Even after a hundred years without use, a talent doesn't rust.
In short order, a hulking alien—over two meters (six and a half feet) tall, well over two hundred kilograms (five hundred pounds) of muscle—was brought under direct mental control. Grodd spent only a moment reading through the alien's complete memories before reporting back.
"Boss, we're in the right place. The arena runs minor bouts every three days, major bouts every five. The next fight is in two days. Entrance requires upfront capital to register..."
Thea waved him off. "Leave the logistics to your people—I don't need those details. Get me the widest sightlines with the best position available. I want to watch from up close."
Grodd was, as always, thorough: money where money worked, mind control where it didn't. Learning that Thea planned to stay for several days, the party purchased an entire block of buildings and folded a cluster of minor local factions into their network as informants.
To prevent them from coordinating against her, the minor factions were kept in deliberate confusion—some were mind-controlled, some merely bribed, and none of them knew which category the others fell into. Collusion was structurally impossible.
The premium viewing box was also acquired. Its previous owner was an interstellar slave lord who had an anti-telepathy device installed and therefore wasn't afraid of Grodd. He'd even prepared a counterstrike—until Fiora dismantled his warship with her bare hands. He surrendered the box without further negotiation and retreated.
The arena was eight hundred meters in diameter and could seat tens of thousands. The seating sections were equipped with personal force-field barriers, configurable at the individual's discretion—engage them if you were cautious, lower them if you felt confident. A thoughtful design, by the standards of this place.
By the time the young mistress arrived, most of the seats were already full. The noise made her frown.
She looked up. Directly above her position was a higher, larger box—more exclusive than hers.
Grodd explained quickly: that was Lady Styx's private reserve, never opened to outside guests.
"Have someone watch it. If she comes while I'm still on this planet, let me know." Thea wasn't sure how long this would take. Maybe two fights would give her what she needed. Maybe it would take two weeks.
One cosmic figure, whatever their standing, did not get to sit above her. When the time came, she would have a proper conversation about that particular seating arrangement.
She set the thought aside and turned her attention to the fighting below.
The arena's host was a faceless creature—and that was literal. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Its face was simply a flat expanse of skin, interrupted only by a slit running from jaw to throat, from which its voice emerged.
This host could walk onto a horror film set without makeup and be cast on sight. Drop it into any amusement park and it would clear the children's section without trying.
The faceless host launched into its opening monologue, building atmosphere with practiced precision. Thea had no interest in preamble. She half-closed her eyes and waited for the actual fighting to start.
The venue discharged bursts of pyrotechnics at intervals. The crowd was already chanting for their favorites—but that enthusiasm wasn't free. An operation this size had terrifying overhead. Ticket sales covered almost nothing. The real business was gambling. Advanced weapons, slaves, mineral rights, entire planets—all of it could be staked.
"The Render!"
"Bone! Bone! Bone!"
The crowd crested. The faceless host reviewed each fighter's record, then swept one arm downward: begin.
Gates on either side of the arena floor lifted. From one side emerged a barrel-chested figure: three eyes, brown skin, long tusks curving from the corners of his jaw. To Thea, he looked like something out of a fantasy game—the orc archetype, down to the detail.
The orc raised two cleavers and let out a roar at the crowd. Nobody in the stands understood what he was shouting—probably nothing flattering—but since he'd made them money before, they cheered him anyway.
From the other side, what emerged was stranger. Three robots hauled a length of chain attached to an enormous green organism—something resembling a cabbage scaled to a hundredfold of its natural size, dragging itself across the ground on clusters of root tendrils. Even with the robots pulling, its pace was glacial. A composite crown of overlapping petals formed its "head," ringed inside by three circles of fine, dense teeth. Viscous fluid dripped from its maw and ate into the arena floor with a continuous sizzling sound.
"The big fellow is the Render. The plant is called Bone—it eats only the flesh, not the skeleton," one of the minor faction chiefs reported to Grodd, who relayed it faithfully to Her Majesty.
"Watch it, then." Her interest was limited. The power level on display would be genuinely dangerous to street-level heroes, but from where she stood, there was almost nothing to engage with—except, perhaps, if the orc managed a desperate, against-all-odds final strike. That might hold marginal appeal.
An ordinary spectator couldn't see it. To her eyes, the orc was already beaten. He was battered before he'd even stepped into the arena. Against an opponent capable of running him over outright, his only real option was to die fighting.
"Was this your arrangement?" she asked, as though remarking on the decor.
Grodd scratched the back of its massive head. As good as a yes.
They had only just arrived, but the arena's management weren't innocents either. Cycling out compromised fighters at regular intervals had always been policy here. That this particular purge happened to generate a private cut for the staff on top of official revenue—naturally, they didn't object.
Grodd wanted the boss to reach her breakthrough and go home. Arena management wanted the side income. A perfect alignment of interests.
Thea wasn't a saint. An alien warrior on the other side of the galaxy, dying because her subordinate had found it convenient—this moved her not at all. She only wanted to see if, at the knife's edge between life and death, this fighter could offer her even a fragment of insight.
The orc was a veteran. He could see exactly how outmatched he was. He had nowhere to go. He fought.
The twin cleavers hacked and slashed, sending plant matter and fluid spraying across the arena floor. That was the ceiling of his impact.
Bone's regeneration was extraordinary. A blade went through—and two seconds later, it had already grown back. Without flame to suppress the rapid regrowth, hitting it with steel was meaningless.
The orc poured every ounce of his technique, courage, and will into the fight. It changed nothing. His final desperate strike severed one of Bone's root tendrils. That was the sum total of his contribution. The plant's maw came down on half his body. He died where he stood.
"Too wide a gap," Thea said. "Next time, put someone closer to the opponent's level in. Not this lopsided." She gave Grodd the instruction, turned, and went back to rest.
Over the following month, she watched nine minor bouts and five major ones.
Minor bouts were single duels. Major bouts were open melees. Either way, the rule was simple: one survivor walked out.
The arena's management—the faceless host, the guard captain, several senior administrators—skimmed from every event and pocketed the surplus without restraint. The sky-high casualty rate drove the crowd's energy higher with every fight, the arena's accounts overflowed, every event exceeded its revenue targets, and management was delighted. They met their quotas for upper command and lined their pockets at the same time. What wasn't to like?
The good times, as always, came to an end. The arena's rate of consumption had finally drawn attention from the top. Their fighters were burning through too quickly.
Lady Styx—their sovereign, their overlord—had sent word to her subordinates: she was coming to inspect.