The registration hall was a chaotic symphony of clanking armor, guttural boasts, and the scent of sweat and oiled steel. Tsurugi, his silver hair and red eyes drawing a few curious glances, waited patiently in line. When he reached the harried scribe, he was given a simple iron token stamped with the number 1050.
"Group C," the scribe mumbled without looking up, his quill scratching across a massive parchment. "Over three thousand entrants. Random assignment to prevent clan alliances from dominating the early melees. Next!"
Tsurugi nodded his understanding and moved into the vast, cavernous waiting area designated for Group C. It was a sea of hardened muscle and scarred flesh. Warriors from every corner of Valhalla and beyond were here, performing limbering exercises, sharpening weapons, or simply glaring at potential rivals. Tsurugi's senses, sharpened by the Strizier system, immediately identified the apex predators in the room.
In one corner, a man with a lion-like mane of tawny hair was practicing his forms. His fists, encased in spiked iron gauntlets, moved so fast they created sonic booms in the air. This was Iron Demon Fist Raion, the undisputed champion of the eastern fighting pits, said to have shattered a mountain troll's skull with a single punch.
Leaning against a pillar was a man so massive he seemed to be carved from a cliff face. Giant Axe Gorm hefted a double-headed axe that looked heavy enough to anchor a warship. His armor was a patchwork of thick plates, and his eyes held the dull, patient menace of a landslide.
Near the entrance, a lithe, dangerous-looking man in dark, scaled leather armor checked the edge of a cutlass. His skin was tanned dark by sea and sun, and a stylized kraken was tattooed across one side of his face. This was Kai, Admiral of the Black Tide, a pirate lord whose name was whispered with fear along the coast. He moved with the fluid grace of a predator used to fighting on shifting decks.
And then there was Harjun, The Walking Tower. The name was not an exaggeration. The man stood nearly nine feet tall, his body a monument of layered, granite-like muscle. He wore minimal armor, his own flesh seeming defense enough. He didn't practice or posture; he simply stood, a silent, immovable object, his presence a physical weight in the room. Tsurugi estimated that in a contest of raw power, this man could give his contracted dragons a serious challenge.
Tsurugi himself had prepared with pragmatic efficiency. He wore standard, well-made leather boots, a hardened leather chest protector, and simple gauntlets. They offered minimal protection but maximum mobility. In his hand, he held the scabbard of Tenchikai, the katana that had been with him since his awakening as Strizier. The blade, with its flame-like hilt and scarlet-hued steel, felt like an extension of his own will.
Soon, the roar of the crowd outside signaled the start of the tournament. The 365 warriors of Group A flooded the colossal, sand-covered arena. Tsurugi found a vantage point in the waiting area to observe.
The melee was a brutal, chaotic spectacle. For a few minutes, it was a standard free-for-all, a whirlwind of clashing steel and roaring combatants. Then, a singular figure began to dominate. He was a mountain of muscle, even larger than Gorm, wearing a plain, featureless iron mask. He didn't wield a weapon; his body was his weapon. When a group of warriors from the famed Frostbearer clan coordinated an attack, the masked man simply lowered his shoulder and charged. He moved with shocking speed for his size, executing a devastating Lariat—a clothesline tackle of pure force. The sound of the impact was like a falling tree. The entire Frostbearer contingent was swept off their feet and hurled through the air, crashing into the arena wall with bone-shattering force.
The crowd, which had been roaring, fell into a stunned silence, then erupted into a mixture of terror and awe. The masked man stood amidst the groaning bodies, the sole combatant left standing. He slowly reached up and removed his mask.
The face revealed was brutish, crisscrossed with old scars, and utterly devoid of mercy. A collective gasp, followed by screams of recognition, swept through the stadium.
"Borris!" someone shrieked.
The name spread like a plague. Borris, the undefeated gladiator from the murderous underground arenas. A man with 374 consecutive wins, every one of them ending in the death of his opponent. He was not a warrior; he was a force of nature, a killing machine who had just effortlessly annihilated an entire group of Valhalla's finest.
The arena was cleared of the broken and the dead. The atmosphere was now thick with a new, grim tension. Group B was called, and their melee began. This one was more protracted, a display of skill and strategy. The gallant Tristan, with his elegant longsword, danced through the chaos, his blade a silver blur. Hor, the King of Boxing, moved with piston-like precision, his fists delivering concussive blows that crumpled armor. Teles, the Iron Wall, lived up to his name, his shield and armor forming an impervious defense that turned aside countless attacks.
The battle raged for nearly an hour, the field whittled down by skill and attrition. In the end, it was Tristan's finesse that prevailed. In a brilliant, final flurry, he found a microscopic gap in Teles's defense, his blade slipping through to tap the larger man's chestplate. It was a touch, not a killing blow, but in a contest of first blood or yield, it was enough. Teles, honor-bound, lowered his shield and conceded.
As the arena was cleared once more, the announcer's voice boomed, echoing through the stone halls. "Warriors of Group C! Prepare yourselves!"
Tsurugi tightened his grip on Tenchikai. The scabbard felt cool and familiar in his hand. He took a deep, centering breath, the chaos of the waiting area fading into a singular, sharp focus. The memory of Borris's effortless slaughter was a stark reminder of the stakes. This was not a game. It was a trial by combat where the price of failure was death or crippling injury.
He looked at the tunnel leading to the arena, a rectangle of blinding sunlight at its end. The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a hungry beast waiting to be fed. He had come to Valhalla to forge an alliance, to prove the might of Grimgar. This melee was the first, most brutal test. He steeled his heart, his red eyes narrowing with predatory intent.
Holding Tenchikai tightly, Tsurugi stepped out of the shadows of the waiting area and into the searing light and deafening noise of the arena, walking calmly into the chaos that awaited.