*Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Kingdom of Satar, Capital City Parthanon*
The next day, Demir stood in the preparation chamber, lost in thought while Marven helped him into his armor. His brain was on fire with calculations. How to save his masters from a magical dictator. How to cross a continent in time. How to fight an army of goblins with just a handful of friends.
He couldn't come up with a plan.
"Hey, are you there?"
Something was tapping his head.
"Knock knock. Demir, wake up."
Finally, Marven's words cut through the fog, and he snapped back to reality. He had a semifinal match. Here. Now. Against someone who had killed a competitor.
"Demir, pull it together." She jerked a shoulder pad into place with more force than necessary. "This kid you'll be facing. You can't drop your guard for even a second. He..." She leaned close to his ear, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He killed one contender. Since it was ruled self-defense, they let him continue."
"Oh wow." Demir's mind was still half elsewhere. "The one with the black robe, right? He seems so mysterious. Gives me the creeps."
"Yeah. I watched one of his matches. He's relentless. He drinks a bunch of potions beforehand. It's like hateful mage ninjas raised him."
Despite everything, Demir chuckled at the image.
"What?" Marven looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "It's not funny. This is your life we're talking about. We all saw how hard you dealt with that mage."
Demir was still smiling, even laughing a little. "It's just that me and Aris played a game like that back on our planet. 'Hateful Mage Ninjas.' It was the most awful yet funny premise. I remembered that."
Marven's expression softened slightly, but she pressed on. "Just hold onto your shield. Don't let him knock it away. Word has gotten out about your magic-bouncing shield. I'm sure he's heard of it."
Demir nodded. He strapped on his helmet, drew a deep breath, and walked toward the arena.
---
The crowd was packed today. Not just for the below-fifty semifinal, but for the above-fifty semifinals that would follow. Expectations were high. Thousands of spectators filled every seat, their voices a roaring ocean of sound.
Demir greeted the crowd with a raised sword. They cheered, but not as loud as they did for his opponent.
When he turned, he saw the black-robed teenager. His silhouette was barely visible in the shadows of his hood. He moved like smoke, fluid and dangerous.
The announcer's voice filled the air, silencing the crowd momentarily.
"Welcome to the semifinal of our tournament! In the below-fifty bracket, we are getting quite the match today! In one corner, our knight in shining armor, NUMBER ZERO-EIGHT-ZERO!"
Cheers.
"And in the other corner, the mysterious RADIANT RAGE, NUMBER ZERO-NINE-NINE!"
The crowd went absolutely wild.
As his young opponent walked forward, he drank from three potion bottles in rapid succession and tossed them aside. The glass shattered on the arena floor. His movements were already sharper, faster. Whatever was in those potions was working.
"Now take your places and your guards! Aaaand... BEGIN!"
With the gong, Demir pulled his shield to cover his body and readied his sword.
His opponent had a simple buckler and his other hand was empty. No weapon visible. Just pale fingers.
Immediately, the robed figure sent a thin line of golden flare at Demir. It was too fast to dodge. When he looked closer, he saw it pulsating, draining toward his opponent.
*A draining magic of some sort.*
This one was clearly skilled and trained against dueling, Demir realized. It wasn't just sheer power that had gotten him to the semifinal. It was technique. Strategy. Cruelty.
Demir tried to press forward, but he was temporarily blinded by a flash of pure white light. When he realized what was happening, he was hit by a dense light like a hammer to the chest. His opponent had created a blue light orb. The orb hovered near his hand, and from it came flashes and light hammers striking Demir in rapid succession.
When Demir raised his shield to catch the hammers, he immediately felt another pain in his side. The opponent was keeping his distance and forcing Demir to react, but with each action, Demir was also getting punished. It was a perfect control strategy.
Demir pressed on anyway, tanking the light hammers and flares. Number 099 was dashing backward as Demir closed the gap. The robe waved in the wind, showing glimpses of a beardless teenage face beneath.
