The God Prison System

Chapter 5: Welcome to the First Floor

Zyren slowly lowered his hand, keeping his fingers tightly laced with Lyra's. He could feel the rapid, fluttery beat of her pulse against his palm, a stark contrast to the absolute stillness he was trying to project.

"You guys really know how to throw a welcome party," Zyren said, his voice a cool, lazy drawl that didn't betray a single ounce of the screaming panic currently liquefying his insides. "But pointing those oversized toothpicks at me is a really bad habit. You might hurt yourselves."

"Shut your mouth!" one of the front-line soldiers barked, taking a step forward. His halberd hummed with a faint blue electrical charge. "You’re speaking to Commander Drake of the Iron Vanguard! State your name and class, or we'll paint this plaza with your blood!"

Commander Drake stepped forward, his gold-trimmed armor clanking loudly. He was a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down his left cheek and a sneer that looked like it had been permanently chiseled onto his face. His arrogant gaze swept over Zyren, lingering for a fraction of a second on Zyren's lack of a visible class badge, before sliding over to Lyra.

Drake’s eyes darkened, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his lips as he took in her disheveled hair, her flushed cheeks, and the way her dark leather harness was buckled just a little too loosely over her chest.

"Well, well," Drake purred, his voice dripping with condescension. "What do we have here? A little summoner bird flying far from her nest. And she's holding hands with a nobody. Tell me, sweetheart, did this classless trash drag you into that hidden zone? You look like you’ve had a... very exhausting time down there."

Lyra’s emerald eyes flashed with a lethal, icy glare. She took a step closer to Zyren, her soft breast pressing firmly against his arm as she glared at the commander.

"If you don't take your eyes off me, tin can, I'm going to summon a pack of shadow-stalkers to rip your tongue out through your throat," Lyra hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "And then I'll let my master here decide what to do with the rest of your worthless body."

"Your master?" Drake laughed, a loud, booming sound that made the surrounding soldiers chuckle. "This guy? He doesn't even have a class badge. He’s a level-one civilian, girl. A bug. If he stepped into a high-tier dungeon, the mana pressure alone would turn him into a puddle of grease."

He's not wrong, Zyren thought, a drop of cold sweat rolling down his spine. If Lyra wasn't acting as a human AC unit for my burning veins ten minutes ago, I would literally be a pile of ash right now. I have to play this perfectly or we are both dead.

"Zyren," Lyra whispered, leaning her head close to his ear. The sweet, lingering scent of her skin wafted over him, instantly reminding him of the fierce, desperate kiss they had shared on the altar steps. Her hand slid up his arm, her fingers tracing a slow, teasing line over his bicep. "Just say the word. My mana is still a little low, but I can summon a Level Twenty-Five Iron Golem right now. We can crush these idiots and run."

"No," Zyren murmured back, his lips brushing against her temple. "Look at the rooftops. They have archers with heavy ballistas. If you summon anything, they’ll turn us into swiss cheese before your golem can even take a step. Let me handle this."

"Are you sure?" she whispered, her eyes shining with a mixture of worry and absolute, blind devotion. "I don't want anything to happen to my favorite master."

"Have a little faith, gorgeous," Zyren winked, his heart doing a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. He turned his attention back to Drake, his expression instantly shifting from playful to one of supreme, majestic boredom. He let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Are you done barking, Captain? Or do I need to wait for you to finish your little comedy routine?"

Drake’s grin vanished, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "You've got a lot of nerve for a classless rat. Do you have any idea who you're talking to? The Iron Vanguard rules this floor. Anyone entering from a hidden zone pays a toll. Fifty thousand credits. Right now. Or we execute you as an unregistered anomaly."

"Fifty thousand?" Zyren scoffed, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at the commander. "I don't carry pocket change. And even if I did, I wouldn't waste it on a group of glorified hall monitors."

"Why, you—" the soldier with the electric halberd lunged forward, but Drake held up a hand, stopping him.

"Wait," Drake sneered, his eyes locking onto Zyren with a malicious light. "He's acting tough because of the girl. He thinks he’s a hero. Well, let's see how heroic you feel when your head is bouncing off the dirt. There's a standard protocol for unregistered anomalies who can't pay the toll."

"Oh? And what's that?" Zyren asked, raising an eyebrow. "A sternly worded letter?"

"The Arena," Drake said, pointing his massive broadsword toward a towering stone structure rising above the city skyline. "You survive three minutes in the central ring against a challenger of our choosing, and we waive the toll. We'll even give you a shiny new registration badge. But if you lose... well, the local beast gets a very nice midday snack. What do you say, hero? Or are you going to hide behind your pretty little summoner's skirts?"

