The Arbiter raised their too-long arms above their head. “While the path to the summit is paved in blood, know you spill it for a higher calling. The gods before you are willing to share with you a fraction of their power, so you may carry their torch to the Gates of Eternity. Seek out their temples, altars, and shrines. Make offerings to your chosen patron, and glean from them boons of unimaginable strength.

  “Know that the power of the arcane is the dominion of the divine. Know that it is impossible to channel such power without their blessing.”

  Sam’s stomach, which had only just begun to settle itself, swiftly dropped once more. So the only way to do magic is to worship a god? Then how did I use the golden fire? Those of other races seemed to have a firm grasp of the proceedings, with some even bowing to the assembled deities.

  “Each cycle, the Pantheon votes on one who may lead the course of the war, one who would shape the fabric of the very Spire itself.” At this, the crowd began to stomp their feet, a rough dissonance that soon synchronized into a steadily rising wave.

  “This deity has claimed the title of Herald of War no less than six thousand one hundred and eighty-four times.” The Arbiter paused and almost seemed to smirk. Sam noted a range of reactions from the gods, ranging from broad smiles to outright scowls. “A fan favourite to be sure, one who has orchestrated some of the fiercest battles Olympos has ever seen!”

  The audience had worked up into an absolute frenzy, the ground shaking with the weight of thousands of pounding feet.

  “I present to you—Zetos!” The Arbiter disappeared in a swirl of golden mist, which reformed into a face that Sam knew all too well.

  He had the same elegant curls and easy smile, sapphire eyes flashing as he waved magnanimously to the crowd. His weight was oppressive, and Sam could feel the stump of his pinky twitch.

  “Many blessings, citizens of Olympos. Once again, the Pantheon has seen fit to bestow upon me the Laurel of War and the title of Herald. This is an honour I do not take lightly, one that I will cherish for all the cycles to come.”

  The crowd continued to cheer, but Sam noticed that it seemed primarily based in one section of the stands. The group there was largely human, and they wore sparkling white robes trimmed with gold and blue. Others looked far more stiff, and Sam could see some who barely clapped at all.

  “This cycle marks a new century of War, and thus, deserves special accommodations. As such, I have doubled the number of warriors brought to the foothills of Olympos.”

  It wasn't Sam’s imagination; the cheering was noticeably quieter at the proclamation. Sam caught people exchanging looks, with many faces darkening at the news.

  “Due to the inevitable influx of spira, anti-inflationary actions will be taken, with prices of goods and services being determined by arbitration for the duration of the war.”

  The crowd went mostly silent, and the hiss of whispered conversation carried down even to the sands. Zetos didn't seem amused by the response. “May I remind you, citizens of Olympos, that your immortality is a gift, one which may be revoked at any time.”

  “A gift?” A voice rang out from the stands. Sam craned his neck and saw that it belonged to a rough-looking dwarf woman with long red hair. “I killed my own cousin to claim that prize. It’s mine by right. It’s not something you can just revoke.”

  The crowd around the dwarf immediately scrambled away, and Sam could feel the atmosphere change as the bolt of lightning slammed down through the opening in the roof. Sam thought he could discern the outline of the dwarf’s bones, even as they disintegrated into a fine powder.

  Silence echoed through the arena as the people sat back down in their seats. Only the group of white-clad fanatics seemed to be pleased with the proceedings.

  “As I was saying,” Zetos continued, his face a sour mask of displeasure. “The Arbiter will set prices for the time being. Which is good, because the cost to get through the first of the Vahallen Gates has increased.”

  He gestured upwards, and a set of heavy iron gates materialized above him. Through the bars, Sam thought he could make out a swirling silver vortex, which seemed to strain against the confines of the metal.

  “The gates will open six hours before the initiation of the Ring Purge, so choose your talents wisely, warriors.” Sam’s vision flashed, and a new prompt appeared in front of him.

  [Valhallen Gate Toll: 147,468 Spira]

  Sam’s eyes bulged at the number. Killing a horde of twenty rats and netting a bunch of rare achievements had only brought him to 7,450 spira. He did some quick math; he’d somehow need to duplicate the feat twenty more times if he hoped to even make it to the second level.

  He shook his head, noticing a similar reaction in the people around him. The dwarf woman with the tattoos let out a string of curses, and the Tzen on his other side seemed to be praying to one of the gods behind them.

  “More spira of course requires more monsters, so I've personally seen to it that the populations have been adjusted accordingly. I've also increased the Warrior bounty and reduced the peace accord by seven days. The truce will now last for twenty-one days; after that, you may wage war to your hearts’ content.”

  At this, the crowd once again reacted with shouts, but Zetos seemed to revel in their displeasure. “More warriors mean more opportunities for glory. My Timeless Wardens, you know this better than most…” He paused, and Sam recoiled as he turned his massive head to stare down at him.

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  “There is no room for weakness in the arena.”

  The warriors around Sam cowered under the flaming azure gaze, and many looked at him with fear and confusion, backing away from him as if he had the plague.

  Zetos righted himself and this time addressed the gods surrounding them. “To my fellow Ascended, take this time to assess our newest crop. Choose your acolytes wisely, and guide them well.”

  At that, the gods began to drift down, the air crackling with the power that resonated from their bodies. One appeared directly beside Sam, her eyes deep pools of roiling magma. He could feel the heat radiating off her as she let her languid gaze wash over him. The disdain was obvious from her expression, and she quickly moved on to other prospects. More gods took to the sands, or hovered just above them, and soon Sam found himself buffeted by blasts of tepid air, or gusts of frigid cold.

