Joseph had increased his weight training before he was thrown into this alien nightmare. Back on Earth, he had managed to bench 400 lbs and squat 500 lbs without Nova's help, a feat that would have been unthinkable just a few months prior. His progress had been meteoric, but now... now it was something else entirely.
Whatever had happened to him in the arena, that strange power he had tapped into, had changed him. Strength surged through him in a way that felt unnatural but exhilarating. He had tested himself again in the past few days, and the numbers were staggering—he could now bench press about half a ton and squat roughly 0.7 tons. The difference was undeniable.
And the Psions had noticed.
They had been testing him relentlessly. The shorter reptilian race, known for their cold scientific curiosity, had taken an interest in him. Each day, they ran him through grueling experiments, measuring his limits, observing his physiology.
The room where they tested him was filled with high-tech equipment, designed to accommodate a variety of species. The machines adjusted dynamically to different physiologies, their mechanisms eerily efficient.
A Psion scientist, its yellow reptilian eyes glinting with detached interest, tapped something into a hovering console.
"Put that down," it ordered, its voice flat and clinical. "Then proceed to the 52nd room for your sustenance."
Joseph obeyed. For now. He would keep obeying until they let their guard down. Until he found an opportunity to escape.
The prisoners had some degree of freedom within the facility. The Gordanians and Psions were absolutely confident that the collars around their necks and the shackles on their wrists would keep them obedient. They allowed movement throughout the halls, even access to the training rooms, but always under heavy surveillance.
Joseph had learned quickly—resistance meant death.
He had seen what happened to those who fought back.
One alien, a blue bug-like creature, had attempted to attack a guard. The moment it lunged, its collar activated. The resulting explosion left nothing behind but a scorched stain on the metallic floor.
So Joseph didn't resist. He kept his head down.
"Move it." A Gordanian guard kicked him from behind. He sprawled forward, catching himself on his palms.
Laughter. Cruel, mocking laughter from the guards. Even some prisoners smirked, though none dared openly revel in his misfortune—no one wanted to be the next victim.
Joseph gritted his teeth, pushed himself up, and kept walking toward the 52nd room.
The atmosphere inside was thick with dread and hopelessness, as it always was. Most of the prisoners moved mechanically, their spirits broken long before their bodies would eventually be.
Joseph took a tray and stepped into the line to receive his "sustenance"—a gray, tasteless sludge that the Psions assured them contained all the necessary nutrients for survival. He didn't ask questions. He sat down at a table beside an orange-skinned alien, ate in silence, then returned to his designated room.
The nights had gotten easier. He could finally sleep, though the Branx warrior still haunted his dreams.
**
Joseph woke up to a sharp slap across his face.
"Get up. Time for your second fight, human." The Gordanian's guttural voice rumbled with amusement.
Joseph exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. He sat up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep, and reached for Nikomar's sword—the weapon he had claimed from his first kill.
He was led through the same cold metallic corridors, the same oppressive silence hanging heavy in the air.
"You did good last time." His escort sneered. "I bet money on you, so you better perform just as well. Not like you have a choice if you don't want to die. Hahahaha!" The Gordanian slapped Joseph's back. This time, Joseph barely stumbled forward. He was stronger.
He stepped into the arena.
The crowd roared with anticipation.
His opponent stood across from him.
Joseph studied him. Feline features—soft yellow fur, sharp teeth, pointed ears, long whiskers. Three fingers on each hand, two toes on each foot. The Karnan's eyes held no malice, only a cold resolution. He was like Joseph. A captive. A fighter. A survivor.
Kill or be killed. That was the rule.
"And for our next match!" The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium. This time, it wasn't the yellow robot. A Gordanian had taken its place. Joseph frowned slightly. The previous announcer had been working for the one they called Despero. Had he left with him?
No time to dwell on it.
"Our exotic new Homo sapien will be facing a veteran of the arena—Grycity the Karnan!"
The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, an ocean of bloodthirsty spectators eager for their entertainment.
Joseph clenched his fists around Nikomar's sword. His muscles coiled. His heart pounded. He forced himself to focus, to push aside the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind.
"As usual," the announcer continued, drawing out the tension, "I hope you've all placed your bets, because the fight starts NOW!"
The moment the words left his mouth, Grycity moved.
Joseph barely had time to react before the Karnan was on him, swiping with claws that could tear through flesh and bone. He barely twisted out of the way, feeling the rush of air as the claws missed him by inches. The Karnan was fast—faster than the Branx had been.
Joseph didn't hesitate. He swung Nikomar's sword, aiming for the Karnan's ribs, but Grycity leapt back with feline agility. The blade sliced through empty air.
They circled each other, neither making the first mistake.
The crowd howled in excitement.
Joseph's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
He couldn't afford to hesitate. Not this time.
Grycity lunged.
Joseph moved.
And the fight truly began.