Justinian extended his ring finger for the third blunder, “I tried to hold my tongue, but, ‘kiting’, this is not a style becoming of a knight. Especially against an opponent with healing magics, for, just as goodness must conquer villainy, so too must healing magics conquer harmful magics.”

“Stop.” Henry caught an arrow flying past and snapped it in annoyance, “I cannot let this shameless attempt to save face slide any longer. We're hashing this out to the bitter end. Focusing on your last point first, yes, heals are generally more efficient than damaging spells, but that’s in regard to conventional spellcaster builds where both parties have similar Magic Affinities. In our case, though, I have 59 post-buff, while your build’s left you with a puny 24. Inserting these figures into the standard Celestial Earthfriend versus Melee Crusader formula, my Energy-usage efficiency is 192.7% yours. Q.E.D., you are wrong. Now, cough up an excuse so I can shut it down.”

Amongst the observing Byzantines, someone squinted at her companions. “Seriously, no one saw him catch that arrow?”

Justinian rolled his eyes. “Sir Henry, in the heat of battle, you cannot be relying on the fickleness of numbers. Do you plan on taking your abacus into the warfields? One slip-up and it’ll be crushed under a destrier’s hooves.”

Henry was about to retort when his rising anger instantly dissipated. "Wait a minute..." He tilted his head with uncertainty, also avoiding a second arrow.

The Crusader’s reply had a peculiar oddity: the way he'd said ‘abacus’ lacked all trace of the mockery one would typically expect if it'd been a metaphor.

“Justinian, do you own a literal abacus?"

The Crusader summoned a custom-made, wood-carved abacus. “What of it? Being a student of the battlefield not of books, I haven’t learned the techniques for calculating large sums mentally.”

"But the game system provides a basic calculator."

Justinian's gaze blanked out, as he pretended not to hear this mention of modern technology.

"It can't be," whispered Henry.

This guy used an abacus...because...why...because he was...stupid...no, he seemed to articulate...because he was....

“Dear god...”

Because he was always roleplaying.

Even now.

Never give up ground? This wasn’t advice designed for maximising performance in a videogame duel; a 'knight' just didn’t flee from danger.

Kiting? Of course, a knight would be ashamed by cowardly, indirect attacks.

His atrocious Strength-plumped stat build? A knight...Henry couldn’t figure out the rationale there, but some asinine moral code likely confined him to a single path.

Henry sidestepped a Fighter who’d confused him for his opponent and threw them into the kidney pit. “Is this it? Is this the ultimate exemplar of the corrupting effects of roleplaying on the undeveloped teen mind?”

(The observant Byzantine frowned at her compatriots. “Missed that, too...”)

But how could this be?! If the Crusader used ill-suited knight tactics, it should have been impossible for him to place so high in the tournament? Unless...

Henry jumped back over the pit and ran up to Justinian, who, frightened by the abrupt approach, stored his abacus away for safekeeping.

“Please compose yourself, Sir Henry. If we’re to resume the duel, at least let me heal the damage that was allowed to slip through my guard.”

“Chill; there’ll be plenty of opportunities over the next fortnight to dominate you. For now, I’m going to conduct a series of knightly trials. Concentrate.”

“Like The Twelve Labours of Heracles?’

“Sure.” Henry hovered a finger a set distance away from the Crusader’s forehead. “I poke, you avoid.”

“The connection seems—“

Justinian’s upper body folded back 110 degrees, dodging the thrust that would have scrambled his brains if it’d struck.

“Don't overexaggerate. It was unempowered.”

Justinian snapped back into place. “Be that—“

Henry, having repositioned his hand a centimetre closer, delivered another poke, which Justinian also dodged.

After a few repetitions, each closer than the last, he mumbled in stupefaction. “A 105-millisecond reaction speed...how unfair.”

“What’s the delay, H.?”

“Be patient!”

He was far from finished with this mutant.

Next, he had the Crusader imitate a number of increasingly-complex strike combos, then a sequence of finger dances, a tracking exercise...

When the tests were finished, Henry stepped back and admired the Crusader like an anthropologist who’d discovered a new species of man.

“When did you start learning The Mage’s Shield?”

“I began my tutelage under Swordmaster Betruger in the fifth year of Io.”

“I remember Swordmaster Betruger.” Henry recognised the name as belonging to a vagabond Mage's Shield Crusader who’d been slain in East Togavi for trying to summon a Chaos Demoness. “He passed away in the...eighth year of Io.”

Justinian, like a shoddily-programmed NPC having its quest dialogue triggered, underwent an abrupt emotional shift, as he stared forlornly into the past. “Indeed, Sir Henry. Barely three years elapsed between our first encounter during my wanderings through the Kirschrot Vale and his wrongful execution by King Gutkonig’s hired thugs, a crime for which I have vowed...”

