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When they told him the Pankration ring is the place you go to die, Wriothesley took that as a personal challenge.
He’s fought his way through life with his fists, beating down any person or obstacle in his path without remorse. He learned early on it’s a dog-eat-dog galaxy, and the planet of Voscht is no different—just with a little more pomp and circumstance. So, despite his imprisonment, he finds himself in a familiar position: fighting to prove his value.
Grilling the other prisoners doesn’t lend him much knowledge—they’re either just as new as him or have taken one too many blows to the head. What he gathers is there’s typically a few warmup bouts to get the crowd excited, a slaughter typically done by some wild beast to sate any immediate bloodlust, and then a finale of whatever unlucky mortal that’s challenged the so-called champion.
From what he hears, the current champion has held on for quite some time.
“He’s a minx,” an older, striped tabaxi tells him, sneering. “A right snake, he is. Doesn’t play fair, but his Highness likes him too much to call it cheating.”
“He’s a quick one,” another man of deep emerald skin says, “real fast, you don’t even see him comin’.”
Rumors abound regarding this mysterious champion. He’s fast, deadly, wicked with a dagger—a phantom made corporeal and more tempting than a siren. Wriothesley learns everything and nothing, curious despite himself. No one’s even able to tell him what planet the champion comes from, only that he’s humanoid.
Wriothesley’s not entirely sure what to make of it, but he’s confident in his own abilities—whoever, or whatever, this person is he’s still just another fighter.
And Wriothesley knows how to fight.
On the walk to the ring itself, he hears the crowd long before he sees anything. The hundreds upon hundreds of voices shake the stone walls, resonating through the floor beneath his boots. Their jeering ricochets down to him like tossed ball bearings, rolling in waves from the steel-plated door at the end of the hallway. He practically feels their animosity, their insatiable lust for battle. It permeates the air like a suffocating fog, squeezing out every drop of oxygen. These people long for broken bones and bloody teeth, uncaring for how they get it so long as a body gets left behind.
(Wriothesley’s used to this, too.)
He’d been offered a perusal of their armory—a meager, ramshackle thing with the strangest assortment of weapons he’d ever seen—and settled with a simple blade and some iron knuckles to slot between his fingers. They’re a little too small, pinching the web between his fingers, but solid and steady on his hands. If this so-called champion prefers daggers, then he needs to be ready for close combat, anyways.
A pair of guards give him a quick pat down at the door, checking for any unqualified weapons. When they find none, they shove him through unceremoniously—Wriothesley catches himself before he falls flat on his face.
The walls beneath the arena had been more isolating than he’d given them credit for; his eardrums nearly burst when the crowd roars above him, unfiltered sound crashing over him. His ears ring unnaturally as he stumbles into the arena, boots sinking into pale-colored sand. There’re lights and smoke and popping firecrackers as some loud, booming voice announces his arrival, the words indistinguishable from the rest of the noise. Wriothesley doesn’t know what they say about him, but it can’t be much—they don’t know where he’s come from either.
He walks toward the center of the ring, signaled by the large blue oval painted across the sand. His opponent hasn’t revealed themselves yet, so he takes in the rows of the audience, adjusting to the cavalcade of color around him. He catches a few spots of Fontainian blue (the deep cerulean brings a sharp pang to his chest) and some fiery shades from what must be Liyue, but not much else.
The announcer still speaks, their voice crackling across whatever old enhancement system they’re using. Wriothesley winces at the sharp whine of interference.
This time, he’s able to make out, “And, of course, make some noise for your Highness’ champion!”
If the crowd had been loud for his entrance, they’re deafening for this one. More lights flash down onto the arena, focusing on the opposite wall where another door’s begun to rise. Wriothesley keeps his blade sheathed, but adjusts his stance, readying himself in case they come out swinging. He doesn’t expect any honor for a proper fight; hasn’t seen an ounce of it since he arrived on this planet. Sure, he’s well-used to playing dirty, but it still grates against his nerves every so often.
Despite everything in his life, he had been taught how to fight with some respect.
Surprisingly, though, the door finishes rising unhindered. The crowd’s still cheering, feral and wild, as a lone figure steps into the ring.
Wriothesley blinks, watching as they cross the sand with slow, measured steps. The first thing he notices is their color—or lack thereof. They’re a splash of pale void in an otherwise bright, gaudy rainbow. Their skin could be translucent for how clean it looks, almost glowing, and their hair is a tightly braided line of pure silver across their shoulder. The clothes and armor they wear are dark in comparison, pieces of hard, worn leather fitted to their person.