The face was blood red and blue from veins. Like someone who had pushed their body far beyond its limits.
When Demir finally closed the gap, his opponent tried to kick his shield away. The kick was surprisingly strong, but Demir held firm. Then waves of dark blue slashing ice particles erupted from the orb.
*Where did those come from?* Demir thought. *He didn't try to conjure anything else. How is everything coming from that orb?*
He pressed toward the right side. His opponent's orb was getting smaller with each attack. It had limits. It could be exhausted.
When Demir closed the gap and tried his one-two combo, the robed figure caught the first attack on his buckler and jumped back to dodge the second.
And in that moment, a gust of wind caught his hood.
The face beneath was revealed.
Demir froze.
He didn't follow up his charged combo. He couldn't attack the face in front of him. It was impossible. His sword arm went slack.
But his opponent didn't freeze. The robed figure let go of the orb entirely and began mumbling a long chant, hands weaving complex patterns. Energy gathered above him, golden and terrible.
When he roared "HOLY SMITE!" Demir's instincts screamed at him to move.
He raised his shield, but the holy lightning crashed through it like it wasn't there. The divine energy tore through his body. If it wasn't for all the vitality stats from his armor, he would have been dead.
He fell to the ground.
Pain. Everywhere. His muscles wouldn't respond. His vision was swimming.
*Get up.*
He had to get up.
*He had to look at that face again.*
Could four years change someone this much? The face he had seen was young. Lean. Dark hair plastered with sweat. Intense eyes burning with fury and pain. It was the face of young Altos Orvellis.
But it couldn't be.
It couldn't...
Finally, Demir accepted the truth.
"Aris..." he breathed out, still on the ground. He opened his arms. "Aris, is that you?"
But his opponent, teenager Aris Orvellis, didn't stop when his enemy got up.
He drew a blade from behind his back. A curved dagger with a gleaming edge. His eyes held nothing but rage. Nothing but hatred.
"You're so tough, huh?" Aris snarled, advancing. "Come on. Come and get me, you freaks. I will take all of you down and save my friends in this forsaken, shithole of a game!"
Demir's vigor was coming back. His body was screaming, but his heart was screaming louder.
He removed his helmet.
His face. His voice. Unobstructed.
"Aris, it's me! DEMIR! ARIS!"
But Aris lunged at him, knife raised high.
Demir dropped his shield. Dropped his sword. Both clattered to the arena floor.
He opened his arms and caught his attacker in a bear hug.
"I WITHDRAW!" Demir bellowed to the crowd, to the announcer, to anyone who would listen. "I WITHDRAW!"
Aris struggled in his grip, knife hand pinned against Demir's armored chest. "Let me go, you mountain bear! I will take my revenge on all of you!"
The crowd was confused. The announcer was confused. Everyone was confused.
But Demir held on.
He held on like he had wanted to hold on for four years.
"It's me," he whispered. "It's Demir. I've been looking for you. Sorry I was. I wasnt...."
Aris was still struggling, still shouting. But something in his movements changed. The fury was faltering. The certainty was cracking.
When Demir finally let him go, he stepped back, hands raised in surrender.
Aris stood there, chest heaving, knife still in his hand. His face was grimacing. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, cutting lines through the blood and dirt.
"Demir?" His voice cracked. It wasn't the voice of a killer anymore. It was the voice of a seventeen-year-old boy who had been alone for far too long. "Is that you? Is that really you?"
Demir smiled. It was the first real smile he had felt in weeks.
"Yeah, little brother. It's me."
Aris dropped the knife.
And then he was in Demir's arms again. But this time, he wasn't fighting.
He was crying.
Four years of loneliness. Four years of fear. Four years of fighting alone in a world that wanted to break him.
All of it came pouring out.
The crowd didn't understand. They were booing, cheering, confused. The announcer was trying to make sense of what had happened.
But Demir didn't care.
He had found him.
After everything.
After four years.
He had found Aris.