Malek, or Kai as he was known in his previous, distant life, recalls the vast database of the Neural-Net Simulations. Every species, every tactical weakness, every environmental hazard of the simulated combat arenas was etched into his memory. He was an expert. He’d poured over countless hours, dissecting the behavior patterns of every known creature within the Hegemony’s vast gladiatorial archives. He knew the Chitterers, the Grunges, the Skitters—their habits, their blind spots, their lethal capabilities. His strategy for this new reality, his ‘Ironclad’ persona, hinged on this acquired knowledge, coupled with the brute strength gifted by this new body. He had genuinely believed it would be enough. His savage physique, amplified by his strategic mind, was the formula for survival within the sprawling, brutal architecture of the Slag-Maze. He was confident. Arrogant, perhaps, but strategically sound. Then the portal spat him out. A gasp escapes him, not of pain, but of pure, immediate disorientation. His vision goes dark. Not a metaphor, not a poetic embellishment of fear, but an absolute, crushing blackness. He could be blindfolded, trapped in a lightless containment unit, and the effect would be indistinguishable. The world simply ceases to exist beyond the immediate, oppressive void. “Fuck.” The curse is a low rasp, raw and involuntary. He feels ambushed, blindsided. His initial tactical assessment, painstakingly constructed, just shattered. The Conscripted Brutes he was herded with had carried no auxiliary light sources. Why would they? His simulations of Sector One of the Slag-Maze always depicted ambient Lumin-coils embedded in the plasteel walls, casting a dull, consistent glow. Even the designated Void-Stretches, the truly dark zones, were supposed to be confined to the outermost rings, bordering Sector Two. ‘Did they throw me into one of those?’ The hypothesis forms instantly, a cold, clinical assessment overriding the primal shock. Entry into the Slag-Maze is randomized, yes. But his simulated runs, even those with highly unfortunate spawn points, never landed a participant in absolute, perpetual darkness like this. There was always a nearby Lumin-coil, a distant glow, a visual cue. The Hegemony’s architects understood the need for basic visibility, even in their death traps. Unless… Unless those were merely player conveniences, the benevolent hand of a game designer, removed for the grim reality of this existence. In this Iron Hegemony, where suffering was entertainment, perhaps an unlucky wretch *could* be dropped into a true Void-Stretch, a pocket of absolute sensory deprivation, right from the start. That had to be it. It was the only logical explanation. If the entirety of Sector One, the entry-level death trap, was this uniformly dark, then survival for even a single cycle would be impossible. The odds would be astronomical, even for Kai. His breath hitches, then steadies. He forces a slow, measured exhale. His eyes, marvels of biological adaptation, begin their arduous process of adjustment. Slowly, painstakingly, vague outlines manifest from the black—the uneven curve of a wall, the faint shimmer of condensation on a distant surface. The situation is dire, certainly, but not yet terminal. No need for self-termination, not when there was still a fighting chance to claw his way back to the light. ‘Check parameters.’ He silently cycles through the old commands. “Status window, equipment read, character data, inventory scan, journal access… damn.” Nothing. Not even a flicker of the data overlays he relied on in his past life. He hadn't truly expected them to work. This wasn't a simulation. This was blood, bone, and pain. Reality provided no convenient interface. “Let’s go.” The words are a whisper, barely audible even to himself. Shield held forward, a bulky, plasteel assurance. His free hand reaches out, fingers brushing against the cold, slick surface of the Slag-Maze wall. Each step is an agonizing crawl, barely faster than actual crawling. He cannot increase his speed. The risk is too high. Every inch of this unknown terrain is a potential death sentence. The sharp, searing agony erupts from his right ankle without warning. An invisible tripwire, a razor-filament snapping taut around bone and sinew. A guttural cry rips from his throat, a sound he instantly regrets. His nerves scream, a primal, unadulterated pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his simulated lives. Yet, even through the blinding fire, his mind races, analyzing, dissecting. The cause is clear, stark, immediate. He has stepped on a Chitterer trap. His strategy. The flaw. It was glaring, obvious now. The shield, his symbol of endurance and protection, had bought him psychological stability, yes. It also obscured his field of view. Had he secured it to his back, focused solely on the terrain, on the minute variations in the grime-slicked plasteel floor, he might have seen the tell-tale glint of the tripwire, the subtle depression indicating a snare. What good was a shield if it blinded you to the immediate threat? Practicality, Malek reminds himself with a savage mental lash. Not comfort. “Fuck it… hooo.” He grinds his teeth, fighting the scream that claws at his throat, threatening to escape. The pain is monumental, enough to curdle blood, to turn his hair white. But screaming is a waste of energy, a beacon for predators. It solves nothing, only exacerbates the