The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

Aegis – Adventurers' guild headquarter's main hall (14 days before the Tournament)

Far beyond the warmth and clamour of the guild hall, Tiff sat, cloaked in shadow on a windswept hill. From his vantage, he could just barely make out the flickering lights through the high windows. He tucked his cloak tighter to combat the weather and sipped his sterilized water as he watched the festivities.

He needed help finding his way to the arenas but there was no way the infamous 'Calamity Kid' could just waltz into the guild. Someone of his notoriety would be immediately attacked without a second to explain himself. And with so many armed and eager combatants gathered for the Tournament, it was entirely possible that such an encounter would leave him dead.

It had been a long time since the threat of death ever graced his mind.

No. He wouldn't risk approaching any more than this. He would watch from a distance tonight; and tomorrow, he would stealthily follow the wagons to his arena.

Another bitter gust swept across the hilltop, raking through his clothes and biting into his skin. He ignored it, listening to the warm, careless laughter emanating from the guild.

Cloy crunched down on a hearty carrot as he spied the main hall through his essence lens. Sure his healer told him that carrots would be good for his eyes—but no amount of orange root could compete with the calibrated clarity of enchanted optics.

The adventurers' guild was crowded, even by its own standards, and that meant a lot because the adventurers' guild in Aegis was always crowded.

Given the nation's current state, it made sense. Aegis had slipped into that perfect storm of instability where becoming a monster-slaying, disease-catching, trail-cutting vagabond was somehow one of its safer career options.

Suffice it to say, the royalty of Aegis was not in the best position to take care of the Tournament invitees within its borders. A power vacuum that the guild would be loath to let slide. A few hundred platinum was a pittance to invest if it meant having nine of the world's greatest warriors owing them a favour.

Cloy didn't care about any of those details though. He was a bounty hunter, not an adventurer. He didn't even really care about the Tournament that much either. What he was looking for was bounties, and looking down the list of contestants, he was not disappointed.

The man was, as always, dressed for a better occasion than the one he found himself in. His tailored suit and tie made him stand out like a sore thumb amidst the stink of sweat, leather, and cheap ale that filled the adventurers' guild. His pink porcelain rabbit mask remained hidden beneath his blazer—just in case. Still, he doubted any of the sodden patrons would be foolish enough to start trouble in the presence of so many Tournament invitees.

While he kept his mask concealed, the person standing before him had no problems publicly displaying their mask, though he doubted they were a part of the same group as his master. He had never before seen anyone with three masks.

A porcelain doe's mask obscured their face, while masks of a mantis and a sloth sat unnervingly still upon each of their shoulders like pauldrons. Under their oversized brown cloak it was impossible to tell who or what this person was.

If that wasn't concerning enough, this person too carried with them a briefcase. "Where did you get that?" He asked, pointing to their briefcase.

The Doe nervously slid the briefcase behind their leg, as if that would somehow obscure it from his sight. "What's a briefcase?" a feminine voice quizzed in what the man was hoping was feigned ignorance.

"That." He said pointing again at the briefcase behind her legs. "That thing you're trying to hide from me is a briefcase."

She shifted the case behind her back now, its wide frame still peeking past her brown cloak. "I'm not hiding anything from you."

"Then why don't you just show me what's behind your back?" He firmly stated, beginning to lose his patience.

She neither moved nor said anything for a while, merely frozen in statuesque stillness. "…I don't want to."

The man glowered daggers into her expressionless doe mask. He stepped forward, prepared to take the briefcase by force—but before he could close the distance, a rattling voice stopped him cold.

"Let's not spoil a perfectly good drink with a pointless scuffle, shall we?"

A one-armed skeleton ambled over, a gaping hole carved through the left half of his ribcage, the ragged bite marks unmistakably from some great sea beast. Despite the missing arm, he held three frothing pints, two clinched together in his remaining skeletal hand—while a third mug floated lazily in the air beside him, as if unaware that his other arm no longer existed to carry it.

The skeleton casually handed the two pints he carried to the well-dressed man and doe. They accepted the drinks instinctively, more out of reflex than courtesy. With an unnatural fluidity, the third floating mug glided into the skeleton's now empty grasp. He raised it in mock salute and poured it theatrically down his nonexistent throat. The ale sluiced through his exposed ribs, dripping wetly onto the floorboards with a splatter.

"Besides," the skeleton continued, grinning with a jaw that clicked slightly out of sync, "you two causing a ruckus right now would just be impatient. You two are about to fight one another in the first bracket anyways."

The well-dressed man turned away from the skeleton and back to the doe masked woman, an eager smile climbing on his face.

Eddy was a little disappointed.

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He was hoping that he would be able to see some of those super awesome heroes he always dreamed of as a kid, but it didn't seem like any of them were here. No Saviors. No Murugan Squad. Just a bunch of strangers. And him—some random farmhand with a Tournament invitation he still wasn't entirely convinced was meant for him.

Still, he was determined to make the most of it. If nothing else, he was going to collect as many autographs as humanly possible.

He may not have found any of his esteemed heroes here, but at least there was one consolation: across the room stood, without question, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Tall, lean, wild brown hair that bounced with each shift of her weight, and a strange fur-covered bow slung across her back. Unlike him, she fit perfectly in this rambunctious guild setting, somehow feral and refined.

Eddy had spent enough of his life on the sidelines. Finally, for reasons he could not comprehend, something interesting was happening to him—and he wasn't going to let it pass him by.

He steeled his nerves and approached. It seemed she didn't even notice his arrival and he had to fake a cough into his hand to get her attention."Uh… hello. I'm Eddy…"

He trailed off meekly, immediately losing his poise in her presence. Internally, he rebuffed his doubt. He reminded himself, this gathering was for him! He was a Tournament Invitee, divinely chosen, he was a big deal now.

