The carriage trip to Arendale City lasted a little over an hour, jolting along smooth roads through fields and sparse forests. I sat opposite Marcus, observing the passing landscape as my mind raced with ideas.
This would be my first real venture beyond the estate since becoming Zane. In the novel, Arendale City was a modest trading hub, it was nothing compared to the capital, but large enough to have proper infrastructure, a mercenary guild, an adventurer's association, and most importantly, people with skills worth copying.
"You're quiet this morning, Young Master," Marcus observed.
"Just thinking about what to expect," I replied. "I've never actually watched professional fighters before."
That was true for both Kazuma and the original Zane. The former had only seen fights in anime and games, while the latter had been too arrogant to bother observing people he considered beneath him.
"The mercenary guild hosts matches every third day," Marcus explained. "It's partly entertainment, partly recruitment. Mercenary companies scout for talent there, and fighters use it to build reputations. The skill level varies wildly—you'll see everything from desperate amateurs to seasoned veterans."
"Do Authority users participate?"
"Sometimes. Though most Authority users of significant power either join the military, become adventurers, or get recruited by noble houses. The ones fighting in guild matches are usually either newly awakened or have weaker Authorities." He paused. "Still, even a weak Authority gives a considerable advantage. It should be educational for you."
The city walls came into view, a thirty feet wall of gray stone topped with guard towers. It was not particularly impressive by fantasy standards, but functional. We passed through the main gate with minimal inspection; the Morgenstern family crest on our carriage ensured the guards waved us through with respectful nods.
Inside, Arendale City was bustling. Cobblestone streets wound between three and four-story buildings, market stalls lined the main thoroughfares, and people of all types crowded the walkways. Merchants hawking wares, adventurers in mismatched armor, well-dressed merchants, and commoners going about their daily business.
It was so much more alive than I had imagined while reading the novel.
Our carriage stopped in front of a large, sturdy building marked with a crossed sword and axe, the insignia of the mercenary guild. Marcus helped me down, and we entered through heavy oak doors.
The interior was exactly what I had expected from countless fantasy stories, it a large common room with tables and chairs, a bar along one wall, a notice board covered in job postings, and a fighting ring in the center. The ring was currently empty, but about forty people filled the room, drinking, talking, and waiting for the matches to begin.
Every head turned when we entered. My clothes, which were made with fine silk and expensive tailoring, immediately marked me as nobility. The conversations didn't stop, but the atmosphere shifted. Wariness, curiosity, and some barely concealed hostility.
Marcus led me to a table near the ring with a good vantage point. A server approached quickly, a young woman with tired eyes.
"What can I get you, my lords?"
"Two ales," Marcus said, then glanced at me. "Unless you prefer wine?"
"Ale is fine." I had no idea what Zane's drink preferences were, but fitting in seemed more important than whatever aristocratic image I was supposed to maintain