The passages beneath the palace grow darker and narrower the deeper Kisara and the guards descend. Fewer and fewer torches line the walls, which change gradually from smooth sandstone bricks to rough-hewn granite. Kisara does not mind the dark, but the close walls and the steadily-lowering ceilings make her feel entombed. At one point, she halts entirely, sucking in shallow, desperate breaths, but the guards harry her onwards.
"Move, woman," says one. "High Priest Set dislikes waiting."
Like magic, the name loosens the invisible vice around Kisara's torso.
"I am to see High Priest Set?" she asks shakily.
"We bring you to him on his orders," a second guard confirms.
The wild thumping of her heart eases somewhat. He would not save me from a mob only to condemn me to be buried alive, she reasons. A part of her yet loathes this place-she has lived most of her life under the open sky, and her most beloved dreams consist of flying through its blue or starlit expanse-but she can endure claustrophobia for the sake of the one who rescued and healed her.
I must conduct myself well in High Priest Set's presence, reflects Kisara, and distracts herself by thinking of how best to approach her rescuer when the time comes. Certainly she will bow to him, but in what manner? She decides against throwing herself at the high priest's feet, though she is grateful enough to do so. She decides instead to stand strongly before him in order to show how his charity has restored her. I am a meager person, but perhaps I could be useful to him, she thinks. He has already seen me in the dust and dirt; I must now show I was worth saving.
Gradually the underground ceilings begin to rise and the walls recede. Finally, Kisara and her escorts pass through a grand doorway into the tallest, widest chamber yet. The majority of the room consists of a great pit bordered on all sides by a narrow brick walkway. Shadows obscure the area above the pit, though Kisara senses large shapes moving in the gloom. Every so often, low, inhuman snarls echo off the room's cavernous walls.
Two of the guards flank Kisara, grip her arms so that she cannot turn or pause, and march her towards a raised dais at one end of the chamber. A pair of ornate chairs sit upon the dais, and a pair of men, sit upon the chairs. A squat, hooded figure skulks and murmurs between them; they all study the black pit with interest. Kisara's third guard steps forward to address the young man in the closest chair.
"Lord Set, we've brought the woman," he reports.
The remaining guards release their collective hold on Kisara. One pushes her forward with enough force to make her stumble, but not fall. She sways toward the dais like a reed in the wind. All thoughts of unseen shadows flee as she raises her eyes to the young man's face. This is High Priest Set? His confident bearing and fine clothing support that assumption, but up close he appears barely older than her. Priest Set does not turn from the darkness, but his gaze flicks sidelong to meet Kisara's, the corner of his mouth lifting in triumph or satisfaction.
The squat figure next to him shuffles around Priest Set's chair. Beneath his hood, he appears more wizened than even the second priest, whose beard and hair have silvered with age. His face is fantastically ugly. Rolls of fat or loose skin create many-layered jowls around his cheeks and neck. He giggles anticipatorily-a high, wet, greedy sound-as he approaches Kisara.
"So this is the girl rumored to harbor a god!" he comments.
A god? Kisara glances at the ugly man, then back to Priest Set, who watches her in turn, his expression turned evaluative. Recalling her desire to make a good impression, Kisara ignores the hooded man entirely. She straightens her shoulders and dips her head. Laying her right hand over her heart in a respectful salute, she speaks clearly and earnestly, declaring:
"High Priest Set, I have no way to thank you for saving my life, but you have my eternal gratitude. Thank you for helping me."
The ugly little man halts in his tracks. Kisara thinks he might be like the feral dogs who prowl the city's garbage heaps, menacing all but only attacking those who show fear.
Priest Set acknowledges her words with a small hmph. "Woman, what is your name?" he asks.
Kisara is called 'beggar,' 'parasite,' or 'barbarian' on good days, 'witch,' 'ill-omen,' or 'accursed' on bad ones. Just as she cannot remember the last time someone treated her carefully, she cannot remember the last time someone asked for her name.
"...I am Kisara," she answers, swallowing back the unexpected flood of happiness that threatens to overwhelm her at his question. She has no time to enjoy it, however: a roar goes up from darkness then, and Kisara's eyes have adjusted to the dim well enough to discern its source.
