This world was cruel. This was a fact that Gerik had known from a young age. Even from as early as when his dad, Drell, beat him for stealing, bloody scars developing afterwards he knew. The lash had come down across his back until the skin split and the blood ran warm down his legs. Drell had not shouted. He had simply struck with the same steady rhythm he used to split firewood, each blow a lesson in consequences. Gerik had been nine. He remembered the taste of dirt in his mouth as he lay there afterward, promising himself he would never steal again, and also promising that one day he would be the one holding the strength. Cruelty was not a passing storm. It was the air they all breathed.

  Today he walked to the tournament with one goal in mind: to kill the Emperor. That meant he had to purposely fall in second place. A tough task, one that would ultimately be considered a dream because the fighters in this tournament were known far and wide. Men and women who had carved their names into the hides of monsters, who had survived imperial hunts, who carried scars that told stories louder than any bard. To lose on purpose without dying or looking weak required precision he was not certain he possessed. Yet the second prize called to him like a blade drawn in the dark: a position in Lord Pestilence's private army. Close enough to smell the knight's perfume of decay and insects. Close enough to learn her habits, her guards, her weaknesses. Close enough to drive steel into the heart of the Nox Empire one step at a time.

  The tournament arena rose on the eastern edge of Thornvale, a rough circle of packed earth surrounded by tiered wooden stands that had been thrown up over the past two days. Timber beams still smelled of fresh sap. Banners snapped in the wind, crimson and silver, bearing the Emperor's indirect mark: no imperial sigil appeared openly, but everyone knew who sponsored such spectacles. The roar of the audience reached Gerik before he even cleared the final rise. A deep, rolling sound like distant thunder mixed with the sharp cries of vendors hawking meat skewers and watered ale. He pushed through the crowd at the gate, showed his wooden token to a bored guard, and climbed the nearest set of steps.

  The first fight had begun.

  He found a seat near the middle of the stands, squeezed between a baker whose apron still carried flour and a young woman with a baby strapped to her chest. Over a thousand viewers filled the tiers, faces flushed with excitement or grim anticipation. Down in the ring, two men circled each other on the hard-packed dirt.

  One was very tall and muscular, easily a head above most men, with wavy grey hair that fell past his shoulders. Some of it had been gathered into a tight ponytail at the back, the rest framing a face carved from granite. A bearded chin-strap outlined his jaw, neat and deliberate. His eyes were a sharp green that caught the midday light like polished jade. He wore simple leather armor reinforced with steel plates at the shoulders and chest, no flourish, no excess. In his hands he held nothing yet. He simply stood, calm, as though the arena were his living room.

  His opponent was smaller, leaner, with a receding hairline that left a narrow strip of dark hair across the top of his skull. Grey eyes burned with fury beneath heavy brows. He wore the faded green cloak of the Daylight Order, the hem frayed from long travel. Both hands were raised, palms glowing with heat. Fireballs formed between his fingers, each one the size of a man's head, swirling with orange and white flame.

  The smaller man hurled the first fireball. It streaked across the ring like a comet. Prometheus, the giant, did not move. The fireball struck his chest and vanished. Not exploded. Not deflected. Simply gone, as though swallowed by shadow. A second fireball followed, then a third, each one sent with immense ferocity. Prometheus walked forward slowly, boots thudding on the dirt. Every projectile disappeared the moment it reached him.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Gerik watched in silence, trying to understand the mechanics behind this. No visible shield shimmered. No wind rose to scatter the flames. The fire simply ceased to exist.

  Around him the audience chatter swelled.

  "Can't you see?" a fat man said in excitement to another beside him. "Letson! Deimos can't do anything to our Prometheus!"

  "Yeah yeah," Letson replied, voice lower, "but that's actually scary to think about. Deimos of fire magic always incinerates his targets. Not even ash remains. Yet..."

  "Fire is magic, is it not?" a third voice cut in from behind. "Then it's nothing. Prometheus is an A-rank monster hunter for a reason. He sometimes takes on S-rank missions for the Midnight Order. He is a monster."

  "More like a giant!" another added, laughing.

  Back in the ring, Prometheus stopped a few paces from Deimos. His voice carried clear across the arena, deep and even.

  "Do you yield?"

  Deimos had beads of sweat forming at the top of his bald pate. His chest rose and fell in heavy bursts. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, smearing soot across his lip.

  "Damn you," he snarled. "I will not disgrace the Daylight Order. Die!"

  He thrust both hands forward. A wall of fire roared up, ten feet high, rushing toward Prometheus in a blazing tide. The heat washed over the stands; several people flinched back. Prometheus sighed once, almost gently. He reached to his belt and drew two short swords, plain steel, no runes or glow. Then his body began to shine. Soft light gathered around him, pale gold at first, then brighter, flowing like liquid down his arms and into the blades. The swords hummed faintly.

  "Oh well," Prometheus said.

  He lifted the blades in a cross before his chest.

  "Resurgence!"

  The light exploded outward. Every fireball Deimos had thrown, every tongue of flame that had vanished against Prometheus, surged back into existence. They poured from the giant's swords in a single combined mass, brighter and hotter than before. The fire roared toward Deimos like a living thing. He tried to raise a shield, hands glowing red as he shaped a barrier of flame. It flickered, held for half a heartbeat, then shattered.

  The fire slammed into him.

  Deimos flew backward. His body struck the arena wall with a crack of wood and bone. He slid down, leaving a charred smear. Smoke rose from his clothes. Blood trickled from his mouth in a thin stream. His eyes rolled back. He lay still.

  The audience erupted. People leaped to their feet, shouting, clapping, stomping. Some cheered Prometheus's name. Others stared in shock at the crisp form of Deimos, the upset plain for all to see. The tournament had started with a statement.

  The announcer's voice boomed from a wooden platform high above the ring.

  "Victory to Prometheus! First match concluded!"

  Gerik remained seated amid the standing crowd. He watched the attendants drag Deimos from the ring on a litter. Prometheus sheathed his swords without flourish, gave the stands a single nod, and walked out through the fighter's gate. The giant moved like a man who had already won the day.

  Gerik stood then. The roar pressed against his ears, but he tuned it out. He had seen enough. Prometheus was no ordinary fighter. The absorption, the redirection, the sheer power behind that final technique. Gerik would need more than luck and steel to reach second place against men like that. He needed to survive the early rounds without drawing too much attention, to lose at the precise moment when the path to Pestilence opened.

  A runner from the tournament staff found him near the exit. The boy was no more than fourteen, breathless from running up and down the stands.

  "Gerik, number seventeen. Your match is tomorrow, second bout after noon. Be ready."

  Gerik nodded. "I will be."

  He left the arena behind and walked the long road back toward his house. The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of coming rain and distant pine. His new short sword bounced lightly against his hip. The cheap bracelet on his wrist felt heavier than it should. Tomorrow he would fight. He would measure his opponents, gauge their strengths, and begin the long game of calculated defeat.

  But first he would train.

  He reached the small clearing behind his house where the ground was flat and free of rocks. He drew the new blade, tested its edge against his thumb. It bit cleanly. Good enough for now. He began with slow forms: thrust, parry, slash, recover. His muscles warmed gradually. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill. Each movement carried the memory of Remia's voice in his head, soft and steady.

  Just you watch.

  He kept going until the light faded and his arms burned. Then he sheathed the sword, wiped his face on his sleeve, and looked toward the southern horizon wherethe black heart of the Nox Empire waited.

  Tomorrow the real work began.