The first day of preparation began with Renn nearly breaking Jae-hyun's nose.
"WATCH THE FACE—"
"That's the point! Block it!"
"WITH WHAT?! MY FACE?!"
The guild's rear courtyard was a small, rough square of packed dirt bordered by a low stone wall. A few training dummies stood at the edges, stuffed with straw and looking appropriately miserable about it. The morning air was cold and sharp, carrying the smell of dew and iron from the nearby smithy.
Jae-hyun stumbled backward, barely getting his forearm up in time to deflect Renn's second swing. The impact rattled up to his elbow like a bell. He hissed.
"Again," Renn said, already circling.
"I hate you," Jae-hyun told him sincerely.
"I know. Again."
This had been going on for an hour. Renn, it turned out, had very specific opinions about Jae-hyun's combat form — namely, that it didn't exist.
"You fight like you're trying not to fight," Renn had announced during the first ten minutes, watching Jae-hyun dodge a practice swing by throwing himself sideways into the dirt. "That's not a style. That's a prayer."
"It's worked so far," Jae-hyun had muttered, spitting out dust.
"Against beasts. Beasts are stupid. Tournament fighters aren't stupid. Most of them."
"Which ones are?"
Renn had grinned. "The fun ones."
So now here they were. Renn throwing controlled strikes, Jae-hyun trying desperately to not eat them with his teeth. It was less sparring and more a very personal lesson in how many ways a person could be wrong about their own reflexes.
Still. Something was happening.
By the third exchange, Jae-hyun wasn't just flinching backward — he was watching. Really watching. The shift in Renn's shoulder before a jab. The slight drop of his right heel before a kick. Tiny signals, small as whispers, but they were there.
Watch. Wait. Move at the right moment.
Aria's words from yesterday echoed faintly.
Renn threw a straight punch. Jae-hyun read the shoulder, side-stepped half a beat early, and let it sail past his ear.
Renn blinked. "Huh."
Jae-hyun blinked too. "Did I just—"
"Don't celebrate. Do it again."
He did it again. Not perfectly — Renn clipped his jaw on the fourth try, which sent a spike of pain straight through his skull — but the principle was there. Reading. Timing. Waiting.
That's all I've got. So I'd better get very good at it.
The second day was Kael's turn, and it was somehow worse.
Not because Kael was cruel. If anything, Kael was the opposite — methodical, patient, and precise in a way that made Jae-hyun feel like a particularly slow student.
They sat across from each other at a corner table in the guild, a map of the tournament arena spread between them — a rough sketch Kael had obtained from the receptionist with the kind of quiet confidence that suggested he could obtain anything from anyone if he simply waited long enough.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"The arena is circular," Kael said, tracing the edge with one finger. "Thirty meters across. Stone floor. No obstacles. Elimination by ring-out or submission counts alongside knockout."
Jae-hyun leaned over the map. "Ring-out? So if someone pushes me over the edge—"
"You lose, yes."
"Great. So I have to worry about getting hit and getting shoved off a cliff."
"It's more of a ledge."
"That's not comforting, Kael."
Kael continued without acknowledging this. "Your advantage isn't strength or speed. It's unpredictability. Nobody in that tournament knows what Minor Copy does. Most will look at your rank and assume you're easy points." He folded his hands. "Use that."
Jae-hyun stared at the map. "So my strategy is… confuse them?"
"Your strategy is to let them underestimate you, survive long enough to copy something useful, and then use it before they realize what happened." Kael met his eyes steadily. "One good copied skill at the right moment ends a match. You don't need to outfight anyone. You need to outlast the first thirty seconds."
Jae-hyun was quiet for a moment, turning this over. "You make it sound simple."
"It isn't," Kael said. "But simple and easy aren't the same thing."
Jae-hyun stared at the arena sketch. Thirty meters across. Stone floor. No hiding spots, no trees to duck behind, no boulders to cower against. Just him and whoever the tournament threw at him, standing in a circle while people watched and judged.
His stomach turned over.
"What if my opponent doesn't use a skill?" he asked.
"Then you improvise."
"With what?"
Kael was quiet for exactly one second. "Your instincts have kept you alive so far. Trust them."
It wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement. But coming from Kael, it was practically a standing ovation.
Jae-hyun pulled his notes from his pocket — the scrap of parchment from the day before, now covered in cramped, wandering writing. He added a new line under Don't be passive. Make them react first.
Thirty seconds. Just survive thirty seconds.
The evening of the second day, he sat alone on the roof of The Resting Boar.
He'd found the access hatch by accident two nights ago — a loose board in the ceiling of the hallway that led to a shallow, flat section of roof overlooking the inn's street. The innkeeper either didn't know about it or didn't care. Either way, nobody had bothered him up here yet.
Ironspire spread below him, all lit lanterns and faint smoke and the distant clang of the nightwatch making their rounds. The spire itself rose black against the stars, lightning crackling faintly at its peak like a permanent storm warning. Somewhere down in the streets, he could hear a bard playing — something slow and unrecognizable.
He sat with his knees pulled up, chin resting on his arms, staring at his stat panel floating quietly in front of him.
Name: Jae-hyun
Level: 8
Exp: 22/120
HP: 240
Mana: 150
Strength: 22
Agility: 24
Luck: 0.1
Skill: Minor Copy (F Rank)
Stored Skills: [None — all expired]
Party: [Aria, Kael, Renn]
Luck: 0.1.
He'd stared at that number so many times it had almost stopped meaning anything. Almost.
The goddess gave me this, he thought, not for the first time. Either as a punishment or a joke. Maybe both.
He thought about his classmates. Somewhere in this world, they were probably already heroes. Already leveled, already famous, already standing in palaces with adoring crowds. They had A-ranks and S-ranks and skills with names like Divine Flame or Eternal Blade or something equally dramatic and unfair.
And he had Minor Copy. F-rank. Fifteen percent efficiency. Expires in twenty-four hours.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Fine.
Fine. You want to write me off? Good. Stay written off. I'll come back and erase it myself.
It wasn't a dramatic declaration. He didn't clench his fist or stare meaningfully at the horizon. He just thought it — quiet and stubborn, like a splinter that wouldn't come out — and let it settle somewhere behind his ribs where it had been living since the day he woke up face-first in the dirt.
He pulled out his notes one more time.
Don't be passive. Make them react first. Thirty seconds. Just survive thirty seconds.
He added one more line at the bottom, writing slowly.
You don't need to be the strongest. You just need to be the last one standing.
He folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket.
Tomorrow was the third day. The day before the tournament. One more day to prepare, to sharpen whatever blunt edges he had, to sleep badly and pretend he wasn't nervous.
He leaned back on his palms, looking up at the star-heavy sky. The lightning at the spire's tip crackled once, bright and sharp, then faded.
Okay, world, he thought. Let's see what you've got.
His stomach growled.
He looked down at it.
"Yeah, yeah. Food first. Existential determination later." He pushed himself up, brushing grit from his palms. "Priorities."
He climbed back through the hatch, the wooden boards creaking softly under him, and headed downstairs to find something to eat before tomorrow arrived and decided to ruin everything.
