Chapter 101: Book 2 Chapter 3: Sore Thumb

A man with dark brown hair sat behind the desk at the arena’s side entrance, his expression a mix of boredom with annoyance. To his right sat a blonde woman in a long, white robe which contrasted with the man’s black one. She slumped forward in her chair, seemingly trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Behind the desk and further inside the building, five attendants stood in a line, their shoulders against the stone walls. Finally, three city guards stood on each side of the entrance.

As Jon approached, he took note of a circle carved in the stone floor directly in front of the desk, strange-looking runes along its inner edges. “I’m here to take part in the tourney,” he told the man, presenting him with the missive.

Expression unchanged, the man let out a frustrated sigh, took the paper, and read through its contents, much more thoroughly than the guard at the city entrance. Finally, he nodded to himself. “Are you aware of the age requirements?”

Jon nodded. “I’m twenty years old.”

“Good. Willow here will take your measures.”

On cue, the woman stood up. “Please place your belongings atop the desk and step into the center of the circle.”

Jon did as told while Willow walked around the desk. She drew something in the air with her index finger and said some words of power. He felt a change in the air and suddenly, the edges of the circle lit up in a rainbow of colors while the runes inside the circle flared up in a white light, one after the other. One, two, four, nine, all the way to twenty.

“Twenty years old,” she declared.

“Very well.” The man produced a sheet of paper and a quill from under the desk. “State your name.”

“Jon.”

“Jon of Rochdale. Body cultivation?” he asked, not raising his gaze from the piece of paper.

“Crusader, 2nd stage.”

The man shot him a glare. “Not you.”

The woman raised her hand and drew something again, causing a different set of runes to light up in yellow colors. When the tenth one lit up, they all suddenly went out. “Crusader,” she said. A rune lit up again, this time in orange colors, followed closely by a second one. “2nd stage.”

“Spell cultivation?”

Willow repeated the process, and ten runes lit up in a cyan light. This time, though, they kept shining. “Mage, 10th stage,” she concluded. With a wave of her hand, all the lights went dark. “You may step out of the circle.”

“Now,” the black-robed man resumed talking to Jon, “is this the equipment you’ll be using?” He pointed to Jon’s armor.

“Yes.” After receiving his old belongings from Marleya, he made sure to immediately put on his rippled steel cuirass.

“Very well, then. You shall be the contestant of number 1703, and you’re representing the Westbrooks. Willow.”

The woman walked towards Jon, coming to a stop directly in front of him. She placed one hand on his shoulder while the index finger from her other hand pressed against his cuirass, over his heart. “Please do not move,” she said before her fingertip burst into a bright, focused fire that burned into the metal.

It shone so bright that it hurt Jon’s eyes, and he was hit with the sudden realization that, if she wanted, this meek-looking woman would be able to melt his armor with him inside. After a grueling stretch of time, she finally stepped back. “Done,” she declared, promptly returning to her seat.

Two of the attendants stepped forward, one towards Jon and the other towards his belongings atop the desk. “You’ll only be allowed to bring into the arena the equipment you’ll be using.”

After grabbing the burlap sack from the desk, his colleague came forward and asked for the mule’s reins. “They shall be returned to you after the event.”

Jon nodded and let go of the reins.

“Now please follow me,” said the attendant as he walked past the desk and into the arena.

The corridors were somewhat dark, the lightstones on the floor barely illuminating the place. If he extended his arms, Jon would be able to touch both walls at the same time. The attendant guided him through a series of twists and turns as well as two flights of stairs.

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Doorways to similarly cramped and dark rooms were placed at regular intervals, all of them already occupied by other contestants. The further in he went, the more it felt like he was inside some sort of dungeon.

Finally, they came to a halt in front of a vacant room. “These will be your accommodations until the event starts at noon. You won’t be allowed to leave this room until then, under penalty of disqualification. Now excuse me.”

Calling the room spartan would be a compliment. He had seen prison cells more welcoming. It consisted of a stone slab in a corner and a hole on another. If he had to guess, these were supposed to be a bed and a toilet. The air felt stale and the only light pouring in came from the corridor’s already dim lightstones. Given how long Jon had been living on the road, though, even these accommodations could be called an improvement.

