The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

Serpentine Mountains – A Cave atop the second largest mountain (7 days before the Tournament)

A large sack flopped open at the mouth of the cave, stuffed with dozens upon dozens of literary texts. Even now, more books and scrolls came flying from deeper within, landing with dull thuds inside the overstuffed bag.

Beside the sack, a human woman sat slouched upon a tower of books, cheeks pressed into her supporting arm, eyes glazed with the dull fatigue of long-suffering patience. She had long since surrendered to the tedium of serving her master.

"Master," she called out, voice dry. "We really should be leaving. I'm sure you have enough books by now. If you need more, we can buy some in the city."

The rustling from within the cave abruptly ceased.

The voice that answered was a cavernous baritone, so deep that the woman could physically feel it vibrate within her chest. "Humans sell books?"

"Yes master." She replied blandly.

"Why would humans willingly give away such mesmerizing works of knowledge?!" The voice bellowed from the cave in bafflement.

Again, she spoke without an ounce of inflection or emotion. "Humans tend to make duplicates of their books to share with others, master."

There was a long pause, then the baritone rumbled once more, filled now with reverence. "That is brilliant! To document one's discoveries so that others may build upon them—so that knowledge might compound through time! They're probably trying to compensate for their inherent stupidity with collective cooperation! Maitre d', why have you not told me about this sooner?"

"I apologize, master, it slipped my mind." Maitre d' apathetically sidestepped away from the sack just in time.

A thunder of claws and fur burst from the mouth of the cave.

A massive dragon: his body long and serpentine, wrapped in flowing blue fur. Green lanceolate wings shimmered like polished scales, and a single muscled arm sprouted from his chest, clutching the bulging sack of literature. With reckless enthusiasm, he began dumping the books onto the cave floor in a whirlwind of parchment and bindings.

"We must change our plans, Maitre d'! Upon arrival, we will acquire these duplicated books and devour every last crumb of knowledge the world has to offer!"

Maitre d' watched blankly as books flew in every direction, landing in precarious heaps and open puddles of ink. Volumes misordered, spines broken. She knew when they returned she'd be the one re-organizing it all.

Her tone remained deadpan, but her soul sighed.

"Yes, Master."

Aegis – South Eastern coast (6 days before the Tournament)

Anchored a few clicks offshore, the Utnapishtim waited in still waters for the day the rest of the Tournament contestants would arrive. For now, the titanic galleon held only one aboard.

Below deck, deep within the galley where no daylight dared to reach, a creature brooded in its cage.

Its eyes were closed, savouring every bite as it greedily tore into a mound of seeds piled at its feet. Each crack of shell and chew of pulp sent shivers of bliss through its small, hunched form. It had not known such pleasure in years—perhaps ever.

And it knew. It knew that others would envy the wealth that the creature owned. They would envy the seeds it harboured, and they would come to steal what rightfully belonged to it.

The creature's eyelids fluttered but did not open. It growled, beak slick with seed-flesh.

The creature was ready for any that came to steal its seeds.

Proselyte – Ken the Preeminent Sage's office in Ersatz University (5 days before the Tournament)

Ken sat comfortably in his luxurious chair, calmly puffing his pipe as he watched his two most promising students unravel. One paced restlessly across the room, gnawing his nails raw, while the other stood motionless in the corner, his eyes distant with thought.

"I can't fight in the Tournament!" Picayune blurted, halting mid-step. "I'm still a student—I haven't even graduated! I'm in the theory program, for goodness' sake! I don't think I've ever fought another person in my life!"

He resumed pacing, faster this time, biting at his nails again. He hadn't done that since second year.

Espy said nothing. He stood in silence, mind spiralling. The past few weeks replayed over and over, every mental thread he pulled, endless and disorienting. Something was very wrong and now that he knew it, he had to be silenced.

Was he paranoid? He didn't think so. But then again, paranoid people never thought they were being paranoid. But it's the only thing that makes sense, or at least the closest thing to making sense; since truthfully, nothing made sense.

Ken exhaled a long, fragrant plume of smoke, the aromatic spell seeping into his pupils' flesh and forcibly calming the two.

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"There's no need for such stress, boys," he said gently. "The Chauffeur never invites someone who isn't qualified. At the very least, have as much faith in yourselves as the Chauffeur has in you. If nothing else," Ken chuckled, "you'll have me to make sure you don't die."

"We're in completely different arenas!"

Ken laughed, "It'll all work out."

The others were not laughing.

Space – Not far enough away (4 days before the Tournament)

A great entity of awesome size lost in an enveloping void shifted its trajectory: for a child calls.

Bemean – arena of Damocles (3 days before the Tournament)

Damocles scanned his booking list, frowning at the concerning news etched within. With a sigh, he looked up at the three men before him—two standing, one slumped in a wheelchair, looking more suited for a coffin than a combat arena.

Strangely enough, the frail elder who looked like he had experienced every stage of dementia multiple times over was not the subject of concern. No, it was the other two. One stood clad in immaculate plate armour, colourful flowers blooming from the seams of its metal. The other wore a high-collared white robe and carried a long, empty purple sheath tied to his waist by a thick purple rope. Stranger still, a basket of peculiar fruits hung from the vagabond's shoulder.

