The youth was a well-groomed, stern-looking fellow—probably a nobleman himself, but today he wore the muted grays of a referee. He tossed an armband at Dorian. “Put it on.”

He’d turned on his heel and walked away before Dorian even caught the thing. It was a wrought steel band engraved with stark red glyphs, and it felt unnaturally light in Dorian’s hand—as though he was holding a feather, not metal.

“Will do. Hey—what is this thing, exactly?” asked Dorian to the man’s receding back. He got no answer. “Uh, hello?” Nothing.

…. fair enough! He shrugged, inspecting the necklace. Etched into it were glyphs for life and blood and healing, but these were only themes. They could be woven together in all kinds of wacky ways. It was near impossible to tell what they did with just a glance.

“Madame Eudora!” said the Referee. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

Huh? Dorian looked up. The Referee was stuck in a deep bow. He straightened, smiling. “Your health locket, at your leisure.” He held out a locket that was almost double the size of the one in Dorian’s hand.

Eudora’s smile was catlike. She purred. “Oh, Gao, you rogue! You shouldn’t have. The Prime locket? For me?”

“Father wished for all the competitors to have the same tier. But I insisted you ought to get the best—it took some weeks, but he relented.” Gao blushed. “We can’t have the Oasis’ only Princess injured in battle, can we?”

Seriously?! Dorian looked between them, speechless. Come on! She’s got the ref wrapped around her finger too?! He stared to the ceiling in exasperation, imagining he could see Fate somewhere high above, laughing at him. Hey. Cut it out, will you, you old bastard? She doesn’t need more advantages! Say, why don’t you hand some to me for a change?!

“So considerate.” Eudora brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I’m touched! Though I doubt it’ll be necessary this round….”

Then she turned to Dorian, eyes narrowed. “Yes, I rather doubt this will last very long at all.”

“Uh-huh,” said Dorian slowly. Well, this is of awkward. What to do? He settled on what he hoped was a charming smile. “Eudora, was it? I sense we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I must apologize for that, ah, scene at the restaurant earlier... a regrettable thing, to be sure, but I assure you it’s all a misunderstanding—“

“Put on the treasure.” She said, idly inspected a nail.

“Excuse me?” said Dorian, blinking.

“You’ll need it.”

“I see.” Dorian smiled. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

It was out of an abundance of caution, maybe. Or maybe not. He’d been here ten minutes, and already he could tell this whole thing was rigged up-and-down. He half expected hired goons to come out of the walls to break his kneecaps before the match!

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped the ref. “You hold in your hands one of the most valuable treasures in the Oasis! It’s a life-saving treasure. Very expensive. Usually, only the Patriarchs and Matriarchs hold one on their persons! For events of greatimportance—like this Tournament—we have these on loan.”

Dorian perked up. “So this thing is meant to revive me?”

“No, idiot,” sighed Eudora. “It takes damage on your behalf. What? Did you truly believe the Tournament would pit the Oasis’ youngest stars in brutal combat against each other, only for some to leave permanently injured, or dead?” She let out a peal of laughter.

“Wait.” Dorian’s eyes glinted. “So if I strike your big toe with the force of ten thousand suns, I win the match?”

“Of course not! It corresponds to damage to your life force, not your physical body.” The ref looked increasingly annoyed. “The big toe contributes very little to a man’s life. Strike a man in the throat with half the force, on the other hand—” he cut himself off with frown. “No more questions!”

Huh. Neat gimmick!

Dorian hadn’t known they even had life magics down here. It was really quite an advanced field, and one most civilizations didn’t get to until at least demi-godhood. Shrugging, he locked it shut around his arm.

Eudora swept another lock of auburn hair out of her absurdly pretty face. Dorian blinked—he had the sudden, absurd urge to look away, as though he were staring at the sun. She smirked at him. “It’s amusing to see you squirm. Something like an oyster in a restaurant, shall we say—“

Yeah, she definitely still holds a grudge about the other day…

“—asking the chef how it’ll be cooked. Does it matter in the end?” She crossed her arms. Dorian squinted at her face, wondering if there was some arrangement of the muscles on her face that could possibly make her look even more smug. Huh. He came up blank. Nope. She really has squeezed every last ounce of smugness out of her face—that’s peak smug. It was almost impressive.

And Dorian, being who he was, just. Could not. Resist a little poke at her.

“How the oyster’s cooked does matter, actually,” he said with a grin. “Boiled tastes much better! Though—ah! Apologies. I suppose you wouldn’t know—you weren’t around to try it, were you?”

She flushed. “You—!”

“How’s your back feeling, by the way?”

For a few seconds she just gaped at him, as though she couldn’t process that he’d really just said that. To her. Dorian imagined not many dared mouth off at her. He kept grinning like an idiot.

Might as well, right? It’s not like she can dislike me more!

“Hmph!” She turned up her nose at him. “At first I’ll admit I found you intriguing, Io of the Heilong. But you chose to disrespect me then, and you have the gall to do so now! For that you’ll pay in blood! Mark my words, you—you—you horrible little creep!” That last bit came out in a red-faced shriek.

