Paragon of Destruction

It was early morning when Arran set off with Darkfire and Liane for the tournament. Their departure caused some consternation for the steward, who tried to foist a handful of guards on Liane, but the man relented when she pointed out that both Darkfire and Arran could each easily take on a dozen of his strongest guards.

Arran looked around as they walked along the streets of Hillfort, and he saw that there were even more people than usual — something he’d previously thought was barely possible.

The city held a festive atmosphere, and there were families walking through the crowd, all dressed in bright colors, many of them carrying baskets and bags.

He could also see groups of young boys and girls, excitedly hitting each other with wooden swords in mock combat, with the occasional cry of pain when one of them attacked a bit too enthusiastically.

"The tournaments are extremely popular with the people in Hillfort," Liane explained. "Every month, they draw huge crowds, with people coming even from the villages in the region."

"Can the arena even hold that many people?" Arran asked, looking at the size of the crowd. Remembering the size of the northern arena, he could not imagine even a fraction of the people on the streets fitting inside.

"You don’t know?" she asked him, looking surprised. "The tournament takes place across all four arenas. In each arena, fights are held between all fighters who qualified there, until there are four left. The final four from each arena then face each other outside the city, with tens of thousands of spectators watching the fights. Many people skip the arenas, instead traveling outside the city to eat and drink in the hills until the fighters arrive."

"Tens of thousands?" At this, Arran frowned. He would prefer not to attract anywhere near as much attention. A thought occurred to him, and he asked, "Are there any good fighters at the northern arena?"

"None that I know of," Liane replied. "You should have little trouble making it through. But of course, there are some surprises at each tournament — people who hide their strength until they need it."

Arran sighed, disappointed. If he met a strong enough opponent at the northern arena, he could throw the match without raising too much suspicion, and never even have to appear in the final rounds. But for that to happen, he would need to face someone who at least looked like a worthy opponent.

When they arrived at the northern arena, it was already filled with a crowd so thick the people inside could barely move. It seemed that even if most people skipped the arenas, the people who did come were still more than the arena could hold.

"I’ll take the lead," Darkfire said, then started to push his way through the crowd, with Liane and Arran following behind him.

As a Body Refiner, Darkfire had little difficulty pushing his way through the crowd, even if his efforts did draw some cries of protest.

Finally, they made it to the back of the arena, where the waiting chamber was. "I suppose there’s no point in me waiting outside," Arran said. "I’ll see the two of you after the fights."

"Good luck," Darkfire said before Arran left. Then, in a low voice, he added, "And don’t lose too easily. Show them at least some of what you can do."

At the entrance to the waiting chamber, Arran found over two dozen guards, straining to hold back the crowd from the fighters’ quarters.

"It’s Ghostblade!" one of them called when he approached. "Let him through!"

The guards broke ranks just long enough to let Arran slip through, then formed a line again before the crowd would get past them — even if the people weren’t trying to get inside, there were so many of them that every empty space quickly got filled.

Finally rid of the constant push of the thick crowd, Arran breathed a sigh of relief. He had never expected there would be so many people for the tournament — it was as if the entire city had squeezed itself into the arena.

And yet, he knew that there were three other arenas in the city, each of them likely just as packed as this one. The thought filled him with some awe, and he could not help but imagine how large the crowd at the final fights would be.

Freed from the crowd, he stepped into the waiting chamber, where he found several dozens of fighters already present.

"Ghostblade!" someone called out as soon as he entered, and when he looked, he saw that it was the same uniformed man who had also welcomed him when he first visited the arena. This time, the man seemed a lot friendlier.

"Good to have you here today!" the man said with a broad smile. "It’ll be a while before the fights start, but you can pick a weapon right now."

The man gestured to a long table upon which lay a row of swords, including various sizes and designs. When Arran inspected the swords, he found that although the weapons were blunted, they were made of steel, and all were well-made and properly balanced — very different from the wooden weapons he had used the previous time.

After a short time browsing the weapons, he picked a longsword that did not look particularly special but had a good heft to it. He gave it a few practice swings, then nodded in approval. It wasn’t perfect, but for now, it would do.

As he waited for the tournament to begin, he looked around the chamber. A few of the fighters looked familiar, and he realized he had faced them already during his first time at the arena.

Most of the others, however, Arran hadn’t seen before. Still, he could see that all of them had the easy movement of practiced fighters. Men and women, young and old, he could tell that none were like Stoneheart’s recruits. Even if they might not match up to Arran, none of them were defenseless.

Time passed, and more fighters kept trickling into the chamber, until it was finally so full Arran hardly had room to stand.

Just when he began to worry that the chamber would become overcrowded, the uniformed man’s voice sounded.

"Listen up!" the man called out. "The tournament is about to start! For each fight, I will send two of you into the arena. Defeat your opponent, and you can return here. Lose, and you must leave. The rules are simple: no deliberate killing, and no deliberate maiming! Any questions?"

"What if my opponent tries to kill me?" a man’s voice called back, although Arran could not see whose it was.

"Then you defend yourself as best you can," the uniformed man replied. "Now, the first fighters will be..."

Seemingly at random, he selected two fighters from the group, then sent them into the arena.

Within the chamber, Arran and the other fighters could not see what was happening in the arena, but he knew that the fight had ended when a loud cheer sounded from the crowd outside.

Some moments later, one of the two fighters returned, wearing a big smile along with several large bruises.

The next two fighters were sent out only moments later, and again, a loud cheer informed those in the waiting chamber when the fight had ended. This happened several times, until finally, it was Arran’s turn.

Arran’s first opponent turned out to be the burly man he had faced when he first came to the arena, and when the man heard his name called alongside "Ghostblade," his face fell.

"I don’t suppose you’ll give me a break?" he said, a miserable look on his face as he and Arran walked out of the waiting chamber.

Arran chuckled. "I promise I won’t hurt you too badly," he replied.

As they stepped onto the arena floor, Arran was almost overwhelmed when he saw the surrounding crowd. Thousands upon thousands of people stood around the arena, pressed tightly against each other, waving banners and shouting at the top of their lungs.

Briefly, he tried to find Darkfire and Liane, or perhaps one of the Shadowflame novices, but the crowd was simply too large to spot them.

Taking his eyes off the crowd, Arran looked at his opponent, who was eying him nervously. Then, he raised his sword, preparing himself for combat.

"Begin!" the announcer’s voice called out.

With that, Arran’s first fight in the tournament had started.

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