Yellow Jacket

The cadets pressed in around Isol the moment they had space to breathe. Questions spilled out fast and desperate, voices tangled with confusion and wonder. They wanted to know everything, to pull apart the threads of what they had just witnessed, and this time Isol did not hold back. He launched into it with the force of a man who had been waiting to long for the right ears to hear him. His voice carried like an orator's, weaving detail and rhythm into a story that was far too vast to grasp in a single sitting. The cadets clung to his words anyway, drinking in every moment. They knew it would take him hours to unravel it all, but none of them had the will to leave.

Warren didn't drift away silently. He drew his squad together before Isol could launch into his grandiose story about Warren, who was kind of embarrassed to even have the story being told. He pulled his fifteen in tight, his gaze steady, the iron ring dull on his finger though it burned like platinum in truth. He didn't waste words. "We've got the day off," he told them. "I'm not wasting mine. I've still got trials in the Ninth Layer ahead of me. Four more. If I finish all five, Command might tell me something about Lord Barcus. That's what I'm after. It's the path Steel laid in front of me."

The cadets exchanged uneasy glances. Sylen frowned, arms crossed tight across her chest. "You're saying you're going back down there right now? After everything we just learned about you? After binding us? You think we're just going to sit here while you go have fun again?"

"Yes," Warren said, his voice low but unwavering. "Every hour counts. If the answers are buried in the Ninth Layer, then I'm not waiting until the Citadel catches up to me."

Lessa shook her head, biting her lip hard enough to blanch it white. "And what if you die down there? What then? We just… lose you because you can't sit still for one day? We barely understand what happened today, and you're already throwing yourself back into something worse."

"I won't die," Warren said flatly. "Not there. Not today." His tone made it clear he wasn't boasting.

Tormen's voice cut in sharp, skeptical. "So, we're supposed to just accept that you run off chasing a god's whisper while the rest of us are left behind piecing together scraps from Instructor Brent? That's supposed to be enough for us?"

"You don't have to accept it," Warren replied. His eyes swept across them all, making sure each met his gaze. "You just have to understand it. Steel give me a task. If I don't push forward, everything I've done so far is wasted. If I stay still, all of this dies before it even has a chance."

The silence that followed was heavy. Doubt flickered across their faces, clashing with the weight of their rings. Then Chime's voice broke it, soft but certain. "If it's what you have to do… then we follow. That's what it means to be bound, isn't it? You carry the weight. We carry it too."

Ramis nodded slowly, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Doesn't mean we like it, but we follow. That's the bond."

Sylen's frown didn't ease, but she gave the smallest nod. Wesley muttered under his breath, frustrated but unwilling to say anything. Lessa looked away, her worry carved into every line of her face, but she said nothing more. One by one, the squad gave their small gestures of assent. They knew what it meant to be tied to Warren now. If the Ninth Layer was part of the road toward the future, then he wasn't wasting time, he was doing exactly what he had to.

Jurpat fell in beside him without a word, solid as ever, his presence an anchor. Warren didn't argue. The two of them stepped away from the cluster, leaving the others gathered close around Isol and Josaphine, who had already begun unfolding the long, winding tale that would take him hours to tell. Warren and Jurpat set their feet on the path that led toward the hidden descent into the Ninth Layer, toward another trial that waited in the dark below.

Before Warren and Jurpat could fully turn away, Imujin's voice cut across the meadow, carrying the weight of final command. "You should all hear this before you scatter. I will talk to the other classes today and let them know that for this year we will be focusing on the newest fourth-year class. If we want to keep this incredibly promising group from failing, we will have no choice but to spend all of our time focused on you. The rest will have to make do. That is how it is going to be."

The words dropped like a hammer. A ripple of shock and unease passed through the gathered cadets. Some looked outraged, others simply stunned, and a few wore the pale expression of those who understood the enormity of what had just been admitted. For instructors to openly favor one class over all others, it was unheard of.

Sylen muttered under her breath, "They're going to hate us for this." Lessa's shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the entire Citadel's resentment had already landed on her. Ramis clenched his fists, jaw grinding as though bracing himself for the storm to come.

Imujin did not soften. His gaze swept the group, hard and unyielding. "You have taken what no other class has ever claimed. It will cost you, and it will cost everyone else. That is the reality. Accept it, or be crushed under it."