Before Dorian could snap back a retort, a familiar blast of hot noise stifled him: the worn stone door at the end of the hall in which they stood was sliding back open. This was it. “AND NOW….” The announcer’s velvety, booming voice broke through the crowd, clamoring. “A MATCHUP YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR! INTRODUCING FIRST… REPRESENTING THE GOVERNOR’s PALACE… the FOURTH SEED OF THE TOURNAMENT… WITH A RECORD OF FORTY-SIX WINS, ONE LOSS, ONE DRAW…. SIX-TIME WINNER OF THE AZCAN JUNIOR’S CUP… PRINCESS EUDORA OF AZCAN!”

The cheers were already ludicrously loud. Eudora shot Dorian one last glare. Then her face shifted in an instant: hard frown lines faded to a smoothed temple, pinched cheeks softened with dimples. Holding her smile, she strutted out into the light.

The roar of the crowd was so loud it rattled the steel walls, bouncing sediment off the ground like popcorn. Dorian winced—he could swear it’d triggered a minor earthquake! On and on Eudora walked, waving, nodding, blowing kisses, all the way down to her side of the circular arena. It was totally flat plain of packed sand, void of obstacles. Drat!

It was awfully boring, true, but that was not the main problem.

The main problem was that his Spirit Weapon ability—really his only hope to have a fighting chance at this thing—was the ability to shift through shadows. And there was not only no obstacles with to cast shadows, the flat lighting actively destroyed them!

He’d need to work around this. Somehow.

“Nervous?” yelled the referee to Dorian. He wore an nasty grin.

Dorian thought for a second. Did he think he would win? Eh. But was he nervous?

He shrugged.

The referee frowned. “Don’t you know who she is?! You ought to be nervous! You ought to be nervous as hells!”

“Why?” Dorian shot him a quizzical look. “Would it help?”

The man didn’t know what to say to that.

“INTRODUCING NEXT… REPRESENTING THE HEILONG CLAN… IO, FATED HERO OF AZCAN!”

Thereafter followed the auditory equivalent of having a landfill worth of trash dumped directly on his head.

Nice.

Some of it was because he was fighting a fan favorite. Some part of it was probably the fact that he’d kind of accidentally destroyed quite a number of their houses. Whatever the case, as he strode out into open, flat space, lit up perfectly evenly by a row of obnoxiously bright, glaring lights streaming from the ceiling, he sure got absolutely drenched in jeers. There were a few supporters, to be sure—for instance, one nice young lady a few rows down held up a sign asking if she could have his babies. But it was clear which way public sentiment swayed. There really was no feeing quite like having the express hatred of thousands thrown at you at once!

He grinned right back at them. As he walked to his side he waved, and nodded, and blew kisses at the seething masses, making sure to exaggerate every little bit of Eudora’s shtick. He ended it all with a mocking bow. That last bit earned him a reaction even stronger than Eudora’s. He closed his eyes, sighing happily, letting the hate wash over him like a warm shower. Ahhh…. this really is nice! I missed this. It also earned him a shower of half-eaten fruit and at least twelve pairs of shoes chucked at him, which bounced off the invisible force-field enveloping the arena—it’d been installed to stop fighters’ attacks from splashing onto the crowd, but it stopped fresh produce just as well.

Then it was like a lid had been put on the crowd, muffling them. Dorian opened an eye. Eh? The force field hummed to life, flexing its power all around them, closing the arena off to the world. Suddenly it was just him, the referee, and a fuming, high Earth-Realm Princess alone in a very flat, big, well-lit ring.

It was time.

“Fighters!” cried the referee. “Summon your weapons!”

“Hmph!” Eudora jerked up her chin and waved her hand with a dancer’s grace.

Two sashes of pearly white swept into the air, curling around her like serpents. They were huge—spread out, each could’ve wrapped up a small house—and there was a menacing fluidity to the way they moved, like they had minds of their own as they slithered through air. Something told Dorian that being caught in the grips of those things would not end well for him.

The crowd’s oohs could be heard even through the muffling effect.

But I have a little something of my own, don’t I? Come out, my lovely!

And his Weapon answered his call.

A smudge of twilight forced its way into the daylight. Smoke poured out all around him—not the noxious fumes of a fire but that purplish, ethereal mist which always seem to drift about, winding and ominous, around ghastly things that revel in the dead of night.

There was a pinprick of white in the murky fog. Then the head of the Javelin emerged, trailing wisps of smoke: massive, wicked, spotless, bright as the crescent moon. Behind it, slow and orderly as funeral marchers, came the black links of its chain.

But the weapon brought more than just its physical form. It dispersed a mood. Even the boisterous crowd felt it: a dreadful, stifling gloom spread out, weighing down their hearts, silencing their voices. The shocked hush was even lovelier than their jeers.

Eudora, meanwhile, still had her arms crossed and her chin held high. The girl seemed determined not to be impressed. Just you wait and see, motherfucker! said the expression on her face.

The referee raised a fist. “Let the battle commence!”