The Immortal (Rise of the Warlords 2)

Astra mattered, not the female. She’d been a nuisance today. A thorn in his side as he’d searched for signs of phantom possession among the frozen. Erebus specialized in using the living as Trojan horses to sneak his puppets into specific locations. But Ophelia had also been a help, her presence a natural soothing balm occasionally. He’d loved and hated every minute in her presence. If Erebus harmed her again...

The growl escaped.

Whatever happens, she’ll recover. The day will repeat.

The reassurance failed to calm Halo. She would recover, yes, but she would be forever stuck with a headful of memories. Every pain the god had visited upon her. Those kinds of recollections accumulated and festered, leaking poison into your thoughts. Halo’s female—his potential female—shouldn’t have to deal with such things. He was the Immortal of Immortals, and he did not lose what belonged to him.

A trumpet blasted from somewhere in the distance, and he went cold. The first labor had started.

“Halo Phaninon,” he called, naming his champion as instructed. He never slowed his pace, running, flashing, scenting and searching.

A second blast didn’t come. Very well. To win this round, a kill must be made. This was only a test but grading mattered.

Where was Ophelia? As he continued charging forward, seconds ticking past, no attack was forthcoming. His chest squeezed. Duty before dishonor. Win the labor, find the female.

Unsure of what he might need, he summoned different weapons into his grip with only a thought, sheathing them as they appeared. Spear. Whip. Bow and arrow. Sword. A three-blade. More daggers.

On the horizon, the sun was beginning to set, streaking the sky with those azure flames. Those flames congregated above the coliseum, creating a halo effect. In that moment, he knew. There. Of course.

Claws lengthening, muscles hardening into slabs of granite, he flashed to the far end of the battlefield and skimmed the area. Alone. Empty stadium.

“Show yourself,” he bellowed.

A fierce, ear-piercing roar sounded, rippling the dirt. Halo stiffened. His challenger? Bring it. He unsheathed two daggers. Nothing would derail his victory.

Another roar. Throughout the stands, flames burst to life atop torches, casting amber beams over a sea of phantoms. The females floated in place, as boneless and silent as dolls.

A grinning Erebus appeared on the royal dais overlooking the stands. He stood at the rail, a soft wind lifting his pale curls and whipping against the folds of his robe.

“Let the first battle commence,” the god called. “A test of ferocity. The primordial Nemean lioness against Halo the Ringed One. Cheer, everyone. Cheer.”

“Whoo-hoo,” the phantoms said in their monotone voices. “Whoo-hoo.”

With a third roar, the ground shook. Ophelia’s sweet scent amplified, sparking protective instincts. She is nearby. Perhaps even hidden among the phantoms.

Halo stiffened, his instincts growing frenzied. He resisted the urge to charge after her, thereby overseeing his own downfall. The attempt at distraction wouldn’t work; he wouldn’t let it. She was alive. She could be saved after the battle.

He shut down any other thoughts. As expected, all emotions faded. Kill or be killed.

At the other end of the coliseum, 350 feet away, poles exploded from an entrance to the catacombs. A creature the size of an elephant surged onto the battlefield, charging in Halo’s direction. A grotesque feline face with wild red eyes and daggerlike fangs. Foam bubbled at the corners of its snout. Bulging muscles were packed beneath a sleek, golden hide. Needle-point talons tipped massive paws.

According to legends, the pelt was impenetrable, nothing sharp enough to pierce it. Hercules had to choke out his opponent. An impossibility for Halo. This she-beast wore a collar made of firstone. A powerful substance able to prevent Astra from flashing.

A hundred feet away...

He shed all weapons but a bow and brimming quiver. Ophelia’s scent drifted closer, now mixed with blood and—Halo’s eyesight redlined. The beast carried the scent.

The beast had killed Ophelia.

She was dead. No doubt used as an appetizer before the main course at Erebus’s behest.

Halo’s emotionless shell cracked. He nocked two arrows, drew back his elbow and released the string. Target: the she-cat’s eyes. The missiles whistled across the distance.

The feline blinked, nothing more, and the arrows pinged off her lids, bent and useless. Crimson irises leveled on Halo, feverish bloodlust crackling in their depths. A snarl, a faster pace, and a leap...

Halo braced. Fourteen tons of raw power slammed into him, flinging him into a wall. Broken stone rained. Organs burst on impact but swiftly re-formed. Bones shattered and mended. As he hit the dirt, he never lost his hold on the bow.

The second he emerged from the rubble, the lioness swooped down with a clear intention: bite off his head.

He maneuvered, her metal teeth shredding different parts of him. Ignoring the waves of pain, he unleashed a new volley of arrows. Rolled away from a swipe of those paws. Unleashed new arrows. On his feet. More arrows. Nothing stuck to her.