Henry whistled with astonishment.

Justinian was using in-game time, so it'd actually only taken him three real-life months of active training to obtain his current mastery of The Mage’s Shield...that settled it.

The tests Henry'd administered had been rough field measures from the motor skill mechanics portion of the GQ or Gaming Quotient exam, GQ being a concept analogous to IQ, used to estimate the complexity of tasks one could perform and the speed at which they could be learned.

Like IQ, an average score was 100 points. In the mechanics sub-domain, Henry—above average but unexceptional—scored 126 points (having gained a measly 4 during his Overdream training before plateauing at his neurological limit), his guild’s inner circle ranged between 155 and 175, pro-players in Saana League were around 180, and this Justinian dude, apparently, was over 200.

Despite his garbage, roleplayer-inspired tactics, he'd been winning most of his duels through simply having monstrous mechanical skills.

In fact, his natural talent was so high that by playing the vanilla strategy for each duel matchup, he should have placed first in the tournament several times. Alas, the standard way must’ve been incongruent with the backstory he’d chosen for his character.

“...but, after I slay the king,” lamented Justinian, lowering his head and staring at the earth, “will it have brought my master back from this soil in which he lies? Or will I find the wine of victory poisoned by vengeance’s taint?”

As has been established, when humans die in Saana, they're not buried but evaporate into the clouds to rejoin The Cycle.

His roleplay wasn't even centred entirely in Saana's universe.

“Tragic...” said Henry.

Another talented youth ruined by the evils of roleplaying.

He patted the depressed-acting Crusader’s shoulder, then lead him back to the arena’s perimeter.

Lady Kittykat charged over and, missing a kick at Henry’s shin, fell on her butt. “Devil! Why is Sir Justinian so sad? Did you curse him with warlock magics?”

The rest of the Byzantines winked and cheered, amused by Henry's failure to deliver on his boasts.

"You really showed him, mate."

Henry clicked his tongue at them condescendingly.

Morons. They’d put their faith in Justinian because of his 1v1 placements, never suspecting that his roleplaying-constrained advice was terrible for his own Crusader class, let alone theirs.

Speaking of morons, a Byzantine Earthfriend pointed off in the distance. “Hey, the other new recruit finally made it.”

If Henry’d been paying attention to the Village’s chatroom, he would have spotted this coming.

Riding towards them was a Fighter with sweat beading down his chiselled, shirtless abs. His entrance into the facility attracted many a gaze. The Villagers chuckled at his ridiculous avatar and its incongruence with his mount, whose legs were so short and stumpy that the rider’s own over-muscled, pantless legs almost dragged along the ground.

“Sorry I’m late!” he apologised, drawing to a stop in front of the Byzantines. “Me and Donkey Bro took a stroll through the markets. He ate somebody’s beef goulash, neither of us had the gold to pay, so they made us wash dishes.” Dismounting, he darted around one by one giving each Byzantine a friendly, handsome handshake. “Hi, I’m Dan. Hi, I’m Dan...”

It was our old pal, Handsome Dan, come to join in on the fun!

The Byzantines were made a little uncomfortable due to the fact that he was naked except for a paper-thin loincloth.

In the background, Donkey Bro flashed its yellow teeth at Henry, hee-hawing in provocation (“For ditching me after that thankless tunnel-digging, I’ve brought you the handsome one, whose beauty by its great contrast highlights your ugly soul.”)

But the shabby donkey didn’t know that Henry'd been through a refreshing, life-changing 19-year holiday.

“Hey, Dan,” he said fondly, returning the Handsome Brute’s handshake, “It’s been a while!”

The greeting made Dan freeze for five seconds.

His hand then expressed his inner thoughts, moving up to the height of the stranger’s head, along the outline of his body, then finishing at the unrecognisable face that’d been hidden behind the masks.

“Big Bro, you need to mail me a box of that moisturiser. You look fantastic for 43!”

“Big...Bro?” asked Anderson.

“43?”

“And, Big Bro, your voice changed!”

“It’s nothing special,” Henry answered them all at once. “I ran into this dude during the tutorial this morning. At the time, I’d assumed a false identity of a middle-aged San Franciscan in order to avoid the ever-searching feelers of my enemies and fans.”

The answer only increased the Byzantines’ confusion. His friends had heard the same 'lie' earlier.

Dan, however, bless his innocent soul, accepted it at once. “Cool. Are you still older than me, Big Bro?”

“Sort of. I’m only a year older, so that small gap probably doesn't warrant being called—”

“Big Bro, what about the...” Becoming serious, Dan whispered "...is the world safe?"

“I made that up as part of the cover story to hide my celebrity.”