He took three short steps towards the toilet and put his back against the corner wall, taking care not to step into the hole. He then gripped his sword’s hilt and drew it from its sheath, the sword tip almost touching the opposite corner. There wasn’t much space but it would have to do. There were still a few hours until the event started, and he planned to use this time getting reacquainted with his old weapon.

***

“Contestants, please step out of your rooms and follow me. Contestants, please step out of your rooms and follow me.” The voice echoed through the enclosed space.

Jon stuck his head outside the room and found others doing the same. Coming from his right, an attendant in an oversized robe walked down the corridor while calling everyone to follow him.

A line quickly formed behind the man. Jon waited for him to pass before getting into the back of the line.

For a time, the corridor was permeated only by the attendant's voice and the multitude of metal shoes against the stone floor. As they returned to ground level, though, a droning sound deafened everything else. The low ceiling above their heads vibrated under the weight of an untold number of people. As he approached the exit, Jon had to squint while his eyes adjusted to the change of light.

The noise worsened as they stepped into the sand-covered field, a cacophony of voices that made it hard to even hear one’s thoughts. The arena was larger than any sports stadium Jon had ever seen. Divided into four sections according to the cardinal points, rows upon rows of seats accommodated the giant audience.

At some point in time, that division might’ve served some deeper purpose. Now, the notably emptier northern section was occupied by people of note, namely knights and nobility, while the rest was left for the common peasants.

The place of honor, a broad platform at the north section’s bottom, was seemingly reserved for the duke’s family and their invitee. Jon was able to make out more than a few heads of red hair, a common trait among the Olsandres.

People continued to pour into the field, and Jon switched focus to them. Around a thousand contestants had already come out into the open, a large number of them wearing ragtag and mismatched pieces of armor.

That was good. The worse they were equipped, the less of a danger they represented. This would be a free for all melee, meaning that everyone else was an enemy.

Already the contestants started to take positions around the field, trying not to stay too close to one another. Jon chose to place himself against one of the walls. It would limit his movement options, but it would also ensure that his backside was protected. With his field of view being limited by the helmet, this would be vital when the chaos of battle started.

The number of contestants continued to increase at a steady pace, easily passing the two thousand mark, slowing down around the two-and-a-half, and coming to a stop at three thousand. All these people had been placed in individual rooms under the arena, leading Jon to wonder how big the place actually was.

With all the contestants in, the gates were finally closed. From the place of honor, a man who Jon assumed to be the official herald stood up and addressed them. He was dressed in an ornate red tabard that, even from afar, seemed to cost more than all of Jon’s possessions combined.

“Attention,” he called out, his magically amplified voice reaching every corner of the arena and silencing the audience. “Today, Boreary 22nd 7,877 AU, a new batch of valiant men and women shall fight for a chance to enroll at our prestigious academy. Three thousand and ninety-four to be exact. Most will fail. Only the truly exceptional, only the best of the best shall be allowed to represent our academy’s glorious tradition.”

The herald paused for a moment as the crowd cheered and applauded before resuming his speech, this time directed at the contestants. “This will be a moment to be remembered, the most important fight of your lives. Not only that, you will all be doing it before the presence of His Grace Jorvan Olsandre the first, Duke of Somerford and Lord of Alistown.”

The cheering returned even louder than before as the crowd rose to their feet to applaud their liege.

“Now, remove your helmets and bow in respect to His Grace,” he ordered, much to Jon’s apprehension.

He had hoped this wouldn’t happen until after the tourney, when the winners were already declared. This would, hopefully, lessen his chances of being eliminated right off the bat.

With no other choice, Jon pulled out his helmet, revealing his dark skin, matted hair, and unkempt beard from years living on the road.

At first, no one seemed to have noticed, all too focused on the herald. Gradually, though, it started to change. A sideways glance from a neighboring contestant evolved into a turn of the head which, in turn, attracted another person’s attention. Like an unstoppable chain reaction, Jon began to stick out like a dark, sore thumb.

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