Conquering the Stars with the Undead
Chapter 61: Signing Up

Chapter 61: Signing Up

It was evening by the time Charon found the Stadia.

Nestled between two large restaurants, it stood as a building with a simple sign hanging above a metal doorway, patrons occasionally strolling in and out.

The plain appearance was what made it so hard to find. Whenever he had asked for directions, they were given in reference to other places Charon had never seen, making them useless.

’I had been expecting something far more grandiose.’

A bouncer stood outside in full platemail armor, his face hidden behind a large gorget. The two-handed longsword slung around his back made it clear the man meant business.

Approaching, Charon stopped just in front of the door, the bouncer taking a half step to block his path.

"Name and business."

"Jester, I’m here to fight."

The idea to use a stage name had come to him while he was trying to find the Stadia, deciding it would be better to hide the connections to his real goals. As it stood, this was a strange land with strange rules, and he would rather not have the High Elders chasing him down with more questions.

’Besides, it’s a cool name! It even references a historical figure as a bonus!’

The bounce grunted.

"Enter and walk to the right. You’ll see the sign-up sheet."

His armor screeched as he bent over to look Charon up and down.

"You may want to reconsider, kid. I’ve seen all kinds of fighters, both winners and losers. You look like a loser. Spare your family the grief and try another way to earn a quick buck."

Charon ignored him and walked inside, uninterested in what he had to say, only barely catching the man mumble under his breath.

"Your funeral."

A long staircase led down into the earth. Torches hung on the walls every few feet, casting foreboding shadows across the walls. Pieces of metal were hammered in between the torches, a few words hastily etched into each.

Charon frowned as he read the first one.

[Jimmy Hammerfist, Four Fights, Decapitated.]

Taking the next few steps down, he stopped to read another.

[Larry "The Lance", Six Fights, Disemboweled.]

Each one he passed, he read. The names and number of fights varied widely, but the cause of death was always gruesome.

’Is there a requirement to make the killing aspect a show?’

That was the part Charon looked forward to the least: the killing.

He had known it would happen; this was a fighting pit after all, but it irked him to willingly go here to kill people, even if it would grow his own strength.

What disturbed him the most, however, was that he knew the justification he cooked up was a poor one.

’Heroes kill bad guys. The type of people to fight in a place like this are bad guys. I’m not becoming a killer, I’m stopping bad guys from graduating to more violent endeavors, like murder.’

He didn’t need Emerius to tell him how wrong he was this time.

’It’s only temporary. The Mask of the Jester is a fantastic relic that will help me for years; surely that’s worth winning a few fights? I fight for the next three days until the mission, then whenever I have to afterwards to finish the contract. Then I quit.’

His logic was so bad that he had begun to convince himself that there must be a better way to moralize it; therefore, there existed a good excuse for him to use.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and shook his head to clear his thoughts.

A wide open room greeted him, a handful of men and women standing around chatting. Dim lightbulbs hung suspended by wires attached to the roof. Body odor and the smell of cheap roasted meat permeated the air, setting his nose hairs on fire.

A small line snaked along one wall, leading to a window in the wall with a man behind it. The words "Betting" were carved into the wood above him, alongside a screen displaying a dozen names with numbers beside them.

’Those are the real villains, people who bet on life and death.’

To his right, there was a doorway leading to another room. Taking it, he found himself in a small waiting area. Just when he entered, a section of the far wall scraped into the ground, revealing three large men walking out with condescending smirks.

One of them nudged the man in the middle, who was gingerly rubbing his behind, before speaking.

"Dis was a good idea, boss! We gunna smash all dem weaklin’s! The High Elda’s demselves will be beggin’ for we to join da nobles! Then we can gut dat twit!"

Before either of the other two could respond, they caught sight of Charon, their smirks somehow growing wider.

The ones on the sides spat on the floor as he passed, the middle one keeping his chin held high in superiority.

"Can’t wait to kill ya!"

Charon struggled not to laugh at their clear lack of intelligence, the whole interaction silly to him.

’So those are the kinds of people I will be fighting? If that’s the peak of the Stadia, this will be too easy.’

Before gaining his powers, he might’ve been at least a little afraid, but that was a different person. Now, he had seen war, albeit to a limited extent.

It still gave him more perspective about what humanity was truly capable of.

Glancing around and seeing no warning signs, he shrugged and walked through the gap the three had just left, figuring it must be where applicants went.

The wood pushed up behind him, trapping him inside.

Charon frowned, the mask replicating the gesture as the lips turned downward.

’I don’t know if I appreciate my exit being blocked.’

Continuing forward, the hallway eventually fed into an even more cramped room with a single oak chair facing one of the walls. Tilting his head in confusion, a loud noise suddenly came from the ceiling, drawing his gaze to a speaker.

"Sit facing forward."

Covering his ears, he gritted his teeth and complied, annoyed at the volume.

The moment he sat, the wood he was facing pulled back, revealing a disheveled young man with bags under his eyes. He had the look of a man who had been working a dead-end job for far too long.

In his hands were paper and a pen, which he shoved onto the surface between them.

"Sign your name and rank at the bottom."

Cocking an eyebrow before realizing it couldn’t be seen through the mask, Charon spoke, his tone full of confusion.

"Aren’t you going to explain how everything works first?"

The attendant sighed deeply, the action lasting multiple seconds as his body seemed to deflate even further. He leaned forward, resting his chin on a greasy, unwashed palm.

"Just how it looks. You sign, we add you to the roster. If you want a fight, you tell the guy up front. If you win, you move on. If you lose or withdraw, you get nothing."

He then pushed the pen forward as if to emphasize he was finished.

Glowering at the laziness, Charon held his tongue and jotted his name and rank down.

’Who the hell let this guy get hired? He wouldn’t be fit to work in a waste yard, let alone this place!’

Sparing a glance around at the bare wood walls, rot growing near the top, he reconsidered his words.

’Maybe this is where he belongs.’

Once he finished, the attendant snapped both items up and double-checked the signature before unceremoniously tossing them to the side.

"There, welcome to the Stadia, Jester. We have lots of Novice fights running at all hours, so go do one of those."

With a snap of his fingers, the man caused the opening in the wall to slam shut, the wood shaking from the force. Splinters shot out, harmlessly falling to the floor.

Stunned at the impatience, Charon sat still, his head hanging low in abject disbelief.

’What’s his problem?’

His thoughts were cut short as the chair he was sitting in melted into the floor, his ass hitting the ground with a painful thud.

Jumping with a shout, his fist thundered against the wall where the opening once was, accomplishing nothing but adding a dull ache to his hand.

’Bastard son of a whore! I should summon my Colossus on this whole place just so it can blast you with every ability it has!’

Simmering with unbridled fury, but not wanting to test the limits of the attendants’ wood magic, Charon walked back into the betting room, hoping to register for his first fight.

’I need to let out some steam. That prick has me ready to stab something!’

Moving to the front desk, he was stopped by a short man with a bushy beard and a ponytail.

"Hey, biggun! Back of the line, ya git, wait like the rest of us!"

Charon tilted his head and spun around, now noticing that the line was almost twice as long as when he first entered.

’What? How is that possible! I was just here!’