Obinai's eyelids flutter against the harsh glow of alchemical lamps - their brass fittings hissing softly as they bathe the whitewashed walls in sterile light. Every breath sends jagged pain radiating from his ribs, his body one massive bruise wrapped in parchment-dry skin.
Damn...should've mixed up my spells more...looked like a damn circus act with one trick.
The medicinal stench of crushed moonblossom and antiseptic tonic burns his nose. He's in the academy infirmary - that much is obvious from the rhythmic ticking of the diagnostic orbs floating near the ceiling, their glass surfaces swirling with colored vapors. Across the room, three other beds stand empty, their linen sheets tucked.
A sharp clink of glass on metal draws his attention. An elven woman in healer's robes stands at his bedside, her silver-threaded bun so tight it pulls the skin of her forehead taut. She doesn't look up from the brass syringe she's filling with glowing green liquid.
"Finally decided to join the living, have we?" Her voice could frost glass. "How...quaint."
Obinai's tongue feels like old leather. "Wha-"
"Don't speak," she snaps, thrusting the syringe toward him. "Drink. Unless you enjoy feeling like a stomped-upon wineskin."
The liquid burns going down, tasting of mint and crushed ants. Almost immediately, the throbbing in his skull dulls to a manageable ache. The healer's long fingers dance over his ribs, her nails - filed to perfect points - pressing just hard enough to make him wince.
"Fascinating," she murmurs, more to herself than him. "The contusions along your liver have completely resolved. The microfractures in your fourth and fifth ribs show advanced healing. Most...unusual for your kind."
Obinai catches the curl of her lip when she says 'your kind'. Yeah, yeah, human filth, we get it lady.
She straightens abruptly, her robe - marked with the academy's crest in thread-of-gold - rustling like angry leaves. "Your uniform has been cleaned and repaired. It's in the locker. Dress yourself and return to the arena promptly. The headmaster dislikes tardiness almost as much as I dislike treating...unconventional patients."
The nurse's heels click against the checkered tiles as she turns away, but Obinai's voice scrapes out one last question:
"What about the guy I fought?"
Her shoulders tense beneath the fabric of her robes. Without turning, she flicks a hand toward a curtained-off alcove where the faint glow of healing magic pulses. "The tiefling? Conscious. Annoyingly so. Though I doubt his pride will recover as quickly as the rest of his injuries."
Good. Didn't want to kill the bastard—just shut him up.
"Due to his... disappointing performance," the nurse continues, "he's been relocated to the observation decks. Less chance of further embarrassment there."
A sharp clack as she sets down her brass-bound ledger. "Now unless you'd like to personally deliver him flowers, I suggest—"
"Got it, got it," Obinai mutters, waving her off as he limps toward the door. The moment his hand touches the polished copper handle, her voice lashes out one final time:
"And do try not to bleed on the corridors this time. The automaton polishers complain."
...
The hallway stretches before him...
Should've asked how many matches I missed. Damn prickly elf.
As he nears the arena entrance, the muffled roar of the crowd resolves into distinct voices:
"—absolute domination from House Maelthar!"
"Did you SEE that parry? Flawless!"
"Ugh, must he preen like a peacock? It's unbecoming."
Obinai pushes through the archway—
—and nearly gets blinded by arena lights.
He throws up a hand, squinting against the glare. When his vision clears, the scene crystallizes:
Elrik stands victorious at the center of a blood-spattered ring, one foot planted on the chest of a groaning orc. The elf's spikey blonde hair gleams under the floating luminaries. In his right hand—
Wait.
A blade.
"Pathetic!" Elrik sneers, kicking the orc's weapon aside with a flick of his boot. "I expected more from the Nessfang clan. Then again," —he twirls the estoc in a flashy flourish— "orcs always were better as canon fodder contrary to real combat."
The crowd erupts. Nobles in their private boxes clutch pearls and fan themselves, while the commoner sections roar disapproval.
Damn
Obinai shoulders through the packed student benches, earning grumbles and elbows to the ribs. The scent of sweat hangs thick in the air as he finally collapses into his seat beside Gideon, who's practically vibrating with excitement.