Donkey Bro hee-hawed in rebuttal (“Do you have amnesia? If I didn’t swallow the psychotic monkey God, he’d have been released from his prison and eaten everybody.”)

“I guess, technically, the world was in danger for a bit, but now it’s all good in the hood.”

Dan wiped his brow. “Phew. If the world was destroyed the day I bought the game, my allowance would have gone to waste. Then—” He interrupted his own thought stream with a laugh. “Want to know how I got here?”

“Nope.”

“So, since we split up, I’d had this ominous feeling that the game ball was about to thump me on the headguard... “

Rambling with indecipherable futuristic sport analogies, Handsome Dan explained his epiphany about the independent path, his solo journey to become a Fighter, his trials in The Slums (“Why do they keep slapping me?” “Hahaha.”), his serendipitous meeting with Donkey Bro, and, finally, his decision to join Byzantium.

“Your logic is crap,” pointed out Henry afterwards. “If the goal is to foster independence, then it’s counterproductive to join my Village or any other. The core appeal of Slumlife is rebuilding the fraternal spirit for the disaffected masses who’ve lost theirs after the collapse of traditional community structures in the early parts of the century. It is the antithesis of independence. You should have continued playing solo.”

Dan laughed. “See, Big Bro, that’s why I have to stick around you! I would never have figured that out myself!”

Henry noticed the Byzantines eyeing them weirdly, a couple hostile gazes being directed at Dan by the female members and their beta orbiters, who’d positioned themselves to shield their m’ladies from his hulking mass.

“Once again,” he groaned, “you’re all mistaken. That’s his default avatar, he's not a pick-up artist, he’s just a kid who happens to be ludicrously handsome. Why is he nude? Probably got scammed. He’s very naive.”

“Wow, Big Bro, thanks for the compliment!”

“I’m only stating the facts. If you ever need more pocket money, my assistants can set you up with a modelling gig. However, you’ll need to wait two-weeks; I’m short-staffed while stuck in this starting zone.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I have controlling interest in a couple clothing brands.”

The Byzantines concluded from this exchange that the pair were a duo of pathological liars putting on a planned routine to trick them.

Henry, reading their thoughts, gave up.

If they wanted to stick to their mistaken impressions, then he’d let them. They would train under Homo roleplayensis, while he with his accurate perceptions reaped the benefits. Dan's handsomeness would make the underwear Henry would design during his conquest of tailoring fly off the shelves like hotcakes. If he could convince the Crusader to stop roleplaying, he would make a quick 10 Quintillion real dollars auctioning him to a pro-team.

Justinian, who’d been struggling to engineer a way to disrupt the conversation without breaking character, stepped forward during the lull.

“Salutations, Sir Dan! Let us engage in an introductory duel. If you may, please equip an attire more befitting of combat.”

Dan looked down awkwardly at his nude boy, then back to the entrance. “Where is he?”

“He?” asked Justinian.

“A Metalworker friend I made earlier. He promised to find me after giving my armour Gold Trim.”

The Byzantines shared embarrassed looks.

Scammed.

“Naive muscle-for-brains!" Henry burst out laughing. "He swindled you with the most basic con!”

“I got swindled?”

“You did!”

“I did!”

Henry told the rest to occupy themselves while he dragged Dan along to a cruddy workshop in the corner of the facility, where NPC smiths performed repairs. There, using Metalworking and Carcassworking skills, he adjusted some of his spare gear to fit the handsome lunkhead.

Four minutes later, Dan tapped an arming sword against a round shield with a Steel spike. “Thanks, Big Bro! How can I repay you?”

“We'll find a way.”

With Dan armed and ready, he and the Crusader strolled out onto the arena.

Joining the Byzantines to watch, Henry felt a motherly pat as Cathy’s arm rethreaded through his.

“Whatever they say, I’m proud of you.”

“The comforting is unnecessary. I’m mostly unsettled by everyone’s blindness to my brilliance, which I haven’t been subtle about.”

None of them had recognised how astoundingly fast he'd adjusted the gear using skills he'd practiced in The Overdream to customise his own. (At least, he thought no one had noticed).

“You’re a genius in my eyes.”

“Thanks.”

Out in the arena, Justinian and Dan charged straight at each other without any apparent strategy, both of them screaming like idiots from a shounen anime with dual protagonists.

The script called for Handsome Dan to lose at the start.

Justinian approached from an unfavourable angle but turned it around by ducking a swing, then hacked into Dan’s side.

Dan, disorientated, span in circles, slashing his sword wildly, until a stab through his back ended him.

“Over in 6-seconds,” said a Byzantine. “He’s lightning fast.”

“That’s our boss!” yelled Lady Kittykat, whipping out a mini-zweihander and mimicking the two attacks. “Sir Justinian is invincible!”

"Idiots....I'm surrounded by idiots."

