“Nervous?” Ryu asked.

“Not quite,” Emiko said, tapping the hilts of the swords lying against her chair. Around them, the roar of people could be heard through the thick, stone walls, and an announcer’s voice trumpeted about the glory of the Premier Aristocracy or some bullshit.

It was the first day of the Contest, and Emiko and Ryu sat in a private viewing box, a panel of glass allowing them to see the packed dirt arena in front of them. People filled the stands above and around them, but Ryu could not help but feel annoyed. He and his sister had been pulled from their duties at the fort for the event, and nobody seemed to care. It was as if the threat of the Bugs did not exist. He believed it was foolishness, looking out at the multitudes of people in the stands opposite for them. For all their variety in life, they would find a cold uniformity in death, eyes of every color turning vacant and every chest still.

“Seems like a waste,” he muttered to himself. How many times had he dueled in similar arenas as a boy? Gods, how he had enjoyed the roar of the crowd at his back. A foolish, glory-minded boy, he had been.

Emiko frowned. Things between them were tense after the meeting with Haru, but she still mustered the effort to answer. “Most of those people can do little for the war effort besides do their jobs and keep the economy afloat. Worry and bad morale about the war would only harm their efforts. These celebrations are all they have. Besides, the Bugs seem content for a stalemate, which gives us the time to raise more Masters.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “Though I doubt that’s why our side is content to wait. No, they enjoy the money the war brings in. The Bugs bring in Qi, loot, and gold. Why brave a new Ring when we have all we need right here?” He laughed.

“You’re a bit of a gloomy one.”

“Something like that.” It was true enough, but then, it did not serve to be cheery. Expecting the worst meant no disappointments, and if there was one thing Ryu hoped to be free of, it was disappointment. Besides, a good man was measured in deeds, not attitude. At least, that was his hope.

“Hi,” Den said, the ambassador popping into their comfortable viewing box. The rest of the young nobles were still at the fort, content to watch the week-long Contest through projecting crystals. “How are my two competitors today?”

“Good,” Emiko said with a smile, her words soon followed by Ryu’s affirmative grunt. House Ishida’s forces had competitors for all of the age and level divisions, but as far as he knew, the others were scattered into their own groups or cliques, a select few gaining the ‘honor’ of sitting with Haru and the other prominent nobles of the House.

“I had food ordered. I hope you don’t mind.” The short woman threw herself into a chair, looking at Ryu and Emiko’s loose clothing. “Damn warriors and your comfortable clothing. Meanwhile I have to wear this tight-ass robe.”

Ryu had to admit, Den had a foul mouth for someone in a political position. Still, she was a welcome distraction for Emiko, who was strung tight as a bow despite her words otherwise. Leaving the two girls to their conversations, he watched the opening ceremonies in silence. Food arrived on silver trays, but he left his untouched. The brackets had yet to be revealed, and he was not one to fight on a full stomach. Easier to hold back the bile that way. Death had a particular odour of shit, blood, and regret he was none too fond of.

“Now, it is time to reveal our brackets,” the announcer said from his wooden stage in the center of the packed dirt, his voice transmitting throughout the whole arena. “In the most highly contested division, we have the Under-Thirty Masters!”

A screen appeared above him, one not too dissimilar from the List.

Den’s mutter broke the awkward quiet. “Wow.”

The announcer continued after a moment. “Look at those match-ups, ladies and gentlemen! On the left side of the bracket, we have notable fighters like Shen Yang, Abrafo of the Fanged Peaks, and Marcellus Tiberius. On the right, however, is an absolute bloodbath of a bracket. The division’s two favorites, Sir Odellius and Fell, will find themselves opposed against each other once more before they reach the finals! Now, onto the next division…”

Ryu bit back a laugh at Den and Emiko’s concerned looks. The tournament was not even to death, and the fear of loss held little sway over a man with much of his power locked behind a Skill. If the Aristocracy’s member of the Big Seven, Hiro Ito, were here, he might be worried. As it was, he lacked a certain motivation. The prizes for placing were somewhat lackluster, with the winner of the division earning the right to claim a Title like ‘The Bloody’ or some other nonsense. Fame did little for the dead, and their corpses were no warmer for it. What use did he have for it? Aye, it was best to have a grim attitude indeed.

After that, the announcer added his colorful insights to the rest of the divisions all the way down to the UnClassed. Emiko, he learned, was a competitor in the level sixty division. Other than that tidbit, however, he cared little for the Contest. Ryu knew next to nothing about the Aristocracy’s politics, and he did not care to learn who was who. The force was a union of snakes. No, Ryu would win, turn the Aristocracy against the Flock, and then disappear amongst the bloodshed.

