Twelve million. He stared at the number on the page held within his hand, it went up again. A small fortune that one could build their own small country with. It might have even be enough to repair the damages that were left behind. He looked at the mirror to his side, his unkempt chin full of short spotted hairs, his tired eyes, red and heavy, his cherry blonde hair grown uncomfortably long and even more so unkempt; it didn’t look like one of the most expensive heads in the world, but it was. So young as well, he thought expensive things were usually old, twenty-four wasn’t that old was it?

He wondered about what his mother would think, she had certainly seen the papers. She would probably be worried that he wasn’t eating healthily enough, the sketch really made him look fat. Fat and ugly, he didn’t think he was ugly, was he? It wasn’t like he could ask anyone; he couldn’t confront anyone without having them try to kill him or run away from him. His face was plastered on intermissions of the Bemeanian fireboxes and these papers with his face on it were littered at every community gathering. An unprecedented evil on par with the white witch he remembered one newsletter wrote, which was silly; if his evil was on par with the white witch then the evil wasn’t unprecedent was it?

He focused back towards the mirror. His disheartened soul staring back. He wanted to visit his mom, she would make him some clam chowder, heat up a bath from the well water, maybe she would cut his hair and tell him it was okay. He could cut his own hair obviously, but he just wanted there to be someone else to do it, someone else to talk to. He hadn’t seen his mom for seven years, hadn’t seen her since these papers started appearing. The numbers on the paper were much smaller back then.

He could hear the heavy stomps of footsteps approaching. Their steps were so loud, it was comedic how they thought they were sneaking up on him. Even time after time of realizing their failures, the next time would come, and they would think that that time would be different: it never was. He listened to their steps, forming a mental map of exactly where they all were. It would appear they were trying to surround his lonely shack, a few of them crawling through the thick tree canopy. He wondered if they were aware that all the tree branches they were rustling through up there made them more noticeable not less. A small grin appeared on his face as he thought of their silly outfits, those color coated armors and horribly inefficient ordainments. They reminded him of the fictional heroes his mother would tell him about when he was younger. It was those heroes like the Hero of New Heirisson's conquest and Murugan squad that made him want to become a valiant adventurer. People like that inspired him, people like those outside his home circling for the kill.

He looked at the mirror and the mirror looked back at him. He crumbled the paper and threw it away then turned away from the mirror and walked up towards a backpack that was lumped over in a corner of the room, he inspected the pack to ensure that it had everything in it. Satisfied that everything was in order, he turned towards the weapon on the other side of the room, opposite to the mirror. The weapon was well kept and clean, it to, like the mirror, reflected his face. In the sheen of the axe face he could see himself. The slight curve of the axe distorted his image, contorting it in an unnatural way. It was more difficult to notice his unkempt and tired features in the axe than it was in the mirror. He grabbed his axe and readied himself at the door. He took a deep breath, he wondered if his mom still thought of him as he did her. He opened the door and walked outside.

Surprisingly the group was more patient then he was expecting them to be; apparently, they can improve, if only slightly. He continued his usual daily routine as if he wasn’t constantly waiting for the moment a dagger darted for his throat even if he was exactly waiting for the moment a dagger darted for his throat. It was when he had put his axe down to bathe at the river that they decided to strike, a little ignoble he thought but he was still excited to begin.

The soft sound of an unlatching mechanism in the tree was followed by the whizzing sound of a bolt flying through the air to land where the man was now no longer. “Ho, you really almost got me that time. But you will surely have to do better than that if you want to defeat me the ravenous Calamity Kid!”

He spoke verbosely with large animated actions and laughed maniacally to the empty forest. It was like a happy reunion with old friends, but the friends were trying to kill you. Five blurs of people lunged from all around the man with each of their blades violently swinging towards him. He easily dodged out of the way of their obvious attacks and grabbed his axe. “If it isn’t the Mewls, my greatest foes. You’re always one step behind me, never far behind.”

He lied. He was trying to hide his joy at seeing the funny bunch again and act all serious like, but the massive smirk that covered his face betrayed him. The smile only aggravated the Mewls more who launched themselves into a flurry of attacks. The man could sense that they had improved quite a bit, their strikes were more coordinated and precise, and it was clear that they were attempting to direct the flow of combat. Sadly, their increased skill only helped them realize how outmatched they really were, and the man’s attempts at pretending to be overwhelmed only enraged the group more. This was usually where the magic started getting cast. They always started throwing magic out when they were frustrated with the fight, but they pulled it out much quicker this time. The magic blasts would explode and flare, turning up dirt and felling trees, it was an impressive show, but they should not let the increased destructive ability fool them into thinking they were more powerful. The magic was unrefined and sloppy, and he would often have to recklessly charge in and prevent them from damaging themselves as he would kick one of them with enough force to knock them out of their own blast radius taking the hit himself. Even with the magic setbacks, he truly did enjoy his interactions with the Mewls, seeing all their faces, how they’ve grown. There was even a new addition to their group, she was even half decent as well. She seemed to meld well with the group complimenting their techniques and strategies quite well. It brought him happiness knowing that they were meeting new people and gathering new friends. “Traducer, are you not going to introduce your new friend to me?”

Traducer, the bulky leader of the group was never one that was much for conversation. The man’s constant teasing only seamed to infuriate Traducer setting him off into another volley of wild swings. “Escutcheon, would you like to introduce us?”