He notices two things as they get closer: first, their eyes are a clear, crystalline violet, pale just like the rest of them; and second, they’re absolutely beautiful.
The champion stops on the other side of the blue oval from Wriothesley. They haven’t said a word, though even if they had, Wriothesley’s not sure he’d be able to hear them over the crowd. Their hands are empty, but he spies the hilts of at least two blades at their hip—sheathed, but within easy reach.
They study each other from afar, one intrigued, the other impassive. Wriothesley takes in their smaller frame, the placid expression on their face, and tries to get a read on them, but it’s impossible to tell what they’re thinking. He understands why so much gossip surrounds them—someone so lacking in emotion can’t be anything but intimidating.
They’re just another body to fight, he reminds himself. He rolls back his shoulders, cracking his neck, and sinks his weight onto his heels. He’s battled a variety of different people: drugheads and addicts, seasoned fighters and old soldiers, rookies, and teens far too young to be in any kind of arena.
People are people, and a fight is a fight. Wriothesley separated himself from the humanity of it all a long time ago.
The announcer calls out over the speakers, counting down. Wriothesley sets one hand on the hilt of his short sword, bracing himself. His opponent tilts their head slightly, but makes no other move, their eyes strangely luminescent. It’s such an odd color, their eyes—obviously violet, but still so faint, like the softest brush of watercolor on canvas. Their pupils look thin, too, unnaturally so; almost like—
An unseen bell rings out. Wriothesley startles, ripped from his musings. The crowd roars, feet thundering with excitement, and he draws his sword just in time to block the two daggers flying towards him.
They disappear into the sand somewhere to his left, but he doesn’t get the chance to see where before two more zip past his shoulder. Wriothesley curses, ducking to the side. He catches a glimpse of the champion as he rolls to his knees, putting himself low—they’ve barely moved. The only sign they’ve done anything at all is their outstretched hand, having just flung their most recent barrage, and the teal energy dissipating around their fingers.
Hydro energy.
“Of course, no one mentioned they have a fuckin’ Vision,” Wriothesley grumbles under his breath.
His earlier assumptions of close combat aren’t completely nixed, but he does reassess, now faced with the actuality of the champion’s fighting style. The power of a Vision definitely changes things. He’s faced only a handful of opponents that wielded similar magicks, and none ever with Hydro. What he does know is it isn’t something to underestimate—especially not from someone who clearly has mastery over it.
The champion flexes their hand and Wriothesley moves as another sharp, shimmering blade of Hydro whips past his side. It sinks into the sand with a splash, dissipating in a dark stain.
Wriothesley takes in a deep breath, rotating his blade in his hand. He can’t do anything if he’s kept at a distance by flying Hydro. He’s not sure how Hydro fares up close, but how hard can it be to punch through water? It’s not impenetrable like Geo or caustic like Pyro; if anything, right now, it’s just inconvenient.
He sheathes his blade, freeing his hands. The champion narrows their eyes, watching him closely while more Hydro weaves around their arms, pooling between their palms. Around and above them, the crowd jeers loudly, screaming for more.
Wriothesley moves first. He ducks low and charges forward, kicking up sand with his boots. Despite his bulk, he’s swift, and he closes the space between them quickly. He feels the burn of a landed blow across his shoulder, but keeps moving. His ears ring from the crowd’s roaring and adrenaline sings through his blood as he curls his fingers around the iron knuckles, tightening his hands into fists.
He aims his first blow high, but the champion easily dodges him, matching his speed. More Hydro whips past his ear, but Wriothesley weaves around it to try for a centralized hit which also gets avoided. They dance around each other, matched step-for-step, and while neither land anything substantial, it gives Wriothesley a better feel for his opponent’s movement.
Quick and lethal, just like he’d been told. They direct their Hydro within each move they make, wielding it like a precise blade—like a dagger. It sneaks in to strike between heavier hits and Wriothesley grits his teeth against every stinging bite. This close, he gets a better look at the champion: their focused, narrowed expression, the sweat beading along their brow. A tinge of salt burns his nose when he inhales, and he realizes it’s from them when he gets slashed by one of their Hydro blades—salt water, not fresh.
Every move they make is fluid, their body arcing around his fists like liquid. It’s almost hypnotic and Wriothesley finds himself staring a little too openly at the hidden curve of their waist, revealed only by the way they move away from his attacks. Their hair flashes like lightning in the harsh fluorescent lights, loose strands sticking to their forehead. They’re flushed a ruddy pink from exertion and it sits across the bridge of their nose in a bright band of color.