Two monsters brawl amidst a maze of platforms suspended over the pit with thick metal chains. A ghostly phosphorescensce limns their bodies. One a horned beast, the other a spider-like creature, both beings loom huger and crueler-looking than anything Kisara could have imagined on her own.
Somehow, Kisara finds her voice. "...What is this?"
The hooded man answers, "This is an arena where prisoners strengthen their ka."
As he speaks, the horned creature seizes the spider demon's pincers in its clawed hands. The spider spits a mass of sticky webbing into the horned monster's face. The latter squeals, wrathful. Kisara notices two scarred men standing on platforms below the creatures, watching the battle-and each other-with fierce concentration.
"Why are you so surprised?" the hooded man inquires when Kisara draws back disbelievingly from the tableau. "Surely you know there is a ka inside your soul as well."
"In my...?" Kisara shakes her head. "There's nothing like that inside me!" She looks to Priest Set, desperate for an explanation.
"Ka is a life energy. Most people cannot even see it, but when some people are driven into a corner, they can give their ka a physical embodiment that will protect them. You have that ability, Kisara," says Priest Set, sounding sure of himself.
That cannot be. They are mistaken. They must have assumed Kisara harbors such power after they heard the townsfolk call her a witch. Kisara does not want to gainsay the one who saved her, but neither can she lie to him; she knows no magic and she commands no demon. She shakes her head again, opening her mouth to explain, but the little hooded man speaks first.
"There is a simple method by which we may ascertain her abilities, High Priest Set: only have the girl fight the prisoners in the arena, and when her heart fills with fear, her ka will materialize to protect her."
For all his previous confidence, Priest Set looks almost as alarmed by this suggestion as Kisara feels. "Gebelk, she doesn't even know what it is! How could she control it?"
"If she is truly possessed by a god, she will have no difficulty defeating the ka of two mere criminals." Gebelk waves a hand as if to say, simple.
"But that is incredibly dangerous..."
For the first time, the older priest in the second chair joins the conversation: "Set, let us test the god's power as Gebelk suggests."
Priest Set turns in his seat toward him, plainly stunned. "...You support this, Lord Akhnadin?" he asks.
"I see no other choice," replies Lord Akhnadin. "We have no gods to protect the royal palace now. Whatever the Pharaoh's fate, we must acquire a divine guardian as soon as possible, or we risk a total breakdown of law and order, not to mention destruction at the hands of the Thief! Who among us will not be in danger if his Diabound lays waste to the capitol?"
As he talks, the old man's soft, measured tone grows in forcefulness. When he concludes by ordering, "Put the woman in the arena!" the guards scramble to obey. Two of them seize Kisara's arms again, while the third goes over to a series of levers and pulleys at the edge of the dais. Their operation unfolds a wooden bridge from the wall. It telescopes across the pit, connecting the stone walkway to one of the suspended platforms that make up the arena.
Kisara looks desperately to Priest Set as the guards begin to pull her from the dais. He meets her gaze with obvious reluctance.
"Lord Set," she pleads. It is all she can manage.
"Do as they say and get ready," he tells her. Then he adds quietly, "Kisara," as if, knowing how much using her name means to her, he means to give it as a final gift before her end.
She proves herself a greater coward than him, hearing his pronouncement: she looks away first, closing her eyes in despair.
Yugi Mutou harbored mostly good feelings about his notoriety within the dueling community. More often than not, he enjoyed being recognized, because at his core, Yugi liked people. He appreciated any opportunity to discuss games with fellow players or fans, and his personal renown afforded him many such chances. Fame had its drawbacks, too, of course-Yugi didn't work in his grandfather's store nearly as often as he once had, because his presence tended to draw crowds who were more interested in Yugi than in Kame Game Shop's wares (His grandfather had commented once that Yugi was "good for advertising, but bad for business," which still made Yugi chuckle whenever he thought about it). Nevertheless, his experiences with strangers identifying him as the King of Games remained largely positive despite the occasional trouble.
However, Yugi had never enjoyed the slightly confused double-take that frequently occurred after someone recognized him. Just now, he watched the struggle play out on the face of a Domino City Hospital receptionist. He could practically hear her inner monologue: This guy definitely looks like the King of Games, but isn't something different? Maybe it's the way he holds himself? Somehow, I thought he'd be taller...
