Belos pondered for a moment after hearing it, but in the end, he had no choice but to accept.
Once they got through this toughest period, everything would turn out fine.
What followed was simple—signing the promissory note, pressing their seals. After Jarlaxle also signed and pressed his seal, Anthony carefully tucked the note into his bag. Just as he was about to stand and leave, Belos suddenly spoke up.
"By the way, Master, didn't you mention wanting your slaves to sign up for the Gladiator games? This is a rare opportunity—why not take the chance to have some fun?"
At that, Anthony remembered his original intention.
He needed to improve the strength of these useless teammates.
They were far too weak. At their current level, they couldn't handle side quests with high rewards.
As for hidden tasks? They shouldn't even dream of it. Those were likely the real source of substantial rewards in the Trial Grounds.
If they kept slacking like this, even if he could carry all five of them to mission completion this time, the benefits would be minimal. And by the next mission, the difficulty would surely increase, yet they'd still be dead weight.
Anthony had no interest in playing a nurturing game with a bunch of grown men.
This isn't the Prime Material Plane. What he needed were Dragonborn Guards like those under his mother's command - forces that could provide assistance even in large-scale battles, not lowly slaves who merely paid regular tributes.
"Oh? Interesting. Tell me about these tournament rules."
Belos flashed a benevolent smile seeing his prey bite: "There are solo and five-person team matches. Rules are simple - group elimination. You win by defeating or killing all opponents before you. Last one standing takes the prize. Substantial rewards - 30,000 gold coins for Individual Competition, 70,000 for Team Competition."
Anthony's eyes gleamed at the sums, yet suspicion crept in.
Such gold wouldn't come easy. "Any restrictions?"
"No-rules bloodsport. Warriors, mages, even monsters may enter. Victory alone matters."
This savage? Anthony turned to Jarlaxle: "Couldn't House Baenre send elite fighters to easily claim the title?"
Jarlaxle chuckled: "Few Professionals above 15th level compete. They've no need to slaughter for mere thousands. House Baenre certainly lacks neither coin nor prestige."
"Yet heed this - a Spellcaster once entered. A 13th-level archmage no less."
"Did he win?"
"He joined the higher-stakes Team Competition with 10th-level warrior Guards. But blades care not for spells in the arena. That mage died... messily."
A 13th-level mage with Servants failing here? Anthony leaned forward: "How?"
Jarlaxle's smile turned cryptic: "His teammates were formidable. They carved through to finals. Then... someone bought them. The moment he finished casting Protective Magic, his own men shot anti-magic bolts laced with... unidentifiable toxins from behind."
Damn. Drow poison no doubt. Anthony glared at Belos: "That's allowed?"
"No-rules means no-rules. Beyond the arena, expect poisoned meals, tainted drinks forcing Withdrawal... Though such tricks are rare. Crowds crave bloodshed, not back-alley plots."
Anthony pondered briefly. Manageable. "Register me and these two slaves for Individual Competition. Then all four of us for Team Competition."
"Master competes personally?" Belos feigned surprise while inwardly rejoicing. The fish took the bait.
At Anthony's confirmation, Belos felt today finally brought good news.
Hehe. Die in that pit, and my debt plus stolen Equipment return home.
Jarlaxle observed silently, offering no further counsel.
All warnings were given. They weren't kin. Why dissuade fools from muddy waters?
Youth. So recklessly bold.
Playing his role, Belos suddenly gasped theatrically: "Ah! Master Anthony! Team registrations closed long ago! And your Team Competition lacks numbers!"
"Join my team as reserves instead, yes?"
"Reserves? Take me to your team. I'll... reorganize your current lineup promptly. Watch me claim victory with your men."
Anthony's grin turned predatory.
Belos mirrored the expression.
The matter settled, Jarlaxle—disinterested in further proceedings—departed with a cask of wine.
This trip proved worthwhile. Whether successful or not, he'd pocket 2,000 gold coins in ten days. Such easy coin was rare.
As Belos disposed of his apprentices in acid pits to erase evidence before heading to the arena, Anthony eyed the laboratory materials and suddenly asked:
"You got Soul Binding Array materials here?"
Belos tensed. "Why would you need that? That's contraband."
Had this surface-dweller come to the Underdark to collect souls?
How despicable.
Anthony grinned, sensing opportunity. "You have them? Even better if you've got high-quality Crystallized Soul—saves the trouble of magic circle materials."
Like I'd hand those over, Belos thought, deflecting. "Crystallized Soul? Never. But I can provide circle materials. Though harvesting Drow souls is illegal in Menzoberranzan. Don't break laws."
Anthony glanced at the dissolving bones in the acid pit. "Materials will do. Put it on your tab."
Fuming, Belos reluctantly produced a pouch—then reconsidered.
If this fool messed up, reporting him to the Guards might earn commendations.