With that, he turned and left, his tone and bearing leaving no room for doubt or argument.

As Warren and Jurpat reached the transport pad, Warren slowed, his hand brushing across the railing as if stalling for just a second longer. He glanced toward Imujin, who was lingering nearby with the kind of watchful impatience that said he had a dozen things waiting for him. "Before I leave," Warren asked, "do I need to even care if somebody sees me going to the Ninth Layer?" His voice carried a note of challenge, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it aloud.

Imujin's eyebrow lifted, his mouth curling into something between a smirk and a scowl. "Like hell you do. You're five feet tall and everyone's going to be asking what the fuck happened to you the second they see you. You think you can just slip past people without them noticing you suddenly lost half a foot?" His tone was sharp, but not cruel, just honest in the way only Imujin could be.

Warren exhaled through his nose, irritated but not surprised. "Right. So Warren becomes Vaeliyan, and then Vaeliyan puts on the body mod to become Warren again." He spread his hands like he was laying out a puzzle he hated but would still solve. "Better?"

"Better," Imujin admitted, his voice flat and unamused. He folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowing. "But don't think that makes you invisible. You still may want to be cautious about it. That's Command's business, not mine directly. If they decide you've stepped wrong, you'll be punished by them, not me. And if you get caught, that's on you. There isn't much I can do to shield you from that."

Jurpat shifted beside Warren, frowning as his gaze flicked between the two. "So you're saying if Command catches him down there, it's over?"

Imujin shrugged. "Not over. Just messy. And trust me, Command has more ways to make a man miserable than you can imagine." His eyes cut back to Warren. "So if you're going to keep playing their games, do it with your eyes open. Don't expect sympathy if you step wrong."

Warren gave a crooked grin, the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or furious. "Good to know. Guess I'll just add 'don't piss off Command' to the list of impossible rules I'm already breaking."

Imujin's mouth twitched, half irritation, half resignation, like he wanted to laugh but refused to give Warren the satisfaction. "Anyway, get going. I've got a mountain of shit to do thanks to you. Not that I'm not excited about this mess you've dragged us into…" He waved his hand, dismissive but not without a glint of rough respect. "But seriously, leave so I can use the pad. Don't stand around clogging up my day."

Jurpat chuckled under his breath, low and quiet, then stepped up beside Warren. "Come on," he muttered. "Before he really decides to throw us off himself."

Warren shook his head, a dry laugh slipping out of him as he stepped onto the platform with Jurpat. The pad began to hum, vibration thrumming beneath their feet as light gathered in thin lines across the floor. It swelled brighter, flooding upward in a pale glow until the meadow vanished. The platform sank them out of sight, carrying them down into the depths of Kyrrabad, toward the hidden jaws of the Ninth Layer where another trial waited, eager to taste them.

Ruby's voice rolled through the pit, smooth and theatrical, every syllable dripping with performance.

"Hello, dears, it's that time again. Fresh contestants for the Ninth Layer. Tonight's theme is… gladiatorial combat. Each participant will be given a sword and a shield, nothing more, nothing less. They will be grouped at random, anywhere from one to six, and together they must fight against waves. Not beasts this time, no… Broken."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

A murmur passed through the crowd at that word, sharp with anticipation, the sound swelling like a living tide. Faces leaned forward from the upper gallery, rows of hot light panels glaring brighter from the walls, and a chant began to ripple across the seats.

Ruby smiled as if she could taste it, savoring the unease, the hunger, the cruel joy of the onlookers. "Yes, darlings, lean closer. Drink it in. This is what you came for. Of course, all will be fitted with heavy suppressors. Their stats will be locked to baseline human. No speed, no strength, no resilience beyond flesh and bone. Skills and Soul Skills are not locked away, but know this: if you use them, you will be disqualified. The rules exist to strip you down, not to kill you outright, and there is no competition if you cannot follow them. This is about exposure, my lovelies, stripping away all illusion until nothing is left but truth."

The glow of the pit floor brightened as Warren descended into it, light rising in columns around him. The air was thick with expectation, so heavy it felt like it pressed down against his shoulders. Every breath carried the taste of dust and iron. A thousand eyes followed his every step, waiting to see if the champion of the last Kill Night could survive when forced into simplicity.

