Weapons and martial arts weren't the only things Sira had taught Roky. By the end of the first agonizing week of training Roky had come to enjoy the masochistic exercises that both Tarok and Sira ran him through. He learned he had four more weeks until he would engage in the fight for his life. He was given a month to train, a month was five weeks, each week consisted of ten days and each day felt as long as two earth days. Roky hadn't heard a scrap or word about the others, Brianna often haunted his dreams, though he didn't entirely mind. She was a pleasant distraction in his dreams, though when he realized anything could have happened to her, Roky would awaken, covered in sweat and flooded with anxiety.

His thoughts clouded his mind, and in a painful push, promised to seek her out when all was said and done. In the meanwhile, Roky learned all he could about the city, Glayde City. He saw most of it during his runs with Tarok and sampled delicious local and foreign foods whenever he had performed beyond Tarok's expectations. Before his very eyes Roky's body shrank and grew strong. His legs, though short in his eyes, had become rippled and powerful and if he pushed himself he could nearly keep pade with Tarok at full stride. His arms too become smaller but the muscles grew and shaped beneath his skin. Tarok, Roky learned, had created the first gym in the city, Tarok alone had hand built every piece of equipment for both himself and the smaller humans of the city. They spent long hours exhausting one another in bouts of competition. Though Roky never won a single challenge, Tarok would often reward him with compliments and tidbits.

Roky even learned most of the Slave's Credo, a large collection of writings done by slaves over the past thousand years, translated and rewritten hundreds of times. It was a fascinating book, as thick as Roky's arm and filled with stories and metaphors designed to teach quickly and effectively. Before long he was addressing Tarok as sire or master and bowing and kneeling at every chance he could. The giant soon became annoyed with Roky, flicking him in the shoulder whenever his slave tendencies became ridiculously over practised. "Guidelines for living Roky, guidelines." Tarok would growl at him often as the boy incessantly bowed at passers-by and those Tarok stopped to chat with during their walks in the city. Roky seemed to hardly care for the punishment, his stomach had disappeared within two solid weeks of training, his body a minute reflection of Tarok's own masculine form. He revelled in it, often sneaking into Tarok's den while he slept, lighting a candle and admiring himself in the only mirror in the apartment quarters.

Roky had taken quickly to the dagger and begged Sira for at least four hours of training with it after Sira had insisted on the learning of other weapons. He had agreed, though grudgingly, Roky had developed a style of his own with the ten inch blade, he was like a maelstrom of steel and flesh. Dodging and weaving, stabbing and cutting the air and when he became too careless, Sira, who reprimanded him with deep cuts to his back, which Roky willingly accepted with pride.

By the end of the forth week, Roky had become a force of nature with a dagger, Sira, a master in his own right, could not keep up with the youth's vigilance and speed and freakish strength. Roky's shoulders bulged with raw power and Sira fought tooth and claw to stop him from getting him to a higher striking position. Any form of downward strike from Roky was lethal in the least. He had trained and designed a number of martial follow through techniques that were designed to dishevel the opponent if not knock him out completely.

With Tarok, Roky became a solemn, intimidating creature. He rarely spoke, but focused completely on the training. Thoughts of Brianna continued to creep into his mind, his dreams and just when the pain in his arms and legs had his brain gripped tightly, there she would appear. More than once Tarok had approached Roky about his turmoil, though the teen merely shrugged off the questions and fought harder through the training.

"Seven days." Tarok sighed and glanced over to Roky who sat, exhausted, eating food from a bag Tarok had brought him. "You think you're ready, child?"

"Could be, you think he'll send a Candan after me?" Roky said swallowing a mouthful, his pleasant face grinned up at Tarok.

"Unlikely." Tarok rubbed his chin. "In the entire city there are only myself and one other Candan, and we would never fight something so small."

"Then you should probably ask Dreju's man if he's ready, because unless I'm fighting a Candan, I'm not going to lose."

"Hmm," Tarok thought, Roky's become either very confident or very arrogant. "There are always those who are better than us Roky. Only one being can boast otherwise."

"Whose that? You?" Roky chuckled, finishing the food. He picked up a weighted bar and began to exercise again.

"No, there are many who are better than I. For, god king of Foria. None are bigger or stronger than he."

"For, huh?"

"Yes," Tarok looked up at the ceiling with reverence and mouthed a prayer. "We Candans believe we were created in his image. For stands easily three times my size, so I hear. His arms are more powerful than a herd of jork, his legs able to stamp out entire mountains. They say his gaze can stop a man's heart. Lore tells us that it was For himself who breathed life into the world after battling his dark kin for the continent we live on." Tarok seemed humbled by his own words, as if he hadn't heard them in years.

Roky stared at him, the notion seemed ridiculous. "He sounds like a myth to me."

Tarok grinned childishly and shook his head. "For is eternal, he rules the land from within Foren Castle. The greatest city ever built."

"So... people still see him?"

"Of course, he retires from the tower to walk among his people, preaching his word and philosophy. His knowledge is as vast as the oceans and his strength unmatched."

Tarok trailed off, Roky eyed him curiously and wondered what the freak of nature god king actually looked like. Was he even a man? Soon his thoughts were elsewhere, the idea of a living god swept away, his muscle memory working for him as his brain wandered around the room. For the first time he thought about home, if anyone missed him, if anyone cared. He found it strange that he hadn't thought about it at all until then. It didn't bother him half as much as his fight did in the upcoming week. Roky, deep down, didn't care, though his humanity begged him to pretend to care. He loved living with Sira and Tarok, he was in the best shape of his life, he could kill as easily as he could speak, his training had been well taught and he wondered who and how well trained his opponent would be.

It doesn't matter, Roky though with an evil, sly grin. I'm better than anyone in her, Tarok as my witness I'll kill whoever they send, bring them on!