problem. His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat against the silence. He forces his lips together, forcing slow, deliberate breaths. Focus. Control. The pain can wait. The knowledge cannot. Sector One has only one creature that employs traps: the Chitterer. Ergo, there is a Chitterer nearby. It’s a simple, undeniable equation. He reflexively brings the shield up, not just to protect his head, but to narrow his focus, to channel his attention. He holds his breath, straining his auditory sensors, trying to pierce the oppressive silence. Nothing. Not a scuttle, not a whisper. It’s as if time itself has paused, waiting. Could he be wrong? Perhaps the Chitterer, like any organic life form, had simply moved away, seeking its own dark corners, performing its own biological functions. Even a Chitterer has to… relieve itself. ‘No. Crush that thought.’ The insidious tendril of optimism is a poison, a liability in this place. He crumples it, discards it. There is a vast difference between positive thinking and idiotic complacency. What he needs now is a negative mindset. The worst-case scenario. Always. If he cannot be certain, he assumes the absolute worst. The Chitterer heard him. It is hiding, perfectly still, waiting for him to weaken, for the paralyzing shock of the trap to fully set in. The silence isn’t an absence; it’s a calculated patience. This aligns with his simulations. In the Neural-Net, where there was a trap, there was always a Chitterer. “Whew.” He slowly exhales the breath he’d been holding, the sound a ragged rasp in the oppressive quiet. The silence, though unnerving, means that anything moving will be audible. He needs to remain focused. First, address the immediate issue. “Huuup!” He crouches, a grunt of agony escaping him as he puts pressure on the injured leg. Both hands grasp the serrated edges of the trap, prying them open with a desperate, adrenaline-fueled strength. He pulls his foot free. Blood, slick and warm, immediately oozes over his hand. He tears a strip from the hem of his crude Conscripted Brute tunic, wraps it tightly around the laceration, applying brutal pressure. His current footwear—barely more than scrap-soles—is ruined. He pulls it off and discards it. It’s useless now. Damn these Hegemony bastards. If they’d even provided simple plasteel boots, the damage wouldn't be this severe, the scrap-soles wouldn't have shredded so easily. He pushes the thought away. It’s unproductive, a distraction. Wallowing in self-pity, cursing the past, changes nothing. It was his fault for not checking the terrain, for relying on the phantom Lumin-coils of the simulations. No whining. Analyze. The foot. He can’t feel his right foot. A dull, internal heat persists, but even that is fading, replaced by a strange, heavy numbness. This is bad. This is very bad. “I know you’re hiding, so come out.” His voice is a low, gravelly whisper, barely reaching the immediate vicinity. No response. The darkness remains absolute, silent. He pushes forward, a desperate, limping shuffle. Step. Step. Each movement sends a fresh wave of pain through him, a white-hot spear driven into his ankle. But the initial numbness is giving way to a throbbing, relentless ache. Two possibilities. The stun-venom coating the trap’s tripwire is wearing off, or the sheer intensity of the wound is overwhelming its effects. He considers both. Neither is a terrible outcome. If the venom is fading, good. If the nerves are screaming, it means they’re intact. The injury, though severe, isn’t crippling his ability to feel. Pain is information. ‘Why am I trying to be positive about this?’ He mentally recoils from the thought. It’s not positivity, it’s objective assessment. He doesn't have the mental bandwidth for emotional luxury. His brain feels parched, as if wrung dry, pickled in the acrid taste of adrenaline and blood. “Your progenitor is a fucking Chitterer.” The words spill out, unfiltered, raw. A crude taunt, a desperate attempt to elicit a response, to rattle the unseen predator. His legs keep moving, a stubborn, mechanical rhythm. “Your matron is also a fucking Chitterer.” The whispers are raspy, almost a chant. He's bleeding, vulnerable, in pain. Time is his enemy. If he has to fight, better now than later. Reinforcements could be nearby. Chitterers often hunted in small packs. “So you are one too, you fucking Chitterer.” Then, a sound. Small, almost imperceptible, yet it resonates like a thunderclap in the hyper-focused silence. *Squelch.* Finally. It shows itself. Its presence. A grim satisfaction settles over him. “What, couldn’t stand your lineage being defiled?” He knows the words are meaningless to the creature, mere noise. But the sound came from behind him. It means he was getting away, forcing the Chitterer to abandon its patient ambush. He accelerates, a desperate, shambling run. The sounds of its movement accelerate behind him. *Squelch squelch squelch squelch.* Each step of the creature is accompanied by a wet, sticky suction, as if something viscous is being pulled from a slick surface. His knowledge tells him Chitterers are barely a meter tall, hunched and spindly. But the sound, the pressure of pursuit, makes it feel like a hulking monstrosity is closing in. To ward off the rising tide of fear, he continues to talk, to taunt, to focus his mind on anything but the excruciating pain and the relentless hunter at his heels. This was the Slag-Maze. And it had just claimed his first blood.

First Blood in the Slag-Maze