Escutcheon was the tank of the group; he was always buried under heavy plates of steel armor and towering shields. “When she heard she had the chance to slit your throat she couldn’t have joined our group faster.”

Escutcheon spat back bitterly. The man’s conversations with the mewls were never overly productive. In their earlier encounters he would try to explain to them and come to some kind of peaceful negotiation, but he quickly realized that that strategy would never have worked out. He eventually decided to play along with their delusions of the character that they thought he was; he found himself enjoying the role play quite a bit eventually.

The group was getting more and more tired as the yellow day star dragged across the sky. Taking pity on Escutcheon who was visibly exhausted under his heavy armor and shield, the man gently walloped him across the head with the handle of his axe knocking him out. The group had no sense of self preservation, they would eagerly fight on until they died of muscle atrophy or dehydration. The man slowly made his way through the group taking out the most tired members one by one. “We need to back out now, we can’t win this.”

The newest member concernedly yelled to Traducer. There were only three of them left so there were enough to pick up the knocked-out members and attempt to run for it. Unfortunately, seemingly unknown to the new girl, this was not how the Mewls operated. “We can’t, were so close!”

“Are you kidding me!? Look at him! He’s barely dropped a sweat.”

The man chimed in. “She has a point; I haven’t dropped a sweat. Very observant, well done.”

Traducer pulled out a small bag from his belt. It always pained the man to see Traducer use these vile objects. The stem of the bag was kept closed by a cute little locket which he untied. Within the bag were a large pile of strange shells that were caked in a dried green viscous fluid. The odor emanating from the bag was the most damaging attack the group had managed to land on him yet. Tears poured from Traducer's face; he placed the shells into his mouth swallowing them in one fell swoop. The shells looked like they had really sharp edges, the man couldn’t help but think of how painful it must be to swallow them whole. Once Traducer managed to get the whole handful down his throat, he pointed his violently shaking finger to the man and screeched out. “I will kill you, you monster!”

With a massive eruption of magical energy, Traducer leapt towards the man. Traducer was completely consumed in magical energy, and each of his swings sent out tremendous waves of arcane power. His face became scorching red and blood began to drip from his nose. His onslaught was unending. The two remaining members were left with no choice but to join in on one last feeble attempt to take out their opponent. Traducer’s swings although relentless, and the man had to admit they did contain sizable power, were totally uncontrolled, blindly launching pointless blasts of energy into the forest. One of the blasts knocked into the tree in which the archer was hiding, knocking them down onto the floor. To prevent the archer from concussing themselves on the forest floor, the man jumped into them as they fell. The man knocked the archer out of the way of the falling tree and right into another tree behind it. The archer smashed into the sturdy tree stump in such a way that kept their brain intact but insured that they wouldn’t be getting back up. Without time for pause, Traducer’s arcane sword stabbed towards the man. If the strike were to hit it wouldn’t leave a single atom of the man undamaged. Of course, the strike didn’t hit. The blade skimmed by the man’s side and effortlessly passed through the tree behind. Thankfully the archer was slumped flat on the ground and the tree fell in a different direction, but Traducer very well could have accidentally taken out his own ally right then. The man put all his weight onto his knee which pounded it into the Traducer’s stomach causing him to wretch his entire stomach’s content onto the man’s leg, including the strange shells. Traducer’s face paled to a ghostly white and he crumpled to the forest floor, unable to move a single muscle despite how hard he tried.

Tears rushed out of his eyes, snot streamed over the dried blood under his nose and down his cheek, puke bubbled and jumped as he slowly choked on his own vomit. The man walked towards Traducer; the new girl stepped forward to stop him but immediately halted in her track when he glared at her. The man used his foot to tilt traducer’s head to the side so that the puke could flow out of his mouth onto the floor. Traducer continued to lurch and writhe while his body spasmed and liquids oozed from every and any orifice. Traducer struggled to stutter a painful plead between his tears. “K-kill me.”

“We all got to keep moving, including you.”

The man crouched down to Traducer and rummaged his hands through Traducer’s pockets finally pulling out a piece of paper. Twelve point one million, it went up. The man stood back up and walked on forward to face the new girl who was petrified still. “You’re skilled and smart. I know they can be brash and stupid, but they need someone like you. Try to take care of them, will you?”

The man asked with genuine concern for his fallen friends. The new girl only managed with slight rugged movements to nod her head in a slow and worried yes. “Good, it will take Traducer a few hours to recover. Make sure he rests on his side or else he’ll… you know.”

The man walked past the girl who didn’t even dare turn her neck to see him pass, once he disappeared into the forest she ran as quickly as she could to the deteriorating Traducer uncontrollably flailing about on the floor.

The man made his way back towards his isolated shack and got his backpack from inside, he wished they would have attacked after he finished his bath, but he could wash himself later. It would have been pointless anyway since he was full of puke and blood now though. He made one last sweep of the building to ensure he wasn’t forgetting anything. He would never come back to this place, so he wanted to be certain that nothing was left behind. It seemed that all was in order, he made sure to lock the door behind him before leaving and was about to walk on into the forest to find a new place to stay when he was interrupted by the chime of a bell with seemingly no origin.

In front of the man there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the man holding a glowing parchment: It read.

You have been invited to The Tournament You are The Bounty