"Name?"
"Damon."
"Damon... okay, and surname?" After hours of patient waiting, Damon finally reached the registry where he could register for the tournament.
'Surname?' Not everyone had one. In this world, surnames were a privilege of those sharing noble lineage or city heritage. For the tribesmen of Ravonir, surnames didn't exist.
"Ravonir. Damon Ravonir, that's my name." Accepting this world's memories, the tribe and its grudges, Damon decided his surname would be that of his tribe.
"Age?"
"17. Male. Address: Forest of Silver Trees. From the Ravonir Tribe," Damon said proudly as he provided all his details before pausing at the final question.
"Magic type?" As mentioned before, the world had six elements—six types of magic—and Damon was the sole being capable of manifesting every one of them.
The magic he declared here would be his identity. To the public, it would define him—something he could never change or reveal beyond this.
"Dark magic."
"Okay, dark magic... wait, D-dark magic?" The registrar looked up in shock as Damon stated his magic type.
Dark magic was rare—few records even existed. To be born with it was considered a rare stroke of fortune, though its value and practicality depended entirely on the type manifested.
Registering himself, Damon received his identification token and followed directions to the tents.
For the combatants—participants of the Martial Arts Tournament—giant tents had been prepared due to the sheer number of entries.
Males and females had separate tents. As Damon approached his assigned area, he noticed the heavy security of the Forbidden Army stationed nearby.
The training grounds were leveled and packed with warriors of all kinds dueling, testing, and practicing.
"Look, we've got a big guy joining us!" A group near Damon's assigned bed cheered as they saw him approach.
Placing his luggage down, Damon greeted them as the group surrounded him, eyeing him curiously.
"Damn, you're really big. Literally one of the biggest in this tournament," said a man wielding a curved blade as he circled Damon with interest.
"Lad, my name's Bardock—an adventurer from the city of Gerdium."
"Damon, from the Forest of Silver Moon," Damon replied, meeting the man's gaze.
"From the west? Damn, this tournament really unites all of Elfrieden. What a glorious day under our new king's rule!" Bardock exclaimed. "From the forests of the far west, beastmen from the south, and even the dark elves from the God-Protected Forest... truly, the capital has never been this diverse or united before."
The man continued talking as others introduced themselves, but Damon's focus sharpened on one phrase.
'God-Protected Forest. The dark elves from the God-Protected Forest... if it's who I think it is...'
"Hey! The eating competition has begun!" A man in a black robe ran toward them, shouting.
"Haha! Finally!" Bardock laughed, turning back to Damon. "Lad, today's the first day of the Big Eater Competition! I'm participating myself. We're all heading there—care to join us?"
Bardock's offer was met with a grin. Placing his bag near the bed, Damon accepted and joined the group, sharing stories as they walked.
"By the way, about those dark elves... can you tell me more about them?"
***
"Hahaha! Heavens, I haven't been this full in months! Gods bless the king—I hope he holds this competition every day!" Bardock laughed, clutching his stomach as he rejoined the group, laughing merrily.
The food crisis was severe. Sleeping on an empty stomach had become a daily habit for most citizens. Only the wealthy and noble could afford three meals a day anymore.
"Ha... let's head back. I feel so full I might burst any second now," Bardock declared as the group prepared to leave—except for Damon, who stayed behind.
"Sorry, guys. I've got an appointment with a friend. I'll join you later," Damon said, excusing himself before disappearing into the crowd, heading toward the host's area.
"Hey, my friend's participating in this contest too. I don't know his table number—could you do a quick check and tell me where I can find him?" Damon asked a nearby staff member, who seemed hesitant but, upon seeing a silver coin, nodded and checked the list.
"Table number 8. He's currently competing. If you go now, you might still catch him," the man said, pocketing the coin and pointing Damon in the right direction.
***
"Another chocolate cake—one kilogram! Sir Doma has ordered another round! Oh my god, Sir Poncho too!"
In front of table number 8, the announcer's voice echoed as staff hurriedly carried out another round of cakes under the cheers of the crowd.
Two men, both heavily overweight, sat devouring the food before them. One stuffed himself at a worrying speed, while the other—dressed in a green shirt—ate calmly, savoring each bite yet keeping pace.
"Both participants have been feasting for the past hour, neither backing down as they devour the delicious cakes—"
*Cough! Cough!*
The announcer froze as one contestant began choking, coughing violently. The rescue team rushed in to help the man, who finally gave up.
"It seems Sir Doma has given up! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner for this round—"
"Sir Poncho Panacotta of Potte Village!"
"Everyone, please give him a big round of applause!" the host cheered as loud claps filled the arena.
Blushing deeply, Poncho awkwardly scratched his head and bowed humbly, embarrassed yet grateful, as he stepped down from the stage.
"Ha, did you see that? Can a human really eat that much?"
"Human? Ha! You really think that fat pig counts as a human?" another sneered.
The applause faded. The cheers turned to jeers. The crowd that had praised him moments ago now mocked him.
'Th-this...'
Yes, this was reality—the cruel truth. People like Poncho faced ridicule from those who never tried to understand them. They mocked. They cursed.
For as long as he could remember, Poncho had never received true praise. All he had ever known were scorn and mockery from those who saw him as nothing more than a waste of space.
'D-did I make a mistake coming here?' Poncho thought as he slipped away from the crowd, their insults echoing in his mind. Leaning against a wall, his heart ached as tears began to fall.
"Now then, O gifted ones, come shake my hand in the capital, Parnam."
The king's words echoed in his ears.
'Would someone like me... even be acknowledged by him?'
The question gnawed at his heart—until a voice filled with warmth and care cut through his despair.
"Are you okay, Sir Poncho?"