With the exchange complete, their scheming paused as the group boarded a giant lizard-drawn carriage bound for the gladiator barracks.
During the uneventful ride, Belos briefed them on his team:
"Learning from last year's Round of 16 exit, I recruited a special Spellcaster—a sixth-level ogre mage. Low-leveled, but versed in venomous spells and strong enough for melee. His resilience negates most poisons. Impressive."
"Besides this shop sign, the warriors include a thick-skinned Minotaur, two standard ogres, and Bugbears as sparring partners."
"Bugbears can compete?"
If gladiators included Bugbears, the competition couldn't be fierce.
"Absolutely. Dumb and weak, but arm them with poisoned Heavy Crossbows, and they'll hold their own. Battles here are brutal—without reserves, you might end up outnumbered by finals. But this year, I'm confident we'll crack the top 10."
Anthony noted Belos's pride despite last year's losses.
An idealist, this Drow.
After prolonged chatter, they arrived at the barracks: a shabby, disgraceful hovel.
Two Drow Warriors bowed at the entrance. Belos acknowledged them with a haughty nod, making them stiffen further as they scrambled to open the door.
This brat loves his theatrics, Anthony mused.
Inside, the cave reeked—whether from poor ventilation or gladiator filth was unclear. Belos lingered at the threshold until a whip-wielding Drow (no family Insignia) approached.
Commoner Drow lived humbler lives than surface rumors suggested.
The Drow bowed. "My lord, here to inspect the gladiators?"
Belos gestured to Anthony. "This is Master Anthony. Henceforth, he captains the Hot Mom Team."
Anthony froze. "...What did you call the team?"
"Hot Mom."
"...Change it. Now." Visions of crowds chanting "Hot Mom!" made him dizzy.
This would haunt him forever.
Belos looked puzzled, then enlightened. "Ah, surface sensibilities. But this is a Female Domination city. All Menzoberranzan teams have feminine names—Pink Skull, Celtic Matrons, Perky Black Widows. Perfectly normal."
Gods damn it. Anthony reconsidered—but the prize gold was too tempting. A few days of embarrassment for a fortune? Fine.
Money's money. He'd wear a mask and vanish after fifteen days.
As Anthony stewed, Belos addressed the Tamer: "Brief our new lord on the team. He'll command in the Gladiator Contest. Show him the slaves—ensure they obey."
Tamer watched as his master's expression turned grave. Unsure of the situation, he could only gesture politely.
Anthony turned his head and spoke in Common: "Stay here. Don't move. I'll go check on your new teammates."
Stepping into the cave, the stench grew worse—sweat, filth, and cheap liquor mingled in the air, making Anthony cover his nose. Raucous shouts of drinking games echoed from within.
Drinking before a fight? Just a bunch of undisciplined brutes.
Noticing the Big Shot's reaction, the Tamer quickly explained, "These Gladiators… they're only half-domesticated, still clinging to their Monster instincts. To keep them manageable, we give them booze after training. Makes them sleep faster. Otherwise, they'd be uncontrollable."
Anthony stayed silent as the Tamer unlocked the heavy door. Inside, chaos reigned—humanoid Monsters in nothing but loincloths guzzled foul, adulterated potato liquor, laughing and bellowing in broken Underdark tongues.
The door's sudden swing drew every Monster's gaze. A blue-skinned, bloated Ogre rose—two and a half meters tall, easily six hundred pounds of brute flesh. It lumbered forward, slapped its gut, and boomed: "Honored Trainer! Training's done for today. You bring us treats?"
The Tamer cracked his whip, and the Ogre froze mid-step. "Gronk! The tournament's in two days. Keep your rabble in line. This here's your new captain—sent by Lord Belos himself. From now on, you obey him. Understood?"
Silence swallowed the cave. Gronk's chest heaved, breath ragged. Two other Ogres stood, rallying behind their chief.
"Why's this runt our captain? Makes no sense!"
"Yeah! He's just a Human—ingredients for a stew! Ogres lead Ogres!"
Minotaurs and Bugbears joined the jeering. Anthony smirked. "Fine. Democracy wins. If you all disagree, we'll leave." He turned. "Close the door. Let's go."
The cave erupted in laughter as the new captain "retreated." Gronk waddled triumphantly, belly jiggling, and plopped back onto his seat.
Even with the door shut, muffled taunts leaked through:
"Hah! Humans are weak. That's why we're Ogres!"
"Gronk should've ripped his head off! Been too long since we tasted man-flesh."
The Tamer's face darkened—this failure reflected poorly on him. "Master, my apologies. I'll report to Lord Belos. They'll regret this."
"Wait." Anthony stopped the Drow, rummaging through his backpack for the Spellcrafting Materials Belos had given him.
Red Dragons don't wait for revenge.