Handsome Dan didn't take the loss hard, smiling at his defeat with satisfaction. “Nice. You’re almost as skilled as Big Bro, Knight Bro. Training with you in the future will be aweshash.” In place of the last syllable, a spurt of red-liquid spilt out of Dan’s mouth, and then he collapsed.

His health pool, having been taken below zero by the second attack, failed to mend all the internal damage.

The moment Dan toppled over, an NPC Alchemist who’d been hovering around the perimeter of the arena sprinted out with the protection of a guard.

“3 gold 20 silver to fix ya up, my handsome boy! Be a travesty to lose that precious experience!”

“3.15!” shouted another Alchemist, also sprinting over. “And my potions are sweetened by Rose of Narneya imported from Rongbit.”

Henry, sighing, jogged out, slipped through a swelling swarm of bickering ‘medics’, and crouched beside Dan, whose skin was turning pale as the blood pooled around him.

Justinian to their side stood locked in place, his face a dance of conflicting expressions. “Sorry, Sir Dan...a swordblow can never be given half-hearted.”

Dan, noticing Big Bro through his blurring vision, stretched his red-smeared mouth into a grin. “It seems I got squashed before reaching the 40 mark...guess you two Bros...will have to take over in the second half...”

“Stop being so melodramatic." Henry whipped out the Spelltome he’d used to mend the wolf pup's leg. “Justinian, guard us while I fix your botch-up.”

As he got to work sealing the wound, the Alchemists grumbled that their livelihood would be lost if Villagers did their jobs for free, then scampered back to the arena’s perimeter to await the next casualty.

Justinian, standing over the two, rubbed his hero’s jaw. “Fascinating. What ancient magics have you tapped to cast a Miracleworker spell as an Earthfriend?”

After Dan was saved, Justinian gathered them up to begin his scuffed lesson.

“Through combat, I’ve learned the limits of our newest members. Sir Dan, with your fearless fighting spirit, you will make a superb tank. Sir Henry...“ Justinian was impressed with his resourcefulness, but that bore no relevance in matters of war. ”...we’ll arrange one-on-one training. Moving on to today’s group lesson, we’ll be addressing the core problem identified yesterday. Does anyone remember it?”

“Show your aggression by charging into the enemy’s space,” replied an Arcanist.

“Correct, Sir Bullyblaster28, you are awarded 3 Slum Points. Yes, if a knight fears to enter the dragon’s den, then by the time he slays the beast, the princess might already have been digested. Always be the first to act. If offence is the best defence, then the more aggressive we are, the more protected. Citizens of Byzantium, prove to me your aggression! Shake my heart with your leonine roars!”

To Henry’s mortification, they actually started roaring, the group having evidently practised this.

And that was full-extent of the 'lesson’.

Since Justinian found maintaining his character tiring for long monologues, he told them that, "no teacher could match the battlefield," and divided them into their regular sparring teams, Team Green and Team Blue, named after historical Byzantium's most popular chariot racing teams.

Or, he would have, had not a Byzantine Bowman, who Henry’d met with his friends prior to the Alchemy competition, come forth.

"Wait. Since the newcomer's willing to play support, we have enough healers to start a third team."

"We do?"

"Sweet!"

"Finally, I was getting sick of waiting."

This news caused a wave of excitement to run through the ranks. Healers, being a scarcity in The Slums, were a limiting factor for most Villages, whose non-healing members would take turns sitting out. For the simple-minded Slumfolk, the waiting involved was tantamount to torture.

During a debate that broke out over how to redistribute everyone, it became apparent to Henry from an aggressive insistence of the Bowman’s that the man was using the rearrangement as a pretext for transferring the ‘best’ Byzantines to his side.

Henry—taking a covert sip from a flask he’d snuck here both to make this place less boring and to act like a power limiter, increasing the challenge—detected a deeper seediness behind the Bowman’s actions.

Yawning, he squeezed through their squabbling mess to write his username in a table they’d drawn in the dirt, along with his four friends’ and Dan’s.

“That’s the third team; you noobs sort yourselves out.”

“Battered Daisy’s ours,” countered a Beast Tamer, the Bowman's partner in crime.

“Thoughts, Abigail? Do you prefer grouping with these snakes or Saana’s all-time greatest?”

“I’ll...switch to yours.”

“The lady has spoken. Go fuck yourself, mate.”

“Henry, you can't insult the other Villagers to their face! Apologise to them.”

“I refuse to be censored." He thrust a finger of accusation at the Bowman. "That scumbag's obviously plotting something. The rest of you will have to deal with it, though, because these playground-tier social dynamics are mind-numbingly dull to me. I'm bored with this; we're going to beat up some noobs.”

Storming off, he gathered his group and took them aside to begin their practice.