Chapter 1 

Pandar

The Thlii's death rattle echoes through The Ring like thunder, and I throw my blood-soaked fists to the air. Twenty thousand voices explode in a roar that shakes the volcanic glass walls, and every sound is worship. Every scream is prayer. Every cheer confirms what I've always known—I am a god walking among insects.

The massive toad-beast twitches beneath me, its bus-sized bulk still leaking molten bile from where I tore open its throat. Its four eyes have gone glassy, staring at nothing, but the crowd wants more. They always want more from their king.

I grab the creature's severed manhood—thick as my forearm and still twitching—and shove it deep into the beast's gaping maw. The crowd loses its mind. Demons shriek in ecstasy, lesser orcs beat their chests, and even the stone-faced gargoyles in the premium seats lean forward. They love the brutality. They love the dominance. They love me.

"BOW TO YOUR GOD!" I roar, beating my chest with fists that could crush diamonds. Blood streams down my torso—none of it mine—and I drink in their adoration like the finest wine. "I AM PANDAR THE MAGNIFICENT! I AM YOUR KING OF THE KILL!"

The response is deafening. Twenty thousand voices screaming my name, stamping their feet, throwing gold coins and precious gems into the sand. A shower of riches rains down around me, and I laugh at their pathetic offerings. What use do I have for their trinkets when I already own everything worth having?

I stride toward my private lift, stepping over the Thlii's corpse without a backward glance. The lesser fighters in their holding cages press against the bars, desperate for even a moment of my attention. 

Pathetic. A scarred minotaur tries to catch my eye—probably hoping I'll acknowledge his mediocre performance earlier. I spit in the sand near his cage instead.

"Move faster, you worthless worms!" I bark at the Zonak servants scrambling to operate my lift. The small, gray demons jump like startled rats, their three-foot frames trembling as they work the mechanisms. Good. Fear is the foundation of respect, and respect is what separates gods from mortals.

The platform rises through the carved volcanic rock, carrying me from the savage arena to my palace in the clouds. Well, not clouds exactly—the artificial lightning crackling across the ceiling of The Kill creates a decent imitation of Protheka's storm-wracked sky. Not that I miss the surface. Why would I? Up there, I was just another warrior searching for scraps. Down here, I am everything.

My reflection catches in the polished obsidian walls as we ascend, and I pause to admire what the crowd was privileged to witness. Seven feet of pure muscle wrapped in bronze skin, unmarked by any blade worthy of mention. My tusks gleam like ivory daggers, and my black hair falls in a warrior's braid that reaches my belt. Magnificent doesn't begin to cover it.

The lift shudders to a stop at The Black Suite—my domain, my kingdom, my reward for being superior to every other creature in this underground world. Klaus stands waiting in the pristine marble foyer, as he always does, having prepared everything before my return. 

The human slave cuts a sharp figure in his pressed black uniform, his graying hair perfectly combed, his pale face a mask of professional servility. He bows low as I stride past.

"Magnificent performance, Lord Pandar," Klaus says, his voice carefully modulated. "The crowd has never been more ecstatic. Truly, they witnessed the work of a god today."

I grunt approval. At least the man recognizes quality when he sees it, unlike most of his worthless species. Klaus has been serving me since my third week here, and he's proven himself capable enough to handle my needs without constant supervision. For a human, anyway.

I swagger through chambers carved from polished volcanic glass that reflects the artificial red lightning in mesmerizing patterns. The furniture is crafted from rare woods and metals, the carpets woven from the silk of creatures that exist nowhere else on Protheka. Every piece was selected by Weland himself as tribute to my greatness.

Klaus glides behind me like a shadow, anticipating my needs without being asked. The bath is already drawn, the temperature perfect. Fresh clothes laid out on the massive bed. Three bottles of Rirzed wine breathing on the dining table beside platters of roasted meats from beasts I've never bothered to learn the names of.

Six months ago, I thought this was temporary—a brief holiday from the tedious search for my brothers, a chance to earn easy gold and enjoy unlimited pleasures. What a fool I was to think small. This isn't a holiday. This is my destiny. This is what I was born for.

In the main chamber, my victory feast waits. I tear into the food like the magnificent predator I am, washing down each bite with wine that tastes like liquid starlight. Klaus stands at attention near the wall, ready to refill my goblet before it empties.

"Did you see how I destroyed that overgrown toad?" I ask the room, because even my own voice deserves an audience. "Of course you did! The whole damn underground saw their king in action!" I laugh and gesture for Klaus to pour. "Twelve seconds. That's all it took to gut a creature that could swallow a horse whole. Twelve seconds to remind twenty thousand souls why they worship me."

"Indeed, my lord," Klaus agrees, filling my goblet with practiced precision. "Your tactical superiority was breathtaking to behold. The beast never stood a chance against such overwhelming skill."

Smart man. He knows greatness when he sees it.

My brothers flash through my mind for a moment—Gruk, Mogor, Othic, Thoktar. Probably still crawling through mud somewhere on the surface, begging for scraps and sleeping rough. Poor bastards. They could be here, sharing in my glory, but they lack the vision to see opportunity when it presents itself. Their loss is my gain.

A Zonak scurries into the chamber, its gray face twisted in the permanent expression of fear these creatures wear. It whispers something to Klaus, who nods curtly before the demon flees.

"Lord Pandar," Klaus says, stepping forward with perfect posture, "The mighty Weland requests your presence tomorrow in the throne chamber. He wishes to celebrate your victory."

My chest swells with pride. Of course he does. Weland appreciates quality when he sees it, unlike the surface dwellers who wouldn't recognize greatness if it bit them on their worthless asses. The Demon Warlord has been nothing but generous since I arrived—this palace, unlimited food and wine, the finest weapons, and all the pleasures a king could desire.

"Tell his lordship I'll graciously accept whatever tribute he wishes to offer," I declare, already imagining what new luxury awaits me. Perhaps a larger suite? New weapons forged from metals that don't exist on the surface? Maybe even a title to match my obvious superiority.

Klaus bows. "I shall convey your gracious acceptance, my lord."

I sink back in my throne-like chair, surveying my domain through the glass walls. Below, crews of slaves clean the arena sand, preparing for tomorrow's lesser entertainments. Above, the artificial storm flickers and dances, a light show for my personal enjoyment.

This is what victory looks like. This is what happens when a true warrior stops limiting himself to the petty struggles of the surface world. My brothers can keep their honor and their clan loyalties. I'll take power, luxury, and the worship of thousands any day.

I drain my wine and slam the goblet down with a grin that would terrify armies.

"Klaus," I command, "bring me fourteen of the finest from the whole pit. And make sure the one without her legs is among them."

“Oh, yes, my lord certainly can go deep into her.” Klaus says. 

He glides away to make the arrangements, and I settle back to wait. 

I wish my clan brothers could see me now. The luck a ship wreck has laid at my feet.

The best food, the best wine, and soon, the best whores Protheka has to offer.