The one Bjorn Clan member she got to fight was the most challenging, a large woman who put up a truly impressive defense against her strikes by using her own fat as a medium to absorb kinetic energy. Combined with sonic attacks in the form of bear roars and the woman’s bear-based, incredibly strong transformation, it made for a spectacular battle lasting over ten minutes, albeit because Zel purposely didn’t use many of the tools available to her.

The Bjorn woman’s sheer body mass somehow made her more resistant to direct shock attacks than even monsters thrice her size, and Zel found that she could only cause any real damage by striking joints or her head. Thus, her tactic became one of whittling down her foe’s joints and then choking her out.

Zelsys did, after all, weigh an order of magnitude more than her size would suggest - somewhere in the realm of over one-hundred and fifty kilograms, possibly over one-hundred and sixty when she metallized enough of herself. Combined with her right forearm’s semi-permanent metallization, she was able to soundly best her foe without reaching for her strongest tools. Zel came away with bruises, cracked ribs, and numerous gashes that would’ve bled like hell if she hadn’t pulled them shut. Aside from numerous bruises, her opponent was left with a fair number of bleeding hand-marks due to Zel grabbing her by her fat and throwing her several times and even a few bite marks, but she didn’t seem at all upset about losing. She mouthed something when they shook hands after the fight. Instead of words only bear-growls came out, eliciting a sour expression as the woman walked away, to join the rest of her clan.

As Zel and Jorfr made their way to leave the Bjorn compound, Jorfr revealed that the woman was the Bjorn Clan’s eleventh strongest member, and one of Kyriak’s daughters.

“...That second half does not mean much, though, since Kyriak has nineteen children,” he said. Before they left, Zel donned a hooded cloak at Jorfr’s urging, who did the same.

“Members of all Great Clans will likely show up for the later rounds, and sign-ups for round three starts in half an hour. Best to be sure,” he said.

Their relatively high-spirited departure was spoiled mere moments after exiting through the front gate. Just as they neared a corner two men emerged from beyond it, both large, but neither Aase nor Bjorn, and one of them had a weirdly familiar face to Zelsys. Familiar… And hostile. The other was foreign, Grekurian she guessed. The four of them came to a halt face-to-face; the Borean stranger opened his mouth and spoke. The words that came out of his mouth, his tone, and the stylings of his appearance all came together to spark a memory, especially the unmistakable design of two-headed serpents tattooed all over his body. Svend Ramdall, main heir of the Ramdall Clan.

Moments earlier…

Svend had decided to visit the wargames being organized by the Bjorns and Aase, though not before double-checking with his father, and not alone. His Grekurian battle-brother, Guido, accompanied him. The only condition father Asgeir had demanded was that he not use both of his Beast Selves, as to not spread knowledge of his abilities too quickly - it was a restriction he was happy to abide, finding the very idea of needing his full strength against anyone weaker than one of a great clan’s top-five members an insult. The young heir’s good mood was spoiled mere moments before reaching the front gate.

He and Guido rounded a corner, and came to a sudden halt when they nearly ran face-first into two figures; one familiar, one new, neither expected and neither welcomed. One, Jorfr Hulson.

Without thinking, on reflex, he shot a venomous glare at Jorfr Hulson, spitting an equally venomous remark: “Know your place, mongrel. Get out of my way.”

The brown-skinned one chuckled, closing her eyes. Svend suddenly felt it become slightly more difficult to breathe, while Jorfr didn’t even react. He just… Stared back dispassionately. No, not dispassionately. There was a quiet, malicious glee behind his eyes, and the corners of his mouth upturned ever so slightly.

“Were you speaking to me?” spoke Jorfr’s foreign companion. Svend felt Guido’s body tense up as he anticipated a strike that never came.

“Because… I know my place better than anyone. Not a noble, a merchant, or even a commoner,” she sighed, tension releasing from her massive frame. Then, why did he feel a sense of impending doom?

She continued, and as her eyes opened, he saw an inhuman glint behind them; the same shine that an unfortunate hunter might witness behind the eyes of an encroaching predator.

“...And indeed, I know how perilous it is to go against nobility. However, my acknowledgment of these facts hinges on a few crucial caveats. The first comes with a question: Tell me, what is it that makes noblemen better than commoners?

“We are simply be-”

“-better humans, exactly! Nobles are better thanks to meticulous generational breeding to produce individuals better suited to established methods of cultivation, or to generally improve baseline Attribute ratings, especially Aether, due to the difficulty of raising it through training. Is that correct?” she interrupted him. Why couldn’t he muster up the courage to command Guido to strike this cur for stepping so flagrantly out of line? What was this crushing, overwhelming presence?

He nodded without even thinking about it.

“Then you would do well and bow down, you fucking mutt. I exist beyond noble birth, for I was not merely born, I was spun from whole cloth for the sole purpose of embodying an impossible ideal. I, whom the westerners know as the Manufactured Paragon, was created solely to make you obsolete. I slew a Necrobeast before I was a week old, I usurped the very heavens by splitting a lightning bolt from the Living Storm before my days in this world counted up to a month, I struck down Ubul, the Beast Reborn in Stone, before I could truthfully claim to be half a year old! In less than a year of existence, I’ve achieved more than your tangled shrub of a family line has done in five centuries, so…”

Her cloak parted. A hand clad in rune-etched, clawed armor rose to his face, runes shining and metal gleaming as its fingers gripped the trigger-lever of a gigantic firearm that had been incorporated into the gauntlet so seamlessly that there was barely any divide between the armor and the weapon.

“PROSTRATE YOURSELF, YOU FUCKING MONGREL.”