"Zyren, don't do it!" Lyra grabbed his shoulder, her fingers digging into his skin. "It's a trap! The Vanguard uses the arena to publicly execute anyone who threatens their authority. They’ll put you in there with a high-level monster!"

"Don't worry, Lyra," Zyren said, turning to her with a calm, reassuring smile. He gently reached up, brushing a stray silver lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her warm, soft cheek. "A little exercise is exactly what I need to stretch my legs. Besides, I'd hate to ruin your lovely outfit by getting blood on it."

"You... you absolute idiot," Lyra whispered, her face flushing a deep, beautiful pink. Her emerald eyes melted with a sudden, intense heat, her lips parting slightly. "If you die in there, I'll never forgive you. And I definitely won't let you try that other... stabilization technique we talked about."

"Now that," Zyren rumbled, his voice dropping into a deep, suggestive register that made her breath hitch, "is a very powerful motivator."

"Are you two done flirting?" Drake spat, gesturing to his guards. "Because your execution schedule is filling up. Move it, trash!"

The soldiers formed a tight perimeter around Zyren and Lyra, escorting them out of the plaza and down the bustling, stone-paved streets of the city. As they walked, Drake began to shout to the passing crowds of players and NPCs.

"Step right up, citizens of Floor One!" Drake bellowed, his voice amplified by a wind-aspected magic stone. "Today, we have a very special treat! A classless arrogant bastard who thinks he can ignore the Vanguard's laws! He’s volunteered for the Arena! Come watch him get turned into mince meat!"

Within minutes, a massive crowd began to follow them, jeering and laughing.

"A classless guy? Is he crazy?"

"Fifty credits says he doesn't last ten seconds!"

"Look at his gear! He’s wearing basic leather! He’s a dead man walking!"

Zyren kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, his face a mask of absolute, unbothered tranquility. Inside, his mind was a chaotic storm of absolute terror. I am so dead. I am literally so dead. My level is one. My strength is ten. My combat skills are zero. If a level-two rabbit bites me, I’ll probably contract tetanus and die on the spot. How am I going to survive three minutes in an arena?!

They reached the massive stone amphitheater. The interior was vast, with thousands of stone seats rising up in tiers around a circular, sand-covered floor. The sand was stained a dark, ominous reddish-brown in various spots.

Drake led them down to the preparation area just off the main ring. "You stay here, girl," he said, grabbing Lyra by the wrist.

Before Drake could even pull her away, Zyren's hand shot out, grabbing Drake’s gauntlet with a grip that while physically weak was delivered with such absolute, cold authority that the commander involuntarily froze.

"Touch her again," Zyren whispered, his eyes narrowing into cold, dead pools of gold, "and I will ensure your entire guild vanishes from this world. Do you understand me?"

The raw, ancient gravity of the Deceased God passive flickered for a brief microsecond, just enough to send a sudden, chilling spike of terror straight down Drake's spine. The commander gasped, instantly releasing Lyra’s wrist and taking a involuntary step back, his face turning pale.

"Y-You..." Drake stammered, his hand trembling as he reached for his sword. "Just get in the ring!"

Zyren turned to Lyra, his expression instantly softening. "Wait for me here."

"Zyren," Lyra whispered, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling herself tight against him. She kissed him deeply, a quick, intense burst of sweet, breathless passion that left them both panting. "Don't you dare die."

"I have too much to live for," Zyren smiled, gently releasing her.

He turned and walked through the heavy iron archway, stepping out onto the hot, blood-stained sand of the arena floor. The crowd above let out a deafening roar of jeers and catcalls.

Across the arena, the massive, triple-reinforced steel gates began to grind upward, the heavy chains rattling against the stone walls. A thick, sulfurous stench wafted from the darkness of the tunnel beyond.

From the shadows, a low, rumbling growl vibrated through the floorboards, followed by the terrifying, scraping sound of massive, razor-sharp claws.

A colossal, three-headed beast slithered into the bright sunlight. It was a Chimera, twice the size of a carriage. Its main body was a muscular, golden-furred lion, but its tail was a thick, writhing python with glowing green eyes, and a massive, horned goat head protruded from its shoulder, dripping with acidic saliva.

The Chimera’s six eyes locked directly onto Zyren, a low, hungry hiss echoing from its throats.

Zyren stood alone in the center of the sand, holding his rusty, chipped iron but knife.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Zyren thought, his heart stopping entirely.