"It's just hit the second Tower! Where'd that sneaky golem come from!?"
The terror was unreal. The Lord of Brookmere collapsed, gasping for air, as he watched a Golem that couldn't exist connect to his remaining princess Tower, the Hog Rider right behind. 1 minute remained on the clock; there was no coming back from this position. The score was now 3 to 0; Brookmere's Lord had been utterly outplayed by Orik of Thornridge.
"Light work, no reaction" Orik chuckled to himself. It was almost too easy, he hadn't doubted himself for a moment throughout the 3 games.
The onlookers fell silent. Royale clashes were rare, yet each was magically recorded and broadcast to all. These broadcasts weren't just for nobles—peasants and serfs could also watch. Because such clashes were so infrequent, transmissions—announced in advance—reached every medium and large settlement in the Ironwake Kingdom, ensuring the whole realm witnessed the event. Scarcity did not mean there were few; the Ironwake archives held tens of thousands of recorded matches. Since the legendary defeat of the Goblin King thousands of years ago, Royale clashes (best of 3 Clash Royale) became the main way that Kings and nobles resolved disputes. Royale clashes were brief and intense, governed by strict, ancient rules. Matches lasted three minutes, with two minutes of overtime if neither ruler gained the upper hand. The goal was simple but brutal: destroy your opponent's Towers—two Princess Towers and the central King's Tower. If neither side led in Towers after regulation, the match continued into overtime. If tied at overtime's end, the winner was the ruler whose Towers had the most health.
The Lord of Brookmere's loss was not just tragic; it was legendary. Hog at the bridge… Hog at the bridge… This rapid, unceasing cycle of Hog Riders had slowly but surely chipped away at the princess Towers in the first two matches. The intensity and finesse that came with each placement caused not just Orik's opponent, but the watching masses to forget he hadn't played his 8th card in either of the previous games. Before this instance, there had been no record of a golem appearing in the pocket during the 3rd minute. Silence filled the crowd for a while; no one moved, all that could be heard was the labored breathing of the man collapsed on the stage. The judge, a professional slightly less stunned than everyone else, moved first, speaking into his audio projecting device.
"I lost? Truely? That damned sneaky golem! Where had it come from?!" The Lord of Brookmere cursed in his mind as the verdict was announced.
"Orik of Thornridge has won this Royalel clash with a 3 - 0 sweep."
The crowd began to stir, then a thunderous cheer and applause rang out across the town center.
An orphan, Orik had been born 17 years ago in a tiny, remote village called Thornridge. He still had vague memories of the mobile games he'd once played in the modern world. Back then, he was Marcus, a regular gamer who couldn't get enough of Supercell's Clash games. Unlike most isekai protagonists, Orik wasn't some flashy, standout guy—he was just an average-looking guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time. He didn't follow the usual "soap-making, sword-wielding, demon-slaying" storyline. Sure, he could've figured out how to make soap eventually (who couldn't?), but without his old memories, it wasn't something that ever crossed his mind.
Thornridge wasn't exactly a booming city; calling it a "town" was a bit generous. It had a small population, many of whom were illiterate. A lot of the young people had already left, hoping to find something better. Orik got lucky though. He'd been adopted by the old Chief, who was aging, sick, and had no heir. The Chief taught Orik how to read, write, and even manage the town's affairs. When the old Chief died, the crown—and the Royale Clash cards—were passed down to Orik. And that was when he realized how much knowledge he really had. While the nobles and scholars of Ironwake studied Royale Clash, they were far behind the curve. Orik knew the game's ins and outs like the back of his hand, in a world of homemade decks, he alone was a meta abuser.
Royale clash didn't use just regular cards; they were crafted from elixir, a rare and magical liquid. Epic cards and above could cost millions of elixir to create, so there were only a handful of them. The rules around elixir were strict. Nobles could only play Royale Clash if they had permission from the crown, which meant they had to borrow cards from Kings who controlled them. The crowns themselves were mysterious, nobody knew where they came from, but they were always blue or red, and they only appeared to village leaders, signifying that a new King was born. In a land where territorial disputes were constant, elixir was like gold. Sigrin Steel, the King of the Ironwake kingdom, controlled all the elixir production, and she distributed it to the Grand Dukes, who in turn gave it to the lower-ranked Kings. Elixir wasn't just a resource, it was a currency, and sometimes, it was worth more than gold. Royale Clashes weren't just for glory; they were the way Kings settled their disputes, with the winner taking home whatever was on the line.
Orik's victory wasn't some stroke of luck or a matter of believing in the heart of the cards. No, it was the result of years of honing his skills and mastering the strategies of Clash alongside his unbeaten 3.5 hogcycle deck(arrows instead of log). As the Lord of Brookmere's defeat reverberated through the town square, Orik couldn't help but feel that he was finally taking the first real steps toward his dream. A dream of becoming the King of Pirates. The King of the people. The ruler of the world.
"Take it. Here's 2,000 elixir and 10,000 gold."
Orik didn't have much, but he had put everything on the line to get these resources. The entire town of Thornridge, meaning he was essentially putting his crown on the line. But his bet had paid off. He stood silently, watching the odd, sad little man as he grabbed two large sacks, examining their contents. Orik ruffled the few remaining strands of hair on the Lord of Brookmere's head before walking away from the stage.
"Sigmas walk alone. Hahaha." With a smile etched across his face, Orik strolled through the bustling crowd at an unhurried pace, leaving the town behind him. All that remained was an ecstatic crowd and a heartbroken Lord.