The First Great Game (A Litrpg/Harem Series)

The dancing and main round of eating was over—the fun calm before the storm. Now Blake stood shirtless in a pit built into the middle of the hall with his magic. He couldn’t seem to get his hands to stop shaking, or remember the last time he’d been so afraid.

Was it back in his first time in the orc tower? Probably. He’d been trapped without help, stabbed and nearly dying. Ilya had saved him. But she couldn’t help him this time.

He glanced up at his pregnant orc fiancee. She was watching him from the stands above the pit, and gave him a smile. But he could see how nervous she was. This wasn’t just some meaningless ritual.

If he let these orcs knock him out, he’d be deemed ‘unworthy’. By her adopted clan. Apparently it happened. And that was to orcs with skulls twice as thick as his and brains half as small. Apparently sometimes potential husbands even died. But the thought of letting Ilya down was worse.

He’d tried to get out of this. To subtly bribe the Stonebloods. To suggest they change the ritual due to his being a human, and a wizard instead of a warrior. They’d refused everything.

He’d almost controlled their minds out of desperation, but he’d promised Ilya he wouldn’t. It had been a difficult thing to resist, but he did it. Now he was trapped like a rat.

The elder ‘Vori’ (Ilya’s tribe, which was sort like a direct family line inside a larger clan) of the Stonebloods stepped gruffly to the edge of the pit. He introduced himself, then gestured to the three selected members of the Stoneblood clan who’d test Blake’s worthiness.

His heart dropped as he saw them. His one hope was that the clan would be reasonable and pick orcs to give him a chance. Maybe youths or the runts of the litter…

But three of the biggest laborer orcs Blake had ever seen climbed shirtless into the pit, to a chorus of grunts and cheers. His throat was dry. He couldn’t seem to generate any spit.

“Yeah, I’ll be honest, that doesn’t look great.”

Mason was standing behind him in the pit’s tunnel entrance with his arms crossed. He was the official ‘kin collector’—tasked with dragging the failed groom away if knocked unconscious or killed.

“They’ll start soon,” Blake hissed. “Do the thing. We need to group now.”

He waited for his brother’s ridiculous passives to pop up on his profile. Nothing happened. He turned and looked into Mason’s always strange, green eyes and waved an impatient hand. But he didn’t like what he was seeing in that expression…

“What do I get?”

Blake stared, mind not working properly. Was he…was he being leveraged?

Mason had never asked what was in it for him once in their whole lives. He had always just…been there, right by Blake’s side, along for the adventure.

But he knew they’d both changed. It was his fault more than anyone’s. Of course it was. But negotiation was a thing he could do.

“You shock me, brother of mine. How about my eternal gratitude?”

“I already have that. It’s overrated. Clock’s ticking.”

Blake fought the slow creep of panic, and frustration. This wasn’t the time to screw around. Except he also knew it was. It was exactly time. The son of a bitch.

“Well what do you want? For Christ sake’s the second that shaman lights that stupid candle thing up there I have to go.”

“A favor.”

Blake blew air. A favor? Was that seriously it?

“Fine. Good. Whatever you like.”

“A favor you can’t say no to, Blake. I call it in, and you do it instantly. You give it everything you’ve got.”

Blake rolled his eyes, looking up at the fat, old shaman as he struggled with his torch. They were seconds away from go time. What was Mason even on about? It was just like him to think if you agreed to some promise it was locked in stone. He turned and they met eyes again. Blake shook his head.

“Yes, fine, I promise.”

Mason stared, then nodded. But he started to frown, and Blake was getting a very bad feeling.

“Break a leg, buddy! You do great in arenas!”

Becky’s voice from above. Carl was laughing. A few other cheers. It was a small thing, but failing Ilya in front of people who genuinely disliked him made it somehow worse. That he was here after everything, needing his big brother to save him again…that was infuriating, too.

“Uh. Bad news.” Mason put a hand to his chin. “I clicked the thing. Nothing happened.”