After talking to Jinn, Ryu yearned for a quiet life. Battle was an addiction like any other, and though he would struggle with the loss of the adrenaline haze of violence, he would overcome it. Tuning out the announcer, he built the perfect future in his mind. He would build a home in the town outside of his father’s keep. Nothing too grand, just enough for him, Bonny, and their children to live. He could fish and start a farm, even. Soon, the image fell apart. Too soon. For all the benefits of a bleak outlook, it was not without its negatives. Still, he needed no mental image to know he wanted a change. If the gods ever allowed it.

Gods. He almost laughed. Ryu respected a person’s right to believe, but he found it hard to believe any divinity save the gods of spite blessed the Rings. It was best to hope their attention never fell on you, and if it did… Well, it was best to pray for a quick end.

A snap drew him from his thoughts. “Ryu,” Emiko said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Ceremony’s over. We’re about to head home. You coming?”

He considered the darkening sky outside for a moment. “No,” he said, standing to his feet and leaving the room. His first fight was not until tomorrow, and he found himself longing for solitude.

The light of morning found Ryu registering his new unenchanted sword for competition. He had spent the night away from the Ishida Keep and felt much better for it. No amount of personal growth would turn him into a social butterfly.

“Alright,” the female attendant said with a smile, handing his sword back. “Do you understand the rules of the Contest?”

“Uh, not quite.”

“That’s no problem at all, sir. The rules of the Contest are simple. Only registered weapons are allowed. Duels are fought until the arena’s enchantments teleport the loser from the field. To trigger the enchantment, a fatal blow must be landed, though the enchantment will prevent actual death. All Skills and Techniques are allowed. Every match will have a time limit of thirty minutes, and a healer will see to a competitor after his or her match. Leaving the arena for any reason other than loss is prohibited and will be punished by disqualification. The same goes for any fighting between participants outside of the duels and any form of bribery, threatening, or foul play prior to the match. The use of storage devices during the match is also prohibited. Does sir have any questions?”

Ryu shook his head. “No ma’am.”

“Alright, then. A viewing box has been set aside for your use. Do you wish for any others to join you?”

“No,” he said.

The attendant nodded. “Right this way then, sir.”

The two walked out of the bustling lobby, dozens of similar scenes playing out around them as others registered. The woman led him to a room not too dissimilar from the one he had shared with his sister yesterday. The day’s fights had already started, and Ryu’s would be one of the last. He settled into watch.

In a better world, Ryu imagined there were more beneficial crafts to study than war. The Rings were far from such a world, however. Combat and martial strength ruled culture, and stronger Classers were needed to win against the Bugs. Such things were truths Ryu had always known but failed to accept. If he ever wanted a peaceful life, he would have to embrace the hellish scenes of war once more.

Better men and women than Ryu said true change came without violence, but he wagered those people had never seen what a man with a sword could do to one without. No, violence was the only solution in a violent world, and Ryu had to make sure he was the one with the sword. Detestable as it was, humanity did not have the time to wait and see the effects of peaceful movements.

The quicksilver blows of two Classers accompanied his thoughts, the blows chiming like bells. Too soon, the fight ended, and Ryu was left with a dry throat. Right. It was much harder to ignore the appeal of duels when he did not have to worry about one of the competitors dying. An odd time for him to grow a conscience maybe, but better late than never.

He watched the next few bouts with rapt attention, and before long, the announcer’s voice said a name he was all too familiar with.

“In our first Masters bout of the day, Marcellus Tiberius faces off against the former level sixty division champion and heir to the Silver Khanate, Subatai the Impaler.”

The two men walked out from opposing sides of the arena, the distance between them negligible to a Master Class. Marcellus stood a statue of a marble, his hulking greatsword outstretched to defend a charge. He wore the tight training suit provided to all the competitors, though his was colored in the red and gold of his house.

His opponent was by far the smaller man but no less intimidating for it. With an unadorned saber held in his hands, Subatai stood in a training suit of green and black. His pinched features held a dangerous anticipation to them.

Ryu wanted to sigh. How dramatic. The crowd was about to be disappointed, he imagined. A fight between two Master Classers would be a blur to all but the strongest of watchers, and it would be over far before the thirty minute time limit. Techniques were beyond powerful, but their strength came from the strict limitations placed on each one. His own technique, Soul Eater, needed souls to work, for example. In a duel between two otherwise equal competitors, it came down to the Technique better suited to the situation.

His guess proved accurate. The two exchanged few blows before the golden scales of a dragon started to coat Subatai’s skin, yet before his Technique was done, a golden wreath appeared along Marcellus’s brow like a crown.

Subatai dropped to one knee, his Technique halted by the force of Marcellus’s. The greatsword touched his neck, and he disappeared. Ryu shook his head. The limitations of a Technique were near impossible to tell from watching them work. He imagined he would gain little from watching his opponent’s fight.

Oh, the joys of competition. He almost preferred war.