Ruby's voice rose again, silken and cruel, every note designed to caress and cut at once. "My loves, it will only be deadly if they fight fair… but we know how unlikely that is. If the threat grows too great, they will be pulled from the match. But until then, they are free to defend themselves however they see fit. Strike, break, bleed, whatever it takes to remain standing. Tonight is not about safety. Tonight is about spectacle."

Her tone softened into something almost sweet; a lullaby dipped in poison. "My loves, not just any challenger enters. You know him already, darlings. The champion of the last Kill Night, the one who walked away when death was promised for all but one. The King in Yellow. And unfortunately for him, fortune has turned her back. He has been chosen to be one of the first matches of the night. Alone. No group to bolster him, no allies to share the blows. The odds are not in his favor, but having seen his performance during a night where death was guaranteed, I think we all know we are in for a treat. Welcome… The King in Yellow."

The crowd roared at the title, the name rolling off their tongues like worship and curse all at once. Some shouted with laughter, some with fear, some with glee, but all of them were hungry to see him tested again.

Warren's eyes narrowed at the gladius pressed into his hand. He had never liked blades. In his experience, cutting things apart was crude. A slice might spill blood, but blood loss wasn't reliable. In this world, there were too many things that didn't die when they ran dry. Too many creatures that kept moving long after their guts had been spilled. Too many enemies that had no blood at all. A blade was a gamble, and Warren didn't gamble when it came to killing.

He wanted certainty. He wanted to slow things down, break them, strip their movement away piece by piece until the fight was already over. Methodical, deliberate destruction. That was what worked. That was survival.

It was only appropriate, in a way, because the Emperor himself had once told him he should try using a blade. Warren had resisted that idea with every part of his nature, but here was a challenge that forced him to do so. If the pit demanded it, he would bend, if only to prove he could master even what he despised.

So, he tightened his grip on the gladius, deciding to wield it as it was meant to be wielded. He would prove, if only once, that even a weapon he distrusted could still be turned into a tool of certainty in his hands.

The pit floor shimmered with the glow of the gallery lights. Sand stretched wide beneath the four stone pillars, chains dangling loose from above. The air trembled with the roar of the gallery, every voice pressing down from the ring above. Ruby's laughter sliced through the noise, rich and theatrical, making every head turn, making every eye stay fixed on the sand.

"Darlings, my loves, the time has come! The King in Yellow stands before you. Champion of the last Kill Night, the one who spat in the face of death and walked away! And now, stripped to nothing but flesh, steel, and resolve, will he prove himself again in tonight's theme: gladiatorial combat? Five waves, five chances to fall, and only one path to triumph. Will he endure, or will he break like so many before him?"

The gate across from Warren screeched open, metal groaning against stone. The first to stumble into the sand were Broken, their twisted frames jerking in halting rhythm, limbs stiff but quick enough to overwhelm in a mob. Their jaws worked endlessly, teeth clicking, broken laughter bubbling up from throats that no longer knew words. The sound carried up into the gallery, and the crowd answered with mocking jeers, some shouting for Warren to cut them quickly, others to make them scream.

Behind them came the Crawlers, dragging themselves on arms too long for their bodies, ribcages grinding against the sand as they scuttled low. They poured into the pit together, a swarm of thirty in all, Broken lurching high, Crawlers slithering low, snapping and clawing. Their mismatched rhythm filled the pit with grotesque noise, the scrape of bone against stone, the wet slap of hands against sand. A mix designed not to kill, but to wear down, to test patience as much as flesh.

Warren adjusted his grip on the gladius. His eyes tracked every movement with unnatural precision, every angle of approach, every stuttered twitch, already marked in his mind. Broken staggered forward, jerking in odd bursts, while Crawlers angled to latch on to his legs. To the gallery it looked like instinct guiding him, uncanny but human. To Warren, it was certainty, every twitch and lunge already mapped out before it happened, every strike already rehearsed in the theater of his mind.

The first Broken lunged, arms wide, and Warren met it with a brutal horizontal slash. The gladius carved straight through its chest, shearing ribs and spine in a spray of dark fluid. The body toppled in two halves, and the crowd erupted at the sight, stomping feet against metal, fists slamming the rails. A Crawler scrambled forward, claws scraping the sand, and Warren hacked downward without hesitation. The blade split its skull open clean, bone and brain matter spraying as the creature spasmed and stilled, twitching until its arms gave out.