“Well fucking click it again.”

“I am. I asked Haley and she says she isn’t seeing any way. It says we aren’t in a hostile area. We can’t just ‘group’. I don’t think it works. Better get your head straight, you gotta do this on your own. I suggest dodging and weaving.”

Blake’s legs trembled. His bowels gurgled. His mouth became the Sahara desert as he watched the three big orcs eye him like a piece of pork. Beating the shit out of a fancy human—especially the human responsible for the tyranny of Gromsh those months ago…the human that had impregnated and was now intending to steal away the only orc female tower lord…

He had a feeling they’d enjoy it as much as some of the humans watching.

The shaman’s torch finally roared to life. He grinned and looked around the hall, then held it out and lit the candle. Blake had to last until the tiny bit of wax burnt down. It was at least a few minutes. He wasn’t sure if he’d last seconds.

“The trial begins! May the gods find him worthy!”

The orcs all roared in excitement, as if this was all just some bit of fun. As if Blake’s whole future didn’t hang in the balance. He couldn’t accept defeat. If he failed he wasn’t just going to give up and leave. He honestly had no idea what he’d do. But it wasn’t that.

You heard Mason. Get your damn head together.

He had to think. Had to be perfect. He took his fear and busy thoughts and shoved them into a Partition. The shamans had blanketed the pit with some kind of anti-magic spells. But they couldn’t stop ‘internal’ magic. What could he still use? Think!

If he really wanted to, could they stop Psion’s Primordial Making? It wasn’t like most other spells. Maybe it would technically break the rules but orcs were warriors. Victory was victory and they’d probably accept it.

But maybe not. Could he still use his demonic necklace? Blasting the demon-hating orcs with an infernal artifact seemed like maybe not a great way to win friends and influence people…

He told himself it was a last resort. He didn’t have to win. He just had to stay conscious. To take a few hits and land a few of his own. To dodge and weave, just like Mason said. To put on a good enough show.

Pain and suffering was nothing compared to failure now. He didn’t care how many bones they broke, how many muscles they tore. He just had to stay conscious.

**

Mason watched his skinny brother ball his soft hands into fists, and walk towards three brutes twice his size.

He was impressed. Weirdly proud. Kind of mad. It was a complicated moment.

A piece of him still saw the scared little boy who’d been bullied in an orphanage. That piece wanted to rush out and beat the three creatures into oblivion, shouting in their dumb green faces not to touch his brother.

Another piece expected his pack-mates to be strong, or suffer the consequences. Another wanted to see Blake’s smug face beaten to a pulp—to see him fail miserably and maybe learn from the experience.

By the sound of some of his people’s cheers, he had a feeling which piece of them was in charge. It wasn’t a great look, even if he understood it.

But that’s not how this night was going to end. And the apocalypse gods were right about one thing—if he approved of a thing, it had to be successful, or else it made him seem weak. Maybe the stupid greenskins would take that ceremonial weakness as a sign not to work with them when it mattered. His brother couldn’t fail here.

With a sigh, he climbed back out through the tunnel, and made his way towards Ilya and the other ‘noble’ orcs. The poor creature looked stricken and pale, her nails dug into the rests of her chair.

“So confident your brother will succeed, King Mason?” said one of the orc lords, giving him a glare. “I’ve wagered he’ll need to be dragged out in thirty seconds without his magic.”

“A strange test,” Mason said. “My brother is a wizard. Would you ask a warrior to fight a wizard without a weapon?”

The orc fighters were circling slowly, taking their time. At first Mason assumed they were just putting on a show, or giving their opponent the chance to attack. But he sensed real hesitation from their movements. It seemed the orcs were afraid of Blake.

Maybe it would be enough to get him through. Until they figured out how physically weak he was.

“Weapons are already useless against wizards,” the big orc said with a sneer. “Here, the fight is fair.”

