Sworded Affair

After that bout of excitement, nobody else tried to make a move on Emma, leaving her to her own devices as competitors continued to arrive. Emma was in no hurry for conversation either, instead choosing to park herself at the small table in the corner, where the non-alcoholic drinks languished, largely ignored by the guests. She had no issue with alcohol, except for the fact that it didn't go well with swinging a sword around, and was best saved for after the competition, not beforehand. Most of her fellow youngsters disagreed, pouring fine wine by the bottle and attempting to engage their seniors in conversation; it reminded Emma of kids in the playground, trying to appear 'more adult'. Princess Astaroth was one of the few exceptions, flitting from table to table to talk, never to drink; the room was too noisy to hear any specifics, but from how frequently she was moving around, Emma could only gues she was asking for something or someone in particular. On the other hand, the behaviour of the older guests was very much a mixed bag; most chose the wine, albeit at a more sedate pace than their juniors. A few grabbed soft drinks from the nearby table, studiously ignoring Emma's presence before swiftly departing back to their circle of friends, while others declined to drink a single drop. One particularly paranoid individual, wrapped head to toe in bandages like a mummy, drank only from a thermos pulled from his sleeve; never more than a small sip at a time, and only after a muttered incantation every time without fail. [That particular specimen goes by the name of Harvey the Homewrecker. The most prolific philanderer in the Empire, notable only for how long he's managed to stay alive despite leaving a tide of infidelity and scandal in his wake. He attends public events because most of the private ones have banned him, and has been poisoned enough times that he never consumes anything he hasn't made from scratch.] What's someone like that doing at a fencing event? Emma wondered. He's not going to score here, unless I've wildly misunderstood the nature of tonight's entertainment. [Probably hoping to impress someone else in the crowd. While his character is unfortunate, he does have a keen eye for detail, and great skill in not getting hit; he's probably in the top third of competitors for the night.] Before Emma could dig any further into his background, a round of applause drew her attention to the middle of the room. The new arrival was an elderly man wearing long, flowing grey robes, boasting a beard that nearly touched the floor and a gnarled wood staff straight out of the works of Tolkien. He would've been the very image of a classical wizard, if not for the bulging muscles that dominated his frame, enough to put most contestants on Mr. Universe to shame. The overall effect was incredibly jarring, though probably unimportant; more notably, he was the first to be fully visible besides Princess Astaroth, having taken no precautions against the System. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. [Master Europe, Strongest in the West - Level 57 War Mage] "Good evening, warriors!" His voice was Emma's expectations; loud and booming, effortlessly cutting through the remaining chatter and bringing the room to a halt, as even those who failed to notice his arrival or the cheering turned their heads his way. "Welcome to the 507th Annual Academic Fencing Tournament. It's five minutes after midnight, and you know what that means; the event has become, and shall consist solely of those gathered in this room. The remaining invitations have expired, and with them the ability to join this trial of the virtuous; punctuality is, after all, a virtue in and of itself." At his words, the front door faded from sight, leaving only a barren stretch of wall behind. "I am Master Europe, three-time champion of the Royal Rumble, and your adjudicator for tonight! In all matters of competition within these four walls, my word is final; if you don't like it, then go complain to the organisers after we're done, I'm sure they'll love the paperwork. Ahem." This is our judge? Emma stared incredulously, a sentiment shared by many of her peers, judging by their faces. [Anyone who achieves the rank of Master is, generally speaking, a veteran of decades of magical study. All of the weirdness you've encountered so far, multiplied ten or even a hundred fold. Inevitable, creeping isolation as peers drift away to pursue their own interests, fall in battle or simply succumb to the passing of years. An increasing inability to relate to ordinary people, thanks to the sheer gulf of power and experience. Really, it's a wonder that the average Master is as sane as well-adjusted as this; how does that old saying go again? We're all mad here.] "Moving on, as far as numbers are concerned, we've got seventy eight competitors here tonight," Master Europe squinted, oblivious to the System's commentary. "A bit awkward, so here's what we'll do. There are seventy eight people in this room right now. When that number falls to sixty four, we'll start the tournament, running for six rounds consecutively. Got it? Ready set go!" The musclebound mage snapped his fingers, and the tables filled with refreshments disappeared. Nothing else changed, except for the dawning realisation of everyone involved that a surprise preliminary round just started, one without much in the way of rules at all. Emma, for her part, didn't fancy showing her cards this early on, so she kept on the periphery. She did summon Epitaph, because having a sword at a fencing event didn't exactly give much away, but otherwise she held her position, waiting to see if anyone would dare to approach. Everyone was tense now, too many bodies in a confined space, all of them competitive people with their eyes on the prize; it could only ever go one way. "You rat bast-urk!" A man slipped a dagger into the ribs of a 'friend' he'd been chatting with just moments ago, and the tension broke.