It's distracting. It shouldn’t be, but it is, and Wriothesley can’t help himself. He’s never fought someone like this before. They meet him like the perfect dance partner, unique and clever in a million different ways. Their Hydro energy moves around them without ever feeling like a gross disadvantage, and maybe that’s because they’re holding back or some other reason, Wriothesley’s not sure. He’s interested, though.
(His interest in things never ends well.)
He makes one fatal mistake, and that’s forgetting about the true blades at their hip.
When they shift their body to protect from a fist to the ribs, Wriothesley sees his opening. He ducks in front of them, aligning their hips while curling one arm behind their back. His other hand grabs their arm and he hoists their weight onto his body, pushing up with his hips while turning his core. He feels them inhale in surprise as they’re brought over his shoulder, landing with a thud on the sand at his feet. Wriothesley grabs their wrist, bringing his knee in to lock their elbow—but he isn’t fast enough to catch their second hand.
He hears the shink of the blade being drawn before he sees it. They slash at the back of his exposed knee, and Wriothesley curses when he stumbles. His knee buckles and they shove into him, pushing him onto his back. They tumble over each other, Wriothesley struggling to maintain his control, but the champion is slippery.
They get him pinned after a few seconds with a knife to his throat. One boot digs into his left wrist while they hold down his right in an awkward twist, threatening a broken bone if they push a few millimeters harder. Seated on his chest, they stare down at him winded, breathing heavily.
Wriothesley swallows against the knife, feeling the sting of the blade where it cuts into his skin. The champion says nothing, leaning closer as they examine each other once again. Despite the crowd, it’s deathly quiet in the space between them, nothing but their shared breathing filling the air.
Again, the thought occurs to him: this person is beautiful. Their eyes glow brilliantly, shining with their own light. They dart across Wriothesley’s face, pupils thin and serpentine, taking him in like a predator curious of its prey. It’s like they’ve been sculpted from pure ivory, skin a creamy alabaster inlaid with scales of lapis lazuli Wriothesley hadn’t noticed before. Their hide glimmers with its own iridescence while their hair drips over one shoulder in a stretched line of liquid mercury. It’s braided intricately and woven through with threads of navy, the ends brushing against Wriothesley’s cheek soft as a cloud. He realizes with a start it’s the same Fontainian blue he’d seen dispersed through the crowd.
Wriothesley barely dares to breathe, licking his dry lips. It’s as if the arena doesn’t exist anymore, fading into a fuzzy backdrop of color and white noise. The champion blinks slowly, tilting their head to one side. The ends of their ears are pointed, further confirming Wriothesley’s suspicion they aren’t human.
(They’ve got freckles; bioluminescent whorls to their scales that match the glow of their eyes. The small dots gather around their eyes, streaking up to their temples, spilling down their neck—)
They say something, speaking for the first time, but Wriothesley doesn’t understand. It’s strangely melodic, whatever language it is.
“I don’t understand,” he murmurs.
The words are soft, floating as if caught on a stray breeze and strung together by spider-silk. They end in a chirping trill that spills from the champion’s throat, high-pitched like birdsong, but somehow sweeter.
“You’re new,” they say in a common tongue, voice smooth and rich.
“You’re from Fontaine,” Wriothesley answers.
Their eyes narrow again, and the knife bites a little deeper into Wriothesley’s skin. “Am I?”
“You use Hydro.”
Something flickers across their face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. They’re so close, the tips of their noses bumping together, and Wriothesley breathes in the smell of sea salt; the distant memory of an ocean he hasn’t seen in decades drifting to the surface of his mind.
“And I’d recognize that accent anywhere,” he adds faintly.
They don’t move, but their posture shifts from something less dangerous, losing some of its rigidity. Their expression turns calculating and Wriothesley watches in fascination when their scales ripple up, then back down again. They speak again in that same foreign tongue from before, almost whispering.
“What are you—”
“The winner, as always, is his Highness’ favorite treasure: the incredible Hydro Dragon!”
The announcer’s voice booms around them, shattering the moment like glass. Wriothesley startles at the title, lurching against the champion’s grip, but they hold firm atop him, unmoving. The interest that’d just been writ so clearly across their features disappears, replaced by the same impassive mask from when they first entered the ring. They don’t react to the name—whether because it’s a simple truth or they just don’t care, it’s impossible to say. Questions bounce around inside Wriothesley’s mind while the champion flips the dagger in their hand, removing the blade from Wriothesley’s neck.
“When you wake up,” they murmur, “say yes.”
Wriothesley doesn’t get the chance to ask what the hell that means before they drive the hilt of their dagger into his temple, knocking him out cold.