More pressed in. Warren stepped forward into them, cutting, ripping, smashing with the flat of the blade when there was no space to swing. One Broken reached for his arm, he brought the edge across its throat, severing half its head in a single vicious swipe, hot spray painting his face and chest. Another lunged at his back, and he spun, driving the point through its eye, twisting hard until it collapsed. The crowd roared louder, Ruby nearly shrieking over them.

"Beautiful!" Ruby's voice rang above the roar. "Look at him, my darlings, every strike is final, every movement absolute. The Broken stagger, the Crawlers swarm, and yet he carves them apart as if they were nothing but fodder!"

The swarm thickened, ten, twenty, thirty pressing forward, sand slick with their dragging bodies. Warren cut into them without hesitation, teeth bared in something between fury and exhilaration. A torso split open from shoulder to hip. A Crawler's arm hacked off before its head was crushed under a boot. One after another, Broken fell in grotesque halves and quarters, every cut savage, every strike decisive. The gladius gleamed wet, its weight biting deeper each time, its edge now more red than steel. His shoulders burned, his arms heavy, but his rhythm never faltered. He shifted stances between swings, sometimes battering with the flat, sometimes slicing deep, always moving forward, never yielding ground.

A Broken snapped its teeth too close to his face. He shoved it back with the pommel, then drove the blade down through its collarbone, splitting the body into a grotesque V. Another clamped onto his leg, jaws biting through his trousers, and he answered with a wild downward hack, severing its head with such force that the blade dug deep into the sand beneath.

They couldn't surround him. His awareness stretched too far, every threat already answered before it landed. He pivoted from pillar to pillar, keeping movement steady, never giving the swarm his back. To the crowd, it looked like butchery elevated into art. To Warren, it was the same as it had always been: survival, ugly and absolute, no beauty in it but the certainty that he would be the one still standing.

The last Broken fell twitching, its spine severed clean in one brutal downward stroke. A Crawler dragged itself toward him with one arm, ribs shattered, jaw hanging loose, bile spilling from its throat. Warren stomped its arm flat, then slammed the blade into its chest, pinning it to the sand until it ceased to move. He stood over the heap, chest rising steady, sweat running down his back, as Ruby's laugh carried once more, high and gleeful.

"And so, ends the first wave, my loves! Not a stumble, not a falter! Will the King in Yellow carry this strength into the second? Or will fortune turn her back as the gates open again?"

The gallery thundered. Warren pulled his blade free, rolled his shoulder once, then flicked the gladius hard to the side. Blood sprayed off in a dark arc, spattering across the sand, the steel left gleaming wet but clean. The crowd screamed at the motion, stamping and shrieking his title. Only then did he lower the blade, eyes fixed forward, and turn toward the next gate.

It was only the beginning.

The crowd had not yet settled when Ruby's voice rolled over them again, velvet and venom. "Oh, my darlings, you thought the first wave was sport? That was a warm-up, a test of reflex and nothing more. But now, now comes the meat of the evening! Let us see how our King in Yellow fares when the pit spits out something harder."

The gate shuddered. Metal scraped stone. From the shadows came hulking silhouettes that stepped into the light with a grinding, unnatural weight. These were Boneskins. Their flesh looked normal at a glance, but beneath the skin was a layer of hard bone plating that covered thighs, shoulders, and ribs like a carapace. Every strike that should have split meat instead slid off, steel skittering against the hidden armor. They moved slowly, deliberate and heavy, each step pressing into the sand as if to remind the pit they could not be rushed.

Ruby's laugh rang sharp. "Yes, my loves, you see them, Boneskins, armored beneath their very skin. Strike where you will, and the blade finds only bone. A fortress under flesh! Watch closely, darlings. This is not speed, but attrition. Will our King in Yellow's blade hold true, or will the pit grind him dull?"

Warren's grip tightened on the gladius, his eyes narrowing as the creatures advanced. The sword cut through the first wave with ease, but against these things it suddenly looked thin, almost fragile. He could butcher lesser Broken without pause, but here? Every inch of them promised resistance, every limb a wall of bone waiting to turn the edge aside.

His jaw set. This was a puzzle, not a problem. How the fuck was he supposed to use a sword in this fight? He would kill them with it anyway, if only to prove that he could. He exhaled slow, steady, and shifted his stance.

The second wave had begun.