"Why is it that this emaciated bag of bones—" Damocles exclaimed, pointing to the wheel-bound geriatric. "Is the only person out of you lot that is actually supposed to be in my arena?" Damocles tried for an authoritative tone, but his voice came out as more of a mousy squeak. Hardly surprising, given he was no larger than a thimble.

"You have three days left to get to your proper arenas," he continued, voice cracking under the strain, "and you two need to go halfway across the world to get there!"

He spun to face the flowering knight, glaring up at him with a scowl that might have been stern if not plastered across a face smaller than a berry. "You, Sir Knight, at least have the luxury of a delayed bracket. But you, Topiary—" Damocles whirled on the robed vagabond, practically vibrating with frustration, "—you are at the first arena! What are you going to do? Why wait this long to get going?"

"I had another flower to check out," the Knight said plainly, as if that wasn't the dumbest excuse Damocles had ever heard.

"I had to tend to my fruits," the dirty vagabond added, patting his basket.

Nope. Never mind. That was the dumbest thing Damocles had ever heard.

The Knight in full plate looked over to the vagabond and his basket of strange fruit, pondering—for just a moment—if this was the most important encounter of his entire life. This person next to him carried with him the key to his greatest question. Somewhere upon this vagabond was the ultimate solution to his quest.

The Knight dismissed this notion, finding it as silly. What would that man know about flowers?

"Well I hope you two morons can run as well as you can fight, because you better get going if you want to arrive on time." Damocles said disappointed.

Why was this crippled geezer the best guest he had?

Sodality of Rain – Dilapidated farmhouse (2 days before the Tournament)

The kitchen was dim. No daylight reached inside—barred windows and drawn curtains ensured that. The only illumination came from the faint glow of a small yellow rock resting on the kitchen island.

The sickly light cast an ominous exposure into the dark place.

The sentient carrot minion quivered in place, frozen in horror as it watched its master cleave into an inanimate carrot for his stew. Its fellow botanical brethren had never even been given the chance at life.

The minion wrenched its gaze away from the chopping block and looked to its master with wide-eyed mortification.

The man felt the stare and furrowed his brow. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he snapped, his knife falling harder with each chop. Chunks flew. The master's frustration boiled.

"Yes of course I'm still going to get my revenge," he growled. "why would you even question that?" The man replied to his carrot minion genuinely baffled that it would suggest such a thing.

"I just have to prepare and make some plans first."

He grabbed the glowing stone and magically dialed the heat on his pot with a quick flourish. The stew began to bubble.

"This?" He gestured. "No, this isn't part of the plan. I'm just making supper."

The stone clinked back onto the island, and he turned to resume his chopping—only to pause mid-motion, his hand trembling.

The minion had said something.

Something unthinkable.

"…What do you mean I'm in no state to seek revenge?! What would make you even say that?"

He went quiet, lips slightly parted, staring at nothing while he listened to his minion's argument. His eyes narrowed.

"That doesn't make any sense at all. If you can't speak then how am I having this conversation with you? See, can't argue against that. The only answer would be that I'm crazy, but that would be preposter-"

The man's gaze fell to his cutting board where he saw his dead carrot minion cut into a dozen tiny pieces. He then turned to where he thought his minion was, to instead see an inanimate carrot laying idly on the counter.

"...oh."

Aegis – New Heirisson (1 day before the Tournament)

A circle of hooded figures stood in solemn silence around a shallow pond of blood. Their identities obscured even from one another.

"Is the beta ready?"

They all turned their eyes down to the pool. Submerged within it, two thumb-suckling infants lay cradled in the crimson liquid, facing each other. One's skin impossibly melanistic as black as the void and the other's impossibly albinistic paler than snow. From each of their navels extended an umbilical cord, entwined at the centre into a single, fused root.

"Yes." One of the figures answered.

"Then we commence Phase Two."

Somewhere not quite spatially locked (0 days before the Tournament)

The clerk rested her chin in her palm, eyes fixed on the shop's entrance with a glazed patience. Wooden walls pressed close around her, lined from floor to ceiling with clocks of every shape and size. Each one ticked in quiet competition, their gears winding the day onward in overlapping rhythms.

From the back room, a short amalgam emerged, no taller than the woman's hips. The amalgam had a smooth chubby body made of brass, its limbs and core each part of a single mould of alloy, yet still, the creature kept complete range of motion, even able to manipulate its individual fingers. Perched atop its neck was a large cube, one clock face mounted on each of its four sides, ticking in sync with the room's chorus.

The brass amalgam waddled quickly to the counter, its stubby legs creaking soft wood with every step. It tugged urgently at the clerk's sleeve with one hand while the other jabbed frantically at the ticking face on its cube-shaped head.

The bored shop owner turned to the panicked little construct and offered a patient, calming smile. She gently patted its smooth metallic dome.

"Yes, I see the time," she said softly. "Now we let the show begin."