*Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Kingdom of Satar, Capital City Parthanon*
The barbarian stood seven feet tall with arms like tree trunks. He wore no armor, just leather straps crisscrossing his scarred chest, and he carried a longsword that would have been a greatsword in anyone else's hands. War paint streaked his face in red and black. His eyes held nothing but hunger for violence.
Number 023.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena. "Quarter finals! Our shining knight 080 versus the Crimson Beast 023! Begin!"
The barbarian didn't wait. He charged with a roar that shook the air itself.
Demir barely got his shield up in time. The longsword crashed against it with enough force to send him sliding backward, his boots carving furrows in the packed earth. Before he could recover, the barbarian was swinging again. And again. Each blow was a thunderclap.
There was no finesse here. No technique to read. Just overwhelming power seeking to crush everything in its path.
Demir blocked. Blocked again. His arm screamed with each impact. The vibrations traveled through his shield, through his bones, rattling his teeth.
*He's stronger than anyone I've faced.*
The barbarian kicked at Demir's shield, and even through his braced stance, Demir stumbled backward. The crowd roared approval. They loved this. They loved watching the armored knight get beaten like a drum.
Demir tried to counterattack. He jabbed at an opening. But the barbarian simply took the hit on his shoulder and kept swinging. Blood welled from the cut, but he didn't seem to notice. Didn't seem to care.
*He's not going to stop. He doesn't feel pain like normal people.*
The longsword came down in an overhead arc. Demir caught it on his shield, but the force drove him to one knee. His arm buckled. For a horrifying moment, he thought his shield might actually break.
Then he remembered Turbo's words: *"Against stronger foes, don't meet force with force. Redirect. Use their power against them."*
When the next swing came, Demir didn't try to block it straight. He angled his shield, letting the blade slide off at an angle. The barbarian stumbled forward, thrown off balance by his own momentum.
Demir struck. A quick slash across the back of the thigh.
The barbarian roared and spun, but now he was limping. Just slightly. Just enough.
They circled. The barbarian was more cautious now, his wild attacks becoming slower, more measured. Blood ran down his leg, leaving a trail in the dirt.
Demir pressed his advantage. He used every combo he had learned. Jab right, jab left, feint low, strike high. The Turbo Charge pattern. The barbarian blocked some, took others on his flesh, but each hit slowed him further.
Then the barbarian caught Demir's sword with his bare hand.
Blood fountained from his palm, but he held on. With a snarl, he yanked Demir forward and headbutted him.
Stars exploded across Demir's vision. He tasted copper. The world tilted sideways.
The barbarian released the sword and swung his longsword in a brutal arc. It caught Demir across the chest, the edge biting into his armor. The reinforced steel held, but the impact sent him sprawling.
Demir rolled, vision blurring. The barbarian was coming. Limping but coming. That massive sword raised for a finishing blow.
*Get up. GET UP.*
Demir found his feet. Barely. He raised his shield just as the longsword came crashing down.
The impact drove him to both knees this time.
But he didn't fall.
Through the ringing in his ears, through the spots dancing in his vision, Demir saw it. The barbarian's wounded leg had buckled slightly. Just for a moment. Just enough.
He surged upward, putting everything he had into a shield bash. It caught the barbarian under the chin.
The giant's head snapped back. He staggered.
Demir followed with the one-two combo. Jab to the throat. Charged swing to the temple.
The barbarian went down like a felled tree.
He didn't get back up.
---
Demir walked out of the arena limping, bleeding from small cuts where the barbarian's blade had found gaps in his armor. His left eye was swelling shut, blood seeping from a cut on his brow.
Medics rushed past him to attend to the unconscious barbarian.
And for the first time, the crowd cheered for him in unison.
"080! 080! 080!"
The sound washed over Demir like warm rain. But he couldn't enjoy it. His mind was elsewhere. With dwarves in chains. With masters being marched to mining camps.