"Excuse me," said Yugi, pushing his negative speculations aside, "could you please direct me to Shirogane Aoi's room?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't believe there's anyone here by that name," replied the receptionist automatically, speaking a bit too fast for the truth.
Honestly-she didn't even pretend to check the records. Yugi affected puzzled surprise. "I was told that Shirogane-san has been checked into this hospital since seven-thirty this morning," he said.
"Perhaps whoever told you was mistaken?"
"I'm certain he wasn't," said Yugi.
Finally, the receptionist made a show of typing the name into her computer. "I'm afraid the person you mentioned isn't showing up in our system," she lied.
Yugi swallowed back a long, exasperated sigh. Count on Kaiba to make my life more difficult than it has to be. Well, fine, then. He glanced about the hospital waiting room, then leaned closer to the receptionist, lowering his tone confidingly.
"Are you a Duel Monsters fan, by any chance?" he asked.
The receptionist's eyes widened behind her coke-bottle glasses. Without looking away from Yugi, she opened the top drawer of the desk she sat behind and pulled out a pink deck box emblazoned with the Industrial Illusions logo. She presented it for his inspection, admitting, "I never leave home without it."
Yugi didn't need to fake the pleased surprise that broke over his face. "Oh, wow. You're a real Duelist, then!"
"Hardly!" stammered the receptionist. "I've never even competed..."
Yugi shook his head. "But I can tell from the way you hold your cards that you really care about them. That's all it takes to be a Duelist, really."
The receptionist looked down at her own hands, cupped gently but firmly around her deck box, and blushed.
"The reason I ask," continued Yugi, "is because I'm actually looking for Kaiba Seto. I've been trying to get in contact with him for a while now, but we just keep missing each other. I came straight here when I heard he'd brought Shirogane Aoi-san in because I really need to talk to him about, you know, Duel Monsters stuff. Upcoming tournaments and that sort of thing." Yugi shook his head in exaggerated regret. "He's really hard to reach..."
Caught between her desire to help the King of Games and whatever obligation to Kaiba's privacy her bosses had impressed upon her, the receptionist squirmed and bit her lip. "Um, maybe I could give him a message for-?"
"Yugi!" Jounouchi careened through the waiting room doors and ran over to the front desk, still dressed in the visor and apron from the restaurant where he worked part-time. "Sorry, traffic was crazy. I came as soon as I could! Where's that Kaiba?"
Yugi opened his mouth to reply, but a sharp squeak from the receptionist stilled him. Her chair clattered as she shot to her feet, one hand over her mouth.
"You-You're Katsuya Jounouchi-san," the receptionist gasped, staring.
It took Jounouchi a few seconds to process her words. "Uhh, yeah...?" he confirmed.
The receptionist bowed her head. After a visible struggle, she blurted, "You're my favorite pro Duelist!"
"Huh? Me?" Jounouchi pointed at himself, glancing at Yugi in confusion. "I'm your favorite?"
"Graceful Dice and Skull Dice are two of my favorite cards," she explained. "You inspired me to build a deck around them. I beat my nephew for the first time using it! Oh, gosh, that sounds bad, but he's very skilled, I promise you. Family dinners were torture before I managed to put him in his place... Um, sorry, I'm babbling, aren't I?" The receptionist looked abashed.
"Uh, no, I think that's awesome!" Jounouchi replied. "They're two of my favorite cards, too."
"And they're so under-used at the professional level!"
"I know, right?! They're ridiculously useful; it makes no sense!"
Yugi watched the two like a spectator at a tennis match, unable to conceal a grin as Jounouchi and the receptionist commiserated. Eventually, at a lull in their conversation, the receptionist returned her attention to Yugi once more.
"I can't tell you where he is," she whispered to him, "but I can tell you that he donated some state-of-the-art neuroimaging equipment about a month ago, shortly after he returned from his three-week stint at the Kaiba Corporation space station. We keep the equipment on the top floor, and it's currently in use."
"Thank you very much," Yugi said.
"Yeah, thanks," echoed Jounouchi, which made the receptionist turn pink. "C'mon, Yugi, let's go see about..."
"...something completely unrelated, right," finished Yugi.