"Aye!" Gideon cuts through the arena noise as he slaps Obinai's back hard enough to make him cough. "Yer late as a spring frost in harvest season!"
Obinai winces, rubbing his still-tender ribs. "Yeah, yeah. What'd I miss?"
Gideon's eyes gleam as he leans in, his straw-colored hair sticking up in sweaty clumps. "Elrik done carved up that fool fancier'n my ma's holiday ham!" He mimes sword strokes with exaggerated motions. "Whoosh! Clang! Down they went like ninepins!"
Obinai's gaze snaps to the arena where Elrik stands triumphant. "Since when does that bastard use a sword?"
"Ain't just swordplay," Gideon says, lowering his voice. His calloused fingers trace glowing patterns in the air. "That there's aura channelin' - rare a kreen's teeth in these parts."
Obinai watches as Elrik's blade hums faintly even from this distance, the air around it shimmering like heat waves. "So he's cheating?"
Gideon barks a laugh that attracts glares from nearby students. "Naw, just showin' off his daddy's fancy trainin'. Most blow their hands off tryin' that trick." He spits over the railing for emphasis. "Bastard's been holdin' out on us."
Obinai watches Elrik bask in the adoration, the elf's smug grin visible even from here. Great. So he's not just a mage—he's a goddamn prodigy.
As if sensing the thought, Elrik's head snaps toward the student section. Their eyes lock across the distance.
The elf's smile turns vicious.
With deliberate slowness, he raises the glowing estoc—and points it directly at Obinai.
The message is clear: You're next.
Then he vanishes in a swirl of teleportation magic, leaving only the echo of the crowd's adoration behind.
The dwarf lets out a low whistle. "Well shit, boyo. Ye just made an enemy of the wrong elf."
Obinai sinks lower in his seat, fingers drumming on his still-tender ribs. Yeah. Tell me something I don't know.
The arena's luminescent orbs dim as Lyth's voice rolls across the stands.
"Before we reach the tournament's midpoint, one final bout!"
A hush falls over the crowd. The sand in the combat ring begins to swirl as if caught in an invisible vortex.
"First, from the illustrious House Nilcier—Mercer!"
The air tears with a sound like ripping parchment. Where there was empty sand now stands a figure that makes Obinai's spine stiffen instinctively.
Mercer.
The dark elf stands motionless, his obsidian skin drinking in the arena lights. His silver hair—bound in a warrior's tail—hangs like a banner of surrender no one's dared to take.
No way this bastard's our age.
"And his opponent," Lyth continues...,
"Bram!"
…
Bram stands motionless in the center of the arena, the packed sand shifting slightly beneath his boots. His calloused fingers flex unconsciously.
This is it. This is what I live for.
The crowd's murmurs die like candle flames snuffed by a sudden wind. Bram can feel thousands of eyes boring into him - nobles leaning forward in their velvet seats, commoners gripping the railings, even the floating observation orbs hovering closer to capture every moment.
"I remember you."
The voice slithers across the arena. Mercer stands ten paces away.
"The noisy one from the caves." Mercer's fingers trail along the tattoos snaking up his neck - the ink pulses faintly violet with each word. "With that... peculiar grin. Like a simpleton who found a copper piece."
Bram's mouth twitches. His shoulders roll in a slow shrug, muscles bunching beneath his reinforced uniform. "Funny. I remember you too." He spits to the side. "Guy who's friend got knocked on his ass by a 'simpleton'."
A ripple of laughter runs through the commoner sections. Mercer's eyes narrow to slits.
"You hit harder than you look," the dark elf concedes. "But this isn't some dank cave, forsaken. No shadows to hide in. No lucky strikes." His hand drifts to his hip. "Just you. And me. And all these witnesses to your—"
"Gods damn you talk pretty for a fighter," Bram interrupts, cracking his neck left then right. His grin stretches wide, but his eyes remain cold as mountain stone. "Less flappin', more scrappin'."
The gong's deep BOOM shakes the arena.
Then, with a sharp, echoing shout, Lyth's voice breaks through the silence:
"Let the match begin...!"