  He forced himself to stand as upright as he could, but between the deep gashes and cracked ribs, his posture was more of an ungainly hunch.

  Look strong. The words reverberated in his mind, but the trembling of his legs and sweat dripping down his neck did little to project confidence.

  All around him, warriors were being judged, poked, prodded, and assessed. He wondered if this was what lambs felt like before being led to the slaughter. Except here, they were more like hounds, moments before being forced into the ring.

  The anger started to well up inside him then, as he stared around at these ascended beings. Did ascended not mean more advanced? Shouldn't they have moved beyond such petty contests? Sam didn't need to be told that what was happening was wrong; he knew it in his heart. They were people, not toys to be smashed together and discarded.

  His feelings must have shown on his face, as two nearby gods began to laugh. One pointed at his flushed expression, and he could hear his teeth grinding as he bit back the words forming on his tongue.

  Zetos seemed to notice the commotion, and Sam heard laughter echo throughout the arena. The god inclined his head to the warriors below, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “And to the lucky warriors, do not give your sacrifices blindly. Once a patron is selected, there is no going back. However, they must also accept your sacrifice…and we gods are fickle beasts.” Thunder roared over the stadium, and storm clouds moved to cover the sky.

  “You have seven weeks to gather the toll and ascend to the second ring. Choose your weapons and your allies well, and wield the might of The Pantheon as a mighty hammer against your foes!”

  Zetos raised a hand above him, a lightning bolt forming in his palm, poised to strike those beneath him. Sam could feel the ire of the god directed at him, but before he could act, he vanished in a flash of silver smoke. The smoke swirled and writhed, and once again coalesced into The Arbiter, who raised their arms in a sweeping gesture.

  “Thus commences The Seven Rings War!”

  The arena erupted in cheers, though it sounded somewhat forced. The Arbiter began to shrink and eventually dissolved as the light retreated inside the Waystone. The gods followed suit, with some simply fading out of existence while others shot away as bands of glowing plasma.

  Around him, Sam noticed warriors beginning to approach one another, often with those of the same race gathering into groups. The ones around him gave him a wide berth, and those few who caught his eye quickly looked away.

  After a few minutes, most had paired off or formed small collectives and began moving towards the entrances to the tunnels. Sam tried to call out to a few of the human groups he saw, but one look at his bloody bandages and ripped tunic saw them quickly shuffle past.

  “Hey,” Sam called. “Hey, wait!”

  A balding, middle-aged man turned from the nearest group and held out a hand. “Leave us be. I don't know what you've done to piss them off, but clearly you're cursed. Or just weak.”

  The woman next to him chimed in, the words coming out garbled as [Child of Babel] struggled with her heavy Russian accent.

  “Each of us easily fought off our monsters last night. How did you get so injured fighting a few rats? You'll be dead in a week. We have a real shot at winning this. Don't try and fuck it up for us.”

  And with that, they turned on their heels and marched out, leaving Sam behind beside the Waystone. He brought out his tafla and tried to show a few others his achievements, but he was summarily ignored.

  The last remaining stragglers paired off, and soon he was alone on the floor of the great arena. Above him, he could hear hushed voices, but he kept his eyes resolutely fixed on his boots, trying to stop the tears welling behind his eyes.

  So much for looking strong, he thought to himself, using his bandaged wrist to wipe his nose. As the clouds above him slowly cleared, and the too-yellow sun returned, he thought he could hear a hint of laughter carried in on the breeze.

  He clenched his teeth, jaw straining as he forced back the scream building in his chest. He whipped his head up, bloodshot eyes darting around the arena. No gods remained, but he thought he could feel their presence, an intangible web of energy that stifled the world around him. The frustration once again turned to anger, and the now familiar rage boiled away in his blood.

  Zetos had him marked. He made his ire clear as day. He was obviously someone powerful even by the standards of the gods. It didn't seem likely that even if he tried, any of the others would accept his offering.

  He couldn't help it; he laughed, knowing what he was about to do was the pinnacle of stupidity. “Is this what you want? Fine. Like I’d ever worship any of you fucks. Climate change, cancer, poverty. Billions of people on Earth, and you just watch us suffer and die. The only time you even pay attention to us is to make us dance like monkeys? Forget it.”

  The words formed within him like a core of iron. He knew it was probably hopeless, but the injustice of the situation raked at his very being. It just wasn’t fair. His hands formed into fists, and he could feel his nails dig into the flesh of his palms, blood flowing out between his fingers.

  Unbidden memories flashed through his mind of late nights spent staying up with his mother as she read him myths from her homeland. “Gods like oaths, right? I guess I'll make one of my own.” He lowered his gaze and limped towards the Waystone, blood dripping into the sand behind him.

  He reached the massive stone obelisk, the thin veins of gold capturing the light and burning as though formed from frozen lightning.

  He held out a hand and slammed it into the rock, his voice a little more than a growl. “I'm going to burn this whole place to the ground. I know you're watching, so hear this: I will never worship a being that kills others for sport. I would rather die than pray to you sick fucks.”

  He felt the cool rock pulse beneath his fingers, and the voice of The Arbiter echoed through his mind.

  A strange oath, warrior, but one I will hold you to. No god of the Pantheon will assist you. You're on your own, human.

  Sam felt a strange surge of energy course through his body, and he opened his tafla to see that a new title had been added.

  [Apostate - Permanent - Iron - Tier 1 - Upgradeable]

  The Apostate. The one who turns their back on the divine. You have willingly forsaken the gifts of the gods. You gain increased resistance to all [Divine Skills]. You may not worship or receive skills from any current member of The Pantheon.

  Apostate. Sam grinned. He could work with that.

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