He bowed to the receptionist, then lead Jounouchi from the waiting room. Knowing that Kaiba's people would be watching the elevators, they made for a back stairway instead. Jounouchi wore a silly grin as they walked. He rubbed the back of his head self-consciously and joked,
"Damn, is that what it's like to be you all the time?"
Yugi smiled at him. "Fame has its perks occasionally."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does. Man, I hope I get to kick Kaiba's ass for kidnapping your grandpa again. That would make today absolutely perfect."
"Hold off on that," advised Yugi. "First I want to hear why he's sticking his neck out for a complete stranger, and then I want to figure out the connection between Kaiba-kun's 'trip' and his sudden interest in neurology. Then I want to know why since then, he's been spamming every communication platform I have with demands to duel me..."
"You ask me, I think he's finally snapped."
"You say that all the time."
"And one day," predicted Jounouchi grimly, "I'll be right."
Perhaps it would be braver to struggle against the guards. Perhaps it would be smarter to try and explain the mistake to the priests. Perhaps it would be a better death to simply leap from the wooden bridge, rather than offer herself up to the monsters on the other side. Kisara does none of these things. When the guards herd her onto the bridge, she crosses it unprotestingly, trembling and unsteady but not looking back.
The platform at the other end of the bridge is studded with rows of large spikes. Splattered with gore from a few impaled bodies, it hangs below and between the two surviving prisoners. The men take a long minute to notice Kisara from their perches beneath their dueling ka.
"What the...? A girl?" mutters the first, the thin man who commands the horned monster. "What's a girl doing here?"
The second prisoner pauses along with his spider-demon, not letting his guard down so much as shifting it in a different direction. "Who cares? If she's here, she's fair game. We can do whatever we want with her."
"Let's take a little break," suggests the first prisoner.
The second smirks at Kisara. "Fine by me."
Kisara's terror, which has buzzed through her like a swarm of locusts this entire time, spikes into a roar that drowns out all other noises as both monsters turn towards her. Their eyes glow briefly, one pair red, the other greenish-yellow, as they fix upon hers.
I will die here, thinks Kisara. I am going to be devoured. I am going to die.
And...so?
The last thought occurs unexpectedly.
Better a quick death than a slow one by starvation or thirst; better teeth than stones. No one will mourn me, but death means no more pain. No more struggle. She observes the prisoners, scarred and bloody, their very souls turned monstrous by desperation. There are worse fates.
Kisara does not conquer her fear in that moment, but rather finds some small measure of courage in spite of it. The fear should drown out the courage entirely; it is so much more powerful, a bone-shaking howl in her mind where her bravery is a mere whisper. But Kisara knows how to live on scraps, so a small bit of courage is enough. She cups it close to her heart like a candle flame, shuts her eyes, and, as the demons descend upon her with twin roars, she accepts...
"Duos, my spirit!"
Kisara remains frozen even as a miracle appears between her and the monsters: a humanoid ka, powerful enough to halt the others' advance with few well-placed swings of its mighty sword. The terror falls abruptly silent within her. So does the courage.
She cannot believe her eyes. She does not understand.
Rapidly-approaching footfalls shake the wooden bridge behind her.
"Why won't you call the White Dragon?!" Priest Set cries. Skidding through half-dried blood and viscera from other unfortunate prisoners, he slides to a stop beside Kisara and brandishes his short golden staff in front of them both.
"Set!" shouts old Lord Akhnadin.
Priest Set ignores him. "That's enough, you two!" he barks at the prisoners.
"No, Priest. I don't think it is," returns the owner of the horned ka, a terrible gleam lighting his eyes. "I think we're owed something for the hell you've put us through here." He indicates the arena at large. "Don't you?" he asks his fellow prisoner, who nods.
"Two against one-I like those odds!" affirms the second.
Priest Set mutters a very impious curse under his breath. He grasps Kisara's wrist with the hand not holding the golden rod.
"Trust me!" he hisses to her.
I do, thinks Kisara. She wants to tell him so, but the words will not come. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I do...
His hand is very warm.
The platform lurches beneath her feet then, and, with a rush of noise and motion, the world collapses around Kisara. The last sensations she feels before consciousness abandons her are those of falling, and of Priest Set's hand wrapped firmly around her arm.