"Unworthy," Felix declared, releasing his grip upon the most recent soul to die facing his lions.
The pale, nearly translucent specter - still clutching the echo of a tire iron - faded from sight, returned to the sea of souls before he could utter a single word in protest of his fate.
"Such a waste," Felix sighed, returning his consciousness to the Dungeon Core as the Colosseum vanished, no longer required with the death of the final challenger for the day.
Absent anything demanding his immediate attention, the Imperator returned to his favorite hobby; staring balefully at his quest log.
[Administrator Quest: Every Man a Star
Objective: Build a cadre of worthy subjects (352/1000)
Reward: External Manifestation, Construct(ion), Quest: The Iron Throne]
Now granted, the definition of worthy was subject to his interpretation; had Felix wanted to, he could have met the quest objective in a single day by ordering his Wolves to seize every warm-blooded human they encountered. Felix didn't do that, of course, because that way lay ruin and a permanent role babysitting the helpless; and whilst Felix was willing to assist those who proved themselves, he was not selfless enough to indulge in charity. A certain level of martial inclination was a requirement; three Wolves slain followed by a passable showing against Dies and Nox. Just as important was the mentality; a certain level of resilience was required to handle the loss of the world they knew, alongside the practicality to rationalize trading subordination for survival.
"Still, it shouldn't be this hard to find a thousand decent people," Felix lamented. "South West England alone had over five million people before."
['Had' being the operative word here. Losing the cities erased a third of that straight away; the first wave of demons would have claimed another third at minimum as they cut through humans grown weak in peacetime. The total collapse of infrastructure, including basic provision of food and healthcare will take many more, not even counting the continued attacks come nightfall. If a tenth of the population is still alive a month after the apocalypse, it would be an excellent result. In practice, I would expect a survival rate of three percent, dropping to one by the end of the year before leveling out as the survivors adapt to their new circumstances.]
"It's about time you came round again," Amal Gam chastised Tom the mailman. "I know money is tight right now, but at least try and visit once a week! It's bad enough that the binmen only make it every fortnight since the council's cuts, half the time the trash is left piling up outside people's homes!"
Not outside his home, of course; Alchemy was very good at breaking down waste matter and eradicating foul odors, but it still drifted over from next door, so he shared in the suffering all the same.
"You know how it is," Tom prevaricated. "Never enough people wanting to do the isolated routes, not enough hours in the day. It's gotten better lately though; less busy."
"Good to hear," Amal agreed wholeheartedly. "That being the case, you have enough time for a few cups of tea, surely?"
Tom shook his head, trying to decline to no avail as Amal bodily dragged him inside by the arm. This was a common interaction between the pair: old hat, even, given their acquaintance of three decades now. All the better, to convince the gossips peeking at them through their curtains that everything was alright. Amal had never liked that tendency to gossip, hence why his own curtains were permanently drawn, but he couldn't deny that the rumor mill could be useful at times.
"None, breathed the light, faint & faery, of the stars, and two," Amal spoke the moment his front door shut behind Tom, an intricate lattice of light enveloping host and guest alike.
"You know how this works by now?" Amal asked; the formalities were important after all, where magical obligations arose.
"Neither of us can lie whilst the rite is active, neither of us can speak whilst others are listening, neither of us can repeat what's said once the rite ends," Tom recited, his previous nervous demeanor nowhere to be seen as he helpfully confirmed that there were no eavesdroppers. "You're as cautious as ever, teacher; even my superiors in the Empire don't do this every time, they only conduct random checks for loyalty."
"I didn't earn the title of Master by being careless," Amal snorted. "Not that it means much these days. With the terminus behind us, Masters will be popping up by the dozens this decade, glutted upon a feast of mana."
"Masters in strength, but not in learning," Tom retorted. "It takes more than gifted magic alone to conquer Scholomance, as I'm sure you know very well. I never managed it, anyway, but I'm fine staying at Magus anyway. I'll live longer for it."
"That's why I always liked you as an apprentice," Amal laughed. "Smart enough to handle my lessons, without too much ambition to raise a knife at my back. But enough small talk; tell me, what does the Queen have planned for this part of England?"