Mason looked at the size difference of the warriors below, then turned and met the creature’s red eyes. He laughed in its face.

The orc lord and all the others seemed taken aback, staring at Mason instead of the fight. He sensed a moment of panic, like any unpredictable behavior from him set them all on edge. He enjoyed that feeling very much.

“Oh,” he said, dropping the humor. “You were serious. I guess that’s why we humans keep kicking the shit out of everything. Our ‘god’ made it crystal clear. There’s no such thing as fair.”

He turned to watch, forcing himself to give it a second. The ‘candle’ was really just a sliver of wax and a big wick. It would burn fast, maybe a minute. But a minute in a pit with three orcs when you had no physical powers or magic was a very long minute.

Blake tried to keep away from his attackers, but in the small pit there was really nowhere to go. Eventually one of the brutes came forward and tried a quick jab. Blake pulled back but the movement was jerky and too far, throwing him off balance. He gave himself away instantly as obviously untrained.

Another orc grabbed at his arm. From sweat and maybe mud he managed to slip out of its grasp. The third slammed a thick fist into his chest.

Ilya shot upright as Blake staggered back gasping. But he kept his feet. He moved around the wall, rushing past two of the orcs before the third grabbed his forearm, this time holding it firm. They exchanged a hit. Two. Blake managed to block and keep his head protected, but he took a brutal hit to his arm, another to his body.

He jabbed the orc in the eye and slipped away, holding what might have been a broken wrist. Mason looked at the wax drip and took a breath. Maybe the smart move was to ‘help’ it melt. Use some kind of fire spell. But he sensed the orc anti-magic spells, and saw the shamans channeling.

And there was something about that orc calling this ‘fair’ that pissed him off. A skinny little human against three huge warriors. He saw the sneer on the creature’s face. Even the glee on some of his own people.

No. It was enough of this. If it was a bully they wanted, he could give them that. He flicked on Apex Predator.

All the orc spells popped like vulnerable little bubbles. The shamans were gasping and looking around in confusion, looking around until their eyes settled on him. But most people didn’t even notice.

Mason turned back and stared at Lady Ambereye. It was clear she’d noticed. After a moment of hesitation as their eyes met, hers started to glow with power.

Blake stood up like Popeye after a can of spinach. He seemed to forget his broken bone, the blood dripping down his face. He knew what had happened. And he charged at the orcs like he was worried he might not have the buff long.

The first punch made a sound so loud the crack echoed through the hall. The orc dropped to a knee looking utterly dazed. The next orc tried to grab him and got thrown half way across the pit.

Orcs and humans were all going quiet now, turning to each other in confusion, looking to see if someone had an explanation. Blake had the third orc beaten against the wall by the time Mason started walking.

“Bad bet,” he said to the lord as he passed, making his way to the elder with the candle. The old orc looked as stunned as everyone else. Mason stood there watching until the last bit of wax melted down.

“It’s over. Ring your little bell.”

The orc turned and stared at him slack-jawed, looking at the bell like he’d forgotten what it was for. Mason leaned a few inches from his face.

“Ring. The bell.”

At his tone the creature snatched it and rang like an excited Christmas caroler.

The fighting in the pit stopped, just like all the cheering. The three orcs slumped over with a few groans. Blake’s buff apparently wore off, because he went down next to them.

Mason walked back to the mixed expressions of the orc lords, smiling as Ilya slumped in obvious, palpable relief.

“Well.” He crossed his arms and smiled. “Orc weddings are…interesting. Does the real drinking start now?”

The new ‘Earthsoul’ lord put his head back and started laughing. As he did, the tension in the room seemed to drain, with most of the other orcs turning away from the pit like it was no longer important. Conversation started back up, most of the creatures turning to drink and eat and otherwise entertain themselves.

Mason walked towards his girls, taking the time to wait for Blake to look up and meet his eyes. By his brother’s expression, he knew the important message was clear:

You still owe me that favor.