empty casings with faint clicks.

Diago still did not lower his guard. He slipped the handgun back into its holster, then drew the bayonet from beneath his ribs and gripped it tightly. In truth, though, if Garrosh was not dead, Diago did not think he had any strength left to resist. He had never fired the M500 this rapidly before, and he felt that the recoil had numbed both his hands. And this was his body after crossing over. By the standards of an Earth human in his previous life, a single shot would have injured his wrist.

Fortunately, as the powder smoke gradually cleared, Diago saw that the Orc had fallen. The Orc Warrior had taken at least three shots to the chest. His mail had offered no protection at all; a huge hole had been blasted through it and his entire chest. Not even a Devilsaur could have survived such injuries.

Silence filled the arena. The Dark Iron spectators stared at the arena floor, dumbfounded, as though they still could not believe the result. In their memories, this powerful Orc Warrior had been as hard as dark iron and as merciless as ice, seemingly incapable of defeat. Gradually, scattered boos rose like the buzzing of bees, but there were even more curses and angry shouts, accompanied by torn betting slips fluttering down like snowflakes.

Diago heard the little door they had come through open again, and Adjudicator Grisstone walked out. It was time for him to announce the winners.

But Diago paid no attention to what the old Dwarf was saying. He hurried toward the Druid. All he hoped now was that his companion had not already died from blood loss.

To his surprise, however, the Night Elf's injury was not as serious as he had imagined. The wound merely looked terrifying. The giant bear's thick hide and heavy layer of fat had greatly reduced the axe's force, keeping it from cleaving him in two. Under the healing of the Druid spells, the stubborn, jagged wound had finally stopped bleeding and was being joined together by the sprouting Seed of Life. But the excessive blood loss had left Masley's face terribly ashen.

"How are you?" Diago asked with concern. In truth, if the Druid had not supported him in time, Garrosh would probably have chopped him into chunks.

"Not bad," Masley said wearily. He looked with some envy at the M500 beside Diago's thigh. The handgun was so powerful that even a Warrior like Garrosh could hardly withstand its close-range bombardment. If not for the Druid doctrine forbidding the wearing of metal objects, he would have insisted that Diago make him one too.

"I have to say, well done, buddy! You saved us both!" He rested a hand on Diago's shoulder and carefully twisted his waist. Turning his head awkwardly, he barely managed to see that the wound on his lower back had closed. Even the outermost skin had healed, leaving a huge scar clinging to his purple skin like an earthworm. But he knew this was only the surface; the wound inside would still take a long time to heal. "Let's leave. I think I can move now, and I need somewhere safe to rest for a while and tend to the wound."

He spoke weakly. A large slit had been torn in his clothes, leaving his entire back chilly, and the blood-soaked fabric clung stickily to his body, making him very uncomfortable.

"My pleasure, buddy," Diago said with a smile. He picked his rifle up from the ground and carefully inspected it with pained concern. Fortunately, it had suffered no damage apart from a gouge half a finger deep in the stock. In fact, if Masley had not treated the stock with his Druid spells, it would already have been chopped in half.

They headed toward the little door leading to the arena's upper level. As they passed the Orc Warrior's corpse, they paused beside his heavy body. This Orc Warrior was clearly someone with a story, but now everything was over, including his lifelong pursuit of strength. His tall body lay quietly on the dueling ground, taking up a great deal of space. He looked even larger dead than alive, yet he had left no trace in this world. Even the blood gushing out of him was completely absorbed by the yellow sand beneath him.

Standing beside the corpse, Diago had to admit that he had completely misjudged things this time-the only worthwhile pieces in the Orc's mismatched assortment of equipment were the tall boots on his feet, which Diago had originally thought were nothing special. The boots were black and utterly inconspicuous. Even their inlaid scales had a matte finish. Diago had to look several times before recognizing them as excellent-quality mail boots. The Savage Gladiator's Greaves-even in his previous life, Diago had heard the name of these ingeniously designed boots. Their soft, wear-resistant soles, woven from animal sinew, ensured silent movement, while their uppers made from land dragon hide and the overlapping, fish-scale-like Mithril plates on their vamps and shafts ensured they were both sturdy and light.

Diago looked up. The spectators around them were clearly no longer paying much attention to the arena. Some were going to the toilets to relieve the pressure the tense, thrilling fight had put on their bladders. Some were taking out food they had brought and eating heartily, while others rested with their eyes closed, waiting for the next bout to begin. In truth, under the Firelord's oppressive rule, what they needed more was to vent the frustrations and pressures of life in the arena, rather than care who won or lost. Oh, except, of course, for the frenzied gamblers who had placed bets. Many of them were still cursing furiously.

Diago placed his foot beside the Orc's to compare them. They were actually about the same size. Without hesitation, he bent down, pulled the boots off the Orc's feet, and put them on his own. In truth, the boots he had been wearing had already worn through during his long journey.

But before the two entered the little door, Grisstone caught up with them and awarded them two Gladiator's Badges. Diago did his best to control his expression so that he would not look too excited. In fact, however, his reaction was inappropriate. The Night Elf's expression of near-crazed excitement was the correct one, because for prisoners, these were their only passes through Shadowforge City, granting them limited freedom within it. Was that not worth being ecstatic over?

Adjudicator Grisstone did not grow suspicious, however. He had plenty of other things to deal with. If the prison could not send over condemned prisoners in time, he would probably have to arrange fights between the gladiators.

Diago and Masley did not linger over pleasantries with the desperately busy adjudicator, turning instead to walk through the little door. In fact, Grisstone looked as though he could hardly wait for them to take the hint and leave.

"Find somewhere to stay. This city has no shortage of empty houses," he called after the adventurers.

Note: Distance was a Hunter's life.