He walked slowly toward the medical tent. Because of his bleeding, swelling eye, he couldn't judge distances properly. He stumbled, nearly fell, and bumped hard into someone.
The black-robed teenager.
Demir started to apologize, but the figure just walked past him without a word, heading toward the arena. His movement was fluid, predatory. And beneath the hood, Demir glimpsed pale skin and eyes that held too much darkness for someone so young.
Apparently, the robed one had also advanced to the quarterfinals.
---
In the medical tent, Demir sat on a cot while the organization's top healers worked on him. Magical warmth spread through his wounds as they applied advanced techniques.
His friends entered with a big cheer, but the healer stopped their celebration with a sharp gesture.
"This room is for treatment. There are other patients. Keep it down."
Lysara and Alef gave warm but quiet congratulations, then asked permission to leave and watch the rest of the matches. Demir nodded. Marco and Marven stayed behind to celebrate and inform Demir about yesterday's successful sales.
But Demir wasn't listening to any of it.
Not even his semifinal match tomorrow.
He pulled out the messaging note, and his stomach dropped.
New writing in Brovick's section. Not from Brovick himself, but from Brovick's scroll, which meant someone else had written on it.
*"Demir, unfortunately I have to write to you because who knows what happens next. Iron Prince has apparently gone mad. He took control of the city with goblin forces. And now they are in the Secluded Valley and taking us to the city one by one. Apparently sending us to mining camps as punishment. I am not afraid of the green little bastards or the work but Master Durnak cannot live inside the city and especially cannot survive the mines. Goodbye Demir. You were a good friend and a true apprentice."*
The signature at the bottom was a name Demir didn't recognize. One of the other dwarves from the valley, writing on Brovick's behalf.
Demir's face went pale as death. He tried to get up, forgetting the medic was trying to close a wound with an advanced healing technique.
"Sit down, fighter!" the healer snapped. "If I do a quick healing touch instead, it'll leave a scar and ache for two weeks."
Demir sat. But the worry on his face could be read from a mile away.
"What happened? What did you read?" Marven asked, alarm creeping into her voice.
Demir handed the scroll to her. She read it, and her face went pale too. She passed it to Marco.
"We need to go to Ironfell," Demir said, his voice hollow. "We need to save my masters."
"Demir, I understand your frustration, but it's a whole city." Marco set down the scroll. "What can we do against an army of goblins and a dictator with royal guards?"
"I can sneak in and find a way for you," Marven offered.
"Pack whatever is necessary. I'm taking Asena and we're leaving." Demir tried to get up again, but the medic pushed him back down.
"Whoa, whoa. There's a semifinal match tomorrow. We can't just leave. Plus, Turbo hasn't collected most of our money yet."
"I don't care about that! The journey will take at least ten days. Anything could happen in ten days. Master Durnak is old. The mines will kill him."
"But Demir, the prizes could add volumes to your build. Also, Kirious hasn't come back with an update on sending word to Chalice."
Demir's head was burning. Going or staying. A few more days could mean winning the tournament and its prizes. Also, collection of the balance from Quarnion. And most importantly, a connection to Chalice. To Aris.
But his masters were suffering now.
"I... I... I don't know what to do. But my masters..."
"How about this," Marco said quietly. "If you lose tomorrow, we can leave immediately. Turbo can collect the prizes and the money for us. Then we can come back later."
Out of anyone in their group, Marco understood this best. He understood making wrong choices. Making hasty decisions and living with the consequences. From his face, Demir read it all. The weight of choosing one thing over another. Of making friends wait while you chase something that might not matter.
Demir only nodded.
"I'm going to inform Turbo and Alef." Marco stood. "Marven, stay beside Demir."
When Marco left, Marven sat beside him and took his hand. Her grip was warm and strong.
"Don't worry," she said softly. "Locals fight for power all the time. They won't hurt true masters. I'm sure they're fine."
Demir wanted to believe her.
But he couldn't.