The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

The Game entered the room, once again inundated with the plethoric chorus of a hundred different clocks. He imagined the noise might drive a man mad if he had to endure it daily, but with the windfall this building had given him, the sound was sweet as song. After last night's Tournament match, he had learnt to love this place and the grin plastered across his face was impossible to suppress.

His smile soon faltered when he ran into a familiar figure. A young woman was walking toward him, head down, counting her recent winnings. Her long hair, tied into a wild ponytail that refused to be tamed, fell like a curtain across her face. Even so, the Game would have known that hair and frame anywhere—especially with the bow strapped to her back, dressed in a thick coat of grey fur. For a moment, The Game thought he saw the bow's surface rise and fall, as though it were breathing.

"Biddy? What are you doing here?"

She glanced up from her coin and blinked at him. "I came to collect my reward from last night's fight, and maybe put down a bet on your next match while I was at it."

His smile returned. "You bet on Liederkranz too?"

"Of course!" She flashed him a beaming smile. "Us girls have to support one another."

They shared a brief laugh, though his expression tightened again. "But Biddy… aren't you supposed to be in New Heirisson?"

Her brow furrowed. "I am. Aren't you supposed to be in Proselyte?"

"I am."

Awkward silence stretched between the two confused friends. Eventually Biddy gave a slow stilted wave. "Well… I should go."

"Yeah," he said automatically, his mind still reeling. "See you around."

"See you around." she echoed equally confused, and slipped out of the shop.

The Game stood in a stupor, at a complete loss of what had just happened and how it could even be possible. Then, the door's heavy thud jolted him from his trance. Shaking off the confusion, he turned from the bewildering doorway and made his way to the counter.

Opposite of the counter was the same attendant he had met two days prior. Beside her, perched on a tall highchair, was a chubby child of polished brass with a cubic, four-faced clock for a head. Two of the faces had their hands stilled, gears locked in place. One face hung open on tiny hinges, and the clerk leaned over it, deft fingers adjusting the misaligned cogs inside.

The Game rapped his knuckles on the counter.

"One moment, please," the woman said, not looking up.

The Game patiently waited as the woman worked within the head of the brass child. A click sounded, and the frozen hands lurched to life, the clock faces ticking back into motion. The woman shut the panel, and the brass child clapped in delight. With a struggling heave, she took the heavy metal child by the armpits and lifted it off its highchair and onto the ground. The little brass creature wrapped itself around her leg for a quick hug, then toddled off into the back room.

Only then did the clerk face him, smiling. "You must be quite content with your winnings."

The reminder strengthened his already present grin as he responded. "Well, I was hoping that Liederkranz would have been the underdog given how popular Poetaster is—but a win's a win."

The woman's smile faltered, edged with offense. "I don't set odds on popularity, sir. My bets are based on the most accurate intel I can gather on the contestants."

The Game lifted his hands placatingly. "I didn't mean that as a slight or anything. Just a comment."

Her smile softened back into place. "Of course. Are you here to collect your winnings?"

"Actually, I'd like to roll them into more bets. Am I allowed to wager on the next match?"

That drew a small chuckle from her. "Only if you are betting on yourself winning."

The Game puffed his chest with comical gravitas. "Obviously. I have to at least show that much confidence. What are my odds anyways?"

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The woman easily answered. "Three to four."

The Game frowned at her answer. "So I'm the underdog. And it's another low stake bet."

"Given the abilities and limitations of your powers, it is very difficult for there to be a large gap in odds between you and your opponent." she explained evenly. "It is also the fact that your power implicitly demands you to be at a disadvantage in every confrontation that has made you the underdog."

He raised an intrigued brow. "You know how my power works?"

Her smile returned, sharper this time. "I'm a bookie, it's my job to know."

That answer didn't satisfy him, but he knew he wouldn't be able to get any better explanation from her, so he moved on. "Fine, I'll put a quarter of my profits from the first fight into myself for winning. And can I look at future bets as well or…?"

