the champ

Several days passed as they meticulously planned Alaric's debut in the arena.

"Thou seest, to partake in combat, thou must sign a parchment, relinquishing a portion of thy soul. Thus, if thou meetest thy demise in the fray, none can hold the organizers accountable," Felvin elucidated, his tone laced with disdain.

"'Tis how that odious fiend gains sway," Alaric growled, his ire evident.

Approaching the colosseum, they were met with a cacophony of cheers from the throngs of demons and sinners.

"Very well, I shall position myself in the forefront, rallying for thee. Moreover, I have placed all 30 coins upon thy victory," Felvin declared resolutely as he made his way towards the stands. Alaric descended a set of stairs where a pair of demons awaited him.

"Affix thy signature upon this document," a diminutive imp demanded, thrusting a parchment before him.

Alaric perused the text meticulously, noting the clauses absolving the organizers of any liability in the event of injury or death. With a heavy heart, he affixed his name at the bottom, sensing a fragment of his essence being torn asunder as he did so.

"Was that my soul?" Alaric mused as he proceeded towards the armory.

"Here, thou may choose thy weapon. Thou hast a mere three minutes ere the commencement of battle," the imp informed him.

Surveying the arsenal, Alaric's gaze alighted upon the sword rack. He sought a two-handed greatsword, his preferred implement of war, but found none. Just as he despaired, a greatsword caught his eye, hanging in the dimmest recesses of the armory. Approaching it, the blade seemed to emit a faint, ethereal glow.

Taking up the sword, Alaric gauged its weight. "This is woefully unbalanced," he remarked, intending to return it. Yet, as he moved to do so, the blade underwent a remarkable transformation.

In awe, Alaric watched as the sword changed shape, assuming the likeness of the one from his memories. Its weight also adjusted to match his recollections. Reverently, Alaric accepted the newly transfigured greatsword.

"Haste, thou must present thyself in the arena forthwith!" the imp urged, propelling Alaric towards the entrance to the combat zone.

Entering the arena, the announcer's voice reverberated, "And on the right side enters Alaric the First, a renowned warrior from Britain who met his demise but a week hence, come to challenge the elite in mortal combat!"

The crowd erupted in fervent acclaim as Alaric acknowledged their cheers, scanning the arena for his adversary. Suddenly, a towering, dog-like sinner descended from above.

"Ah, if it isn't Alaric the bastard," the sinner jeered with a smirk.

"What ho! The chief himself descends to the arena. It appears he hath some familiarity with Alaric," the announcer exclaimed.

Turning back towards the arena, Alaric's heart skipped a beat as he saw a figure pushing through the throngs of spectators. It was Mortuus, his old friend and now bitter enemy.

Alaric's mind flashed back to their days together in Britain, when they had fought side by side as brothers in arms. But that was before Mortuus had betrayed him, turning against everything they had fought for and plunging them into a bitter feud that had lasted until Mortuus's death.

"Mortuus, thou odious miscreant, why dost thou meddle with souls?" Alaric bellowed, his voice resounding through the arena.

"Thou art new here. I shan't hold it against thee for thy ignorance of the means to acquire power. Yet, know this: none here shall brook a weakling," Mortuus retorted before soaring away.

As Mortuus departed, a smaller sinner entered the fray, brandishing a disproportionately large bow. With effortless grace, he drew and loosed an arrow, only for it to rebound harmlessly off Alaric's armor, leaving no trace of damage.

As the arrow bounced off his armor, Alaric tightened his grip on his sword, his resolve unyielding. He squared off against his diminutive opponent, a sinner armed with a bow that seemed almost comically large in his hands. The sinner sneered at Alaric, his eyes glinting with malice as he drew back the string with practiced ease.

With a thunderous roar, the sinner unleashed a volley of arrows, each aimed with deadly precision. Alaric deftly dodged and parried, his movements fluid and precise as he closed the distance between them. With a swift motion, he brought his greatsword down upon the sinner's bow, shattering it into splinters.

Undeterred, the sinner drew a dagger from his belt, his movements swift and calculated as he lunged forward with a series of rapid strikes. Alaric towered over his opponent, his size and strength giving him a distinct advantage in close combat. With each blow, he drove the sinner back, his sword flashing in the dim light of the arena as he fought to gain the upper hand.

With a mighty swing, Alaric delivered a crushing blow, sending the sinner reeling backward. But before he could press his advantage, the sinner unleashed a cloud of noxious gas, his final gambit to gain the upper hand.

Coughing and sputtering, Alaric staggered backward, his vision swimming as he struggled to maintain his footing. With a roar of defiance, he charged forward, his sword glowing with a dim white light as he closed the distance between them in a single, swift movement.

With a mighty swing, Alaric brought his sword down in a blinding arc, the blade glowing white as it cleaved through the air. In one fluid motion, he severed the sinner's head from his shoulders, the act swift and decisive.

As the sinner's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, Alaric stood victorious, his chest heaving with exertion as he surveyed the arena. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, their cheers echoing off the walls as Alaric raised his sword in triumph.

Basking in the adulation of the crowd, Alaric's mind raced with thoughts of the battle he had just won and the challenges that lay ahead. He knew that this victory was but the beginning of his journey in the arena, and he was determined to prove himself against even greater foes.

As the cheers subsided, Alaric turned to face the arena's exit, ready to make his way back to Felvin and share the news of his triumph. But before he could take a step, a familiar voice called out from the crowd.

"Alaric! Alaric the First!"

Turning back towards the arena, he is suddenly called It was Mortuus, again.

As Mortuus reached the center of the arena, he raised his hand, calling for silence from the crowd. The spectators fell silent, their eyes fixed on the two warriors standing before them.

"Alaric the First," Mortuus began, his voice echoing through the arena, "thou hast shown thy skill in combat this day. But dost thou truly believe thyself worthy of facing an Overlord?"

The challenge in Mortuus's words was unmistakable, and Alaric knew that he could not refuse. With a steely gaze, he stepped forward, raising his sword in defiance.

"I accept thy challenge, Mortuus," he declared, his voice ringing out with determination.

A murmur ran through the crowd as Alaric's words echoed through the arena. The spectators watched in anticipation, eager to see the outcome of the impending battle between mortal and Overlord.

Mortuus's lips curled into a wicked smile as he stepped forward to meet Alaric. The air crackled with tension as the two warriors faced off, their swords drawn and ready for battle.

But then, to Alaric's surprise, Mortuus raised his hand, staying the impending duel. "Nay, Alaric the First," Mortuus boomed, his voice carrying across the arena. "Thou art a formidable opponent, but thou art not yet ready to face me in battle."

Confusion flickered across Alaric's face as Mortuus continued, "Thou shalt have three weeks to prepare thyself. Use this time wisely, and say thy prayers, for when next we meet, the outcome shall be decided."

With that, Mortuus turned and strode from the arena, leaving Alaric standing alone in the center of the arena, his mind reeling with the magnitude of what had just transpired.

Three weeks. Three weeks to prepare for the greatest challenge of his life. Alaric knew that he would need every moment to hone his skills and gather his strength for the battle to come.

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Alaric made his way back to Felvin, his thoughts consumed with thoughts of training and preparation. He knew that the road ahead would be long and fraught with peril, but he was determined to face it head-on, ready to prove himself worthy of the title of Alaric the First..