"Are you hungry?" A calm voice rose Roky from his sleep, the boy blinked up at Sira and nodded. "A meal is prepared for you, I'm not our sire, but do you think it wise to sleep at such a time?"

"Yup." Roky said plainly, the menial sighed and left the sleeping room. "I'l be fine Sira."

"Never underestimate your enemy," he replied back. "But make him underestimate you."

Roky ate quietly at the dining table, Sira fidgeted in his chair as he watched Roky eat. He too had warmed to the boy, Roky had learned the Credo surprisingly fast and made to openly practice it, despite Tarok's wishes. Tarok himself was absent, he was seeing to everything with Dreju, making fair the battle ground and discussing laws and rules. Sira would take Roky to the event at high sun, where the boy would fight for his life.

The quiet that permeated the apartment bothered Sira. Roky simply ate quietly, nothing about him seemed out of place except his now long, shaggy hair that reached to his shoulders. Sira had requested that it be cut off but Tarok shook his head and pointed to his own tied back mop of hair on every occasion. Nervously Sira went to his desk and pulled a thick leather strap from around a thick tome and yanked Roky's hair back into a ponytail.

"Hey!" Roky protested, half chewed food shot from his mouth as his head was wrenched backwards.

"You won't be able to see your enemy with your hair falling over your eyes. There. Now you can see."

"Its so tight!" Roky flexed his face and pulled at his hair to loosen it from the leather knot.

"Get over it!" Sira huffed, staring down the muscular boy. "I'm sorry, master and myself have invested a lot in you, and you tend to slip up when your hair is down over your face."

"No I don't."

"You do." Sira growled and flicked Roky's temple.

"I don't, I slip up on purpose so you can get a few stabs in at me. You're kind of slow old man." Sira stood fuming, his face beet red. Roky smiled up at him with disarming intent and waved him down. "I'll be fine, you and our master have moulded me into this," Roky stood and motioned to his shredded physique. "I don't want to die Sira, and I don't plan to. Hollow words, yes, I know, just, I'll be fine. We should get going, it looks pretty bright out there."

"Yes we should, you arrogant little broeger." Sira forced out a laugh and punched Roky in the back to get him moving. "Show no mercy."

"I don't plan to."

"How long does it take to run here?" Tarok roared and hefted Sira off the ground by his shirt. "I need to look him over, get him equipped, you!" His eyes frantically fell upon Roky. "Come with me, now!"

The two muscled warriors made their way through hundreds of people, Roky half wondered if they'd come to watch the fight. His suspicions were cleared when a group of men pointed at him and exclaimed: I'm putting my money on that one!

Roky fought a grin as Tarok hauled him off to a tent. Within were a number of guards, weapons ready, they all stepped back as Tarok entered. "Right, which weapons?" Tarok's eyes gazed over the tens of sharpened and pointed death tools. Roky pointed out a number of them, he knew he was allowed to take as many as his master could hold and so just to be a pain he burdened Tarok with over fifty weapons, only half of them he knew how to use properly. "Get going boy!"

As Roky stepped out of the tent his eyes bugged. Before him a hundred meter ring of bright blond wood sat encircled by what he guessed was the entire population of the city. To his right, a tower stood, an awning protecting those under it. He spotted a well dressed man at the fore of the tower looking down and clapping idly. Those behind him, fat and clapping madly, cheered and jeered, throwing money around to each other as the betting continued. The crowd cheered as Roky dared to raise his arms in defiance. At the other end of the fighting arena stood three figures, none of which Roky could make out for the distance.

Tarok threw down the numerous weapons and began sorting them out on the ground. His growl roared over the crowd and those nearby edged slowly away. Roky cast him a curious stare, "What's wrong sire?"

"The ruler of the city, that thin, depleted man up there has given into the whims of that broeger Dreju. Because you killed two hunters, Dreju petitioned that you have to fight two warriors. One is his second and now first hunter, the other is some rathen he picked up from the Primary. He's been taking them on hunting contracts and I've stolen away to watch them work, individually they aren't half bad but together they managed to take down a urkon with little help from the rest of the cadre. How that bastard man trained the boy so quickly I'll never know." Tarok seethed from his ranting, sweat gathered on his brow and veins all over his body rose intimidatingly out of his skin.

"So... I'm fighting them at the same time then?" Roky gulped, he'd only ever plied at single combat.

"Yes damn it!" Tarok snapped a sword with his hands and tossed it away.

"Its okay sire." Roky said calmly, a warm, caring smile spread across his face. "I won't let you down."

Tarok stared long and hard at Roky, who sensed the man was holding back tears and frustration with all his godly strength. Roky picked up a pair of daggers and fastened them around his waist. He kneeled before Tarok and pledged his life, it was a small act that realistically meant nothing to Tarok, but the symbolism meant everything to Roky.

"Enough of that boy." Tarok ground his teeth. "I trained you!" He roared and issued a bellowing war cry. "Even if you die, take them with you. I'll not suffer such jork shit, rule bending, self-endeering, bastardly cowardice to live!"

"To the death!" Roky roared after Tarok, his face wrought with a manic grin, while internally his stomach twisted and turned and fear washed through him.

Roky ventured quickly to the centre of the arena and waited for the others to meet him. He watched their approached, mouths moving, plotting against him. Every muscle in his body flexed with anticipation but he kept still and calm as possible. The two were thin and lithe, their daggers drawn and ready. Roky's face fell slack as he clearly defined who they were. He recognized one of the hunters from the night he was captured, the one that had spooked him and caught both an elbow and a fist. The other turned Roky's stomach, a sickening sneer marked it.

"If it isn't the fat ass." The younger spat, Roky flinched.

"Adrian."