*Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Kingdom of Satar, Capital City Parthanon*
The organizers explained there was no waiting spot or lounge for the below-fifty contestants. They kindly directed people to seats at the coliseum but explained they should keep an eye on the fight numbers at the match table schedule.
When Demir was heading to his friends' booth, he noticed his number was at the top. He was 080, matched against 043. They had given below-fifty contestants numbers starting with 0.
He approached one of the officials, a thin elf with a clipboard. "Does this mean I'm the first fight of the afternoon, just after the opening ceremony?"
The official glanced at his list and nodded. "Yes. Please stay put."
Demir panicked. He hadn't come prepared for an immediate match. He looked for a bathroom to change, but the opening ceremony had already started.
A dozen dancers swept onto the arena floor, their costumes catching the light as they moved through a beautiful choreography. Music came from all sides, showing medieval and magical melodies. It was spectacular, the kind of show that made you forget you were about to potentially fight for your life.
Demir hurriedly wore his chest piece, fumbling with the straps as Rex Choars took the stage.
Rex was an old man in pristine clothes, white robes trimmed with gold thread. He embodied the fantasy world's underground boss demeanor, although passing his outside-world treatment for infinite youth made him look both old and young at the same time. His skin was smooth but his eyes were ancient. His movements were slow but deliberate. This also meant that with all his power and glory and time in this game world, he'd had no idea about the Severing happening.
"Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen!" Rex's voice carried across the arena, amplified by some magical means. "Today we are hosting the nine hundred and eighty-ninth Player Tournament since its start. I have been fortunate to lead this tournament, but I am getting old."
A murmur passed through the crowd.
"So I am sorry for postponing the tournament until today. I decided to leave the organizing from now on to a foundation of my creation. I hope this tradition goes on after my demise."
He waved his hands to the crowd's cheers. The man looked old and sick in every way. *How is he still alive?* Demir thought.
Rex continued after the cheers dimmed. "As most of you know, we do not encourage killing after the Severing. But it happens nonetheless. In the case of deliberate killing after an opponent gives up, the perpetrator will be punished. Remember, there is no respawn anymore."
The commentator took over, his voice booming. "And now, for the nine hundred and eighty-ninth tournament, our first matches will be between the latest champion and previous champions! An exhibition match!"
Demir sighed with relief. Exhibition first. He had time.
He struggled into his gloves when he heard someone behind him. "We're after the exhibition match, 080."
Demir turned and saw a short, thin man with bulky shoulders, a total mismatch from his body. He was wearing light armor, and there was a black bow with arrows behind his back. His face was pinched and suspicious, eyes darting constantly.
"Are you 043? I'm Demir." He extended his hand to shake.
The man winced and didn't even try to shake his hand. "Sakata," he just said.
*Okay, he's a dick*, Demir thought. Then he remembered this was a battlefield. They might die here, or win good rewards. Some might even get good relaxed jobs near Rex Choars. The stakes were real.
Sakata continuously checked his gear with a sinister look, mumbling things to himself.
---
The exhibition match included lots of flashy moves and colorful spells. Fire clashed with ice. Blades sang through the air. But ultimately, the champions didn't harm each other seriously and finished before getting too tired. It was a show, and both participants knew it.
The announcer called their numbers to the arena. "Number 080 versus number 043!"
The arena was a circle, nearly fifty meters across, slightly elevated from the ground. The audience wasn't full, considering these were below-fifty matches, but there were enough people to cheer and make noise. Demir had never fought in front of an audience before.
He took his place on one side, looking around to find his friends. But he couldn't locate them in full plate armor. Even with all the weight, he felt lighter and faster than ever before.
Sakata took his place on the other side and readied his bow. Demir raised his shield, drew his weapon, and waited for the first gong.
"And for the first match of the nine hundred and eighty-ninth tournament..." The announcer drew out the moment. "START!"
Sakata immediately started releasing arrows.
*This could seriously hurt unexpected opponents*, Demir thought.
He dashed ahead, shield protecting his head. The arrows were mostly deflecting from the shield's surface. One struck the drake scale but the force wasn't enough to slow him or make him stop.
When he closed the distance to ten meters, Sakata started running to his left. Demir turned to follow.
He was faster than Sakata. After four or five steps, he reached his back. Sakata drew a dagger to swing at Demir, but Demir's shield bash came first.
The impact knocked Sakata outside the arena circle.
"It's finished so quick!" The announcer's voice rang out. "Sakata played a risky game near the edge, but in the end, he was downed by a shield bash!"
Some cheered. Some booed.
"You suck!"
"Shield bash? Lame!"
"Below-fifty games are shit!"
"It's just to syphon our money!"
"These are rigged games!"
Demir turned to his opponent to help him up, extending his arm. But Sakata was on the floor, shouting at himself. "This was my last chance to show myself... last..."
"Hey, man, don't be like this. Life goes on."
Sakata's eyes blazed. "What do you know about life? You rich prick with all your pristine gear. I'm starving in this game with shitty gear!"
Demir grabbed his arm and pulled him up anyway. "Let's go outside first."
---
Organizer assistants, seeing no one had any medical needs, redirected Demir and Sakata to the coliseum seats.
Sakata's bitterness hadn't faded. "You win, now you'll give me advice. Is that it? No thanks, rich prick."
"Sakata, you know this is... was a game, right? I didn't inherit any money. I crafted most of my gear, other than the jewels."
"Yeah, right. I don't care..." He turned his back, moving toward the exits.
Marven, Marco, and Lysara were approaching, congratulating Demir. But Demir wasn't done.
"Guys, one second." He called out, "Sakata, wait!"
Sakata stopped but didn't turn. "Look, I'm not taking your advice. You clearly have above-fifty friends. Are they funding you?"
"Dude, like I said, I crafted these working my ass off."
Marco caught up. "What's the problem, Demir?"
Demir turned to him. "He thinks I made the difference with bought items."
Marco put his hands around his mouth to imitate the shape of a megaphone. "Loser! Hey, loser! Demir made everything you saw himself! I was there most of the time!"
Sakata stopped his advance toward the exit and turned back. His eyebrows were frowning. "Really?"
"Really."
"We're killing ourselves for a fair living in this forsaken city, and you were making bank?"
"I am." Demir looked around and pointed at Lysara. "Look, if you're struggling, after the tournament we'll go to a high-level zone made by players. We've never been there, but our small town got wrecked by goblins, and they saved us and invited the survivors."
He turned to Lysara. "I know I have no right, but people are struggling in this city. Can we invite people like Sakata?"
Lysara shrugged. "Sure, why not? As long as they contribute to food growing or herding livestock."
Sakata's eyes gleamed with something other than bitterness for the first time. "Sure. I can do all that."
"But I've got to warn you," Lysara added. "Our city is in constant threat from Covenant forces. We usually don't ask backup from low-level players, but... you never know." She shrugged her shoulders.
Alef was approaching with a giant tray. "Look, guys, what I found!" He showed them the white creamy food on the tray. "Congrats, Demir! And look, I found real ice cream!"
"Nooo!" Marven screamed. "Those are fake!"
---
Demir's other matches went similarly. He put giant differences against his opponents, and with his gear's damage reduction and stat bonuses, he was so much stronger than other below-fifty players. They had lost most of their gear over the years and lived their lives without actually trying to improve or notice the title route.
But Demir knew the real challenge was coming.
The above-fifty tournament would show him what true strength looked like.