He puffed out his chest, dropped his voice, and tried again with what he hoped was a more suave tone. "But the Tournament Corporation just calls me… the Bolide."

The girl blinked at him once, then chuckled—amused by his unimpressive bravado. "Biddy," she said, extending her hand. "The Tournament calls me the Toxophilite."

Eddy gaped like a fish as he absentmindedly took her hand. Whatever scrap of confidence he tried to muster disappeared as if it had never graced him at all. Out of all the people to confront, he just had to become smitten by a Tournament Invitee. He was way out of his league!

Realizing he was still gaping, he clamped his jaw shut with a click, scrambling to salvage his first impression. "E-entering the Tournament as an archer?" he asked, gesturing toward her bow.

She only nodded in response.

"That's gotta be tough," he said, tone dipping into something more doubtful than he intended. "Archery's not really built for duels. You'd have to be, like... Schlemiel the Savage Archer or something just to keep up."

To his relief, she didn't bristle at the comment.

"Well," she replied with a shrug, "she was one of my teachers. So, hopefully."

Eddy's jaw immediately dropped again. He was so out of his league!

Biddy laughed at the poor bumpkin. His every thought plain as day to read. "And you?" she asked. "What weapon are you bringing to the Tournament?"

Eddy looked skyward; his eyes glazing passed the ceiling, high up towards a nothingness. He let out a half-worried chuckle "I have no idea."

Pithy ran a soothing hand over the lantern cage swinging at his waist, the faint yellow glow inside pulsing with unease. The lantern never fared well in crowds, but Pithy had little choice— they needed the guild's assistance to find their arena.

"Hey," slurred a voice, suddenly too close and far too cheerful. A young man, already halfway drowned in his cups, stumbled up beside him. "Want to make a bet?"

"No" Pithy responded blandly.

The 'tipsy' man ignored the dismissal entirely. "I bet that you are one of the Tournament invitees here.

Pithy sighed unimpressed. "Not exactly a difficult guess."

"Hah!" The man barked a laugh and swayed on his feet. "Yes, yes, so I would agree," He nodded as he spoke—Pithy couldn't tell if it was in affirmation or a not-so-slow descent into unconsciousness.

Then the drunkard beamed a great smile, teeth flashing as he leaned in, the sharp stink of his breath washing over Pithy like an offence.

"I would like to offer you a game."

Tomorrow, they would all depart—contestants and observers alike—on adventurer guild-funded wagons, each bound for their respective arenas.

That was tomorrow.

Tonight, the guild was a place to do what adventurers did best when not risking their lives adventuring: they partied.

The night stretched long, the drinks poured freely, and though the mugs drained, they never emptied. Raucousness bred debauchery. It was a riot of inebriated revelry. Not just the contestants—across Aegis, everyone sought any excuse for celebration. Cards and darts flew, bets were shouted, dares exchanged, pride bruised, and staff utterly overwhelmed.

And amidst the din of burly men and sharpened steel, two small children stood quietly off to the side.

The eight-year-old Waif fidgeted with her goliathian spear, feeling deeply uncomfortable in this overbearing place. She had never seen so many people gathered in one place before—let alone so many grown-ups. Let alone so many loud, strong, terrifying grown-ups.

Some of the guild staff said they would prepare her a room to stay the night, but she still had to wait a while longer for it to be ready. So she waited, clutching her oversized weapon like a security blanket.

Her spear, Schizo, tried comforting her. "Gaze upon these tiny morsels, Waif! The woe that my soul suffers to see that even fellow humans would commit travesties as vile as imprisoning souls drives metaphorical bile to my metaphorical throat! But worry not, dear Waif! We will cleanse the world of these evils soon enough when we rule over them all with an iron fury and drown tyranny in an ocean of its own blood!" Schizo had an odd concept of comfort.

The other child beside Waif tilted her head, confused—or perhaps curious. It was hard to tell. Her expression was hidden beneath a porcelain mask, its surface marked by a stylized seven-fingered hand-print painted in yellow and purple, a single black horn curled up from the side.

When she spoke, her voice emerged faint and muffled behind the mask, made all the more difficult to understand by a thick, unplaceable accent. "Why… want you iron fury?"

Waif tensed suddenly "You can hear Schizo?"

The masked girl nodded. "Yes. And see friend." She pointed to the empty air in front of Waif.

"Friend?"

Schizo chimed in. "Oh yeah I forgot to mention, there's this ghost kid who's been trying to talk to us for the past half hour."

Waif's eyes grew like saucers. "What!? Why didn't you say so?"

Before Schizo could offer a snide reply, the masked girl spoke again. "Maybe… because scary fox monster looking for her." She tapped her mask, pondering. "Schizo maybe not want fox sniff him."

"Hey! I am not afraid of some dirty mutt!"

Waif ignored her spear's aggravated protest. "I'm sure the fox is very nice," she said politely. "I'm Waif, by the way."

The masked girl nodded to Waif. She tapped her chest and responded "Human name Vow."

Though Waif couldn't see or hear her, the ghost piped up to join the introductions. "I'm Ignis! And that fox you're talking about is called Basal. He is very nice. He's my pet." she added proudly.

Vow nodded first to Ignis, then to Waif. "Greeting, Ignis. Greeting, Waif. It make happy to me to make friend with you."

Waif pouted at her spear, feeling a little betrayed that he didn't tell her about Ignis. "Sorry if I was ignoring you Ignis, it's nice to meet you."

The three children smiled at each other.