"Yes of course." The woman answered, pulling out a massive ledger with some effort. "Is there a match in particular you would like to ask about?"

"How about the last one in this arena? What are the odds that kid actually kills The Vampire?"

The woman burst into laughter, taking several seconds to compose herself. "Killing the Vampire? Next to none. Winning the fight well that…" She flipped briskly through the pages until she found her mark. "Would be a three to nine odds."

The Game blinked in surprise. "Now those are some tense odds that I can get behind."

"Will you be making a bet?" she asked.

"Obviously." He easily answered.

She waited, pen poised. When he didn't elaborate, she prompted: "On?"

His expression twisted in disbelief, as if the answer were self-evident. "Obviously, I have to put my money on the Apprentice. I have to stand by humanity—even if it's more for optimism than strategy."

It took The Game a while to decide how much of his savings to recklessly hurl into wagers, but at last—drawn by the addictive pull of the stakes—he finished his business and headed back to the arena.

He hadn't walked far through its echoing halls before stumbling on the sight of his potential retirement and doom. The young-looking Apprentice with his ever-perky girlfriend at his side, stood dwarfed beneath the towering figure of the Vampire. The mokoi loomed over them, frowning with visible disappointment. "So vhat do you do?"

The Apprentice tried his best to remain stoic before his challenger. "What do you mean?"

The Vampire sniffed the air, then quickly covered his mouth to stifle a gag."I can't zmell vhy you vould be in the Tournament." The Vampire mulled over in his head a bit before speaking again. "Do you have an ancient artefact?"

The Apprentice answered plainly. "No."

The Vampire grimaced at that. "Do you feel the zoul zea?"

"No."

"Touch the ztrings of fate?"

"No."

"Perfect muscle memory?"

"Nope."

The Vampire sneered. "Iz 'no' the only anzwer you can give?"

Finally having something over the Vampire, the Apprentice allowed himself a small, smug smile. "No."

The Vampire opened his mouth to reply but hesitated as he thought over that answer. He studied the boy, his voice softening into resignation. "I know you think you're protecting your zecretz from me, but I can zmell your truths. You truly can't do any of thoze things. There is nothing zpecial in your blood either." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I thought zince I vas at THE Tournament it vould be different, but your blood izn't even vorthy of drinking. It vouldn't be vorth killing you." With a weary shake of his head, the Vampire turned and shuffled away, too drained to properly lift his feet.

The Apprentice's girlfriend nervously chuckled once the Vampire was out of sight. "Well… at least he said he wasn't going to kill you."

The Apprentice clenched his fists, teeth grinding. He stood up to the Vampire, held his ground and didn't cower against the monster, yet he still felt so weak, so incapable against his enemy's might.

The Game, deciding he no longer wanted to remain as just a passive observer, approached the two kids. "Well that must have felt humiliating."

Picayune shot him a glare, then dropped it with a miserable sigh. "What am I supposed to do? I'm a scholar, not a fighter. Sure, I can craft spells and build my own enchanted gear but what good is that when I freeze up at the sight of an eight-foot giant charging at me to suck out all my blood?"

Belabor helpfully chimed in. "Well, he did say he wasn't actually interested in your blood." Or perhaps unhelpfully if Picayune's glare was any indicator.

The Game tsked, shaking his head. "What you need, kid, is confidence. And practice. Probably just practice."

Picayune rolled his eyes, already succumbing to defeat. "And where am I supposed to get that?"

The Game only smiled, already turning down the hall. "Follow me."

Belabor called after his retreating back, frowning. "Actually, Picay and I were going to go on our date now. There's this really neat restaurant I've been wanting to see with him."

"Your date can wait." The Game said without breaking stride.

Belabor threw her head back with an exasperated sigh. "Again?!"

Picayune grabbed Belabor's hand and followed after the Game with curious determination.

Belabor slipped a startled eep as he tugged her along. "Ugh, really, we're doing this? Where are we even going?" She didn't get any response from the two Tournament contestants as they marched down the hall.