The Eight of Earth

2: Victor Bells- *Sweat and Glory*

Metal and fire and guns and rage and violence. This is my life. And I love it. I don't know where the anger comes from, but it's there. Thick as mud, entrenched in my soul. I love the pain and the fury. The pure energy that follows me like a shadow from hell. Chaos. Demonic frenzy. A man possessed. There is no one more terrifying when I step into the Arena. No one as ruthless. I ooze venom. Pure hate and disdain. To see my eyes in the Arena is to know agony. I've never been defeated, and I never will. I was born to battle.

Calm before the storm.

We stand as a constellation, specks of glowing light huddled together, swallowed by unfathomable darkness. Except our lights are flashing gauges and sensors that flicker as holograms against the visors of our Warlord suits, and our darkness, the bowels of a tunnel that feeds into the Arena. The reflection of a visor against the wall illuminates the metal armor plates of one of my competitors. I watch as he checks the joints of his suit.

Those joints will not save him from my wrath.

Nothing will.

The darkness funnels my vision to the mouth of the tunnel, where I watch the occasional flash of an oscillating spotlight illuminate the madness that awaits us at the end.

A battlefield.

Droves of blood-lusting fans.

Glory.

The Arena.

My body trembles uncontrollably. Silent impatience bulging against the veins of my neck. I can taste blood. Eager. I close my eyes and think of the first time my father, Dansro, took me to a Battle of Warlords fight. I was just a child. Young and violent and obsessed with the glory of battle. Mesmerized by the Arena. Gawking at the Warlord suits covered in dazzling paint, shimmering against the bright lights. Spellbound by the towering statues carved from myrite and galestone and all the rare minerals of Valenia. Duzarod the Wild. Pyra the Immortal. Dansro the Noble.

Legends. Their names to live on for eternity.

I knew, at that moment, my destiny was inside these indestructible glass walls. Warhammer in each hand. An exoskeleton of relentless metal. A storm of rage and violence and pleasure brewing inside. A human face to be chiseled among these alien Gods. Never to be forgotten.

I open my eyes.

That will be my destiny... if Hades allows it.

The compression hinge of my suit's elbow hisses as I lift my forearm to inspect it. I run my fingers along four symbols disguised within the flames and the chaotic patterns that streak across the metal's warpaint.

A peacock for my brother, Fargo. A lotus for my dear friend, Miku. A quill for my father, Dansro. And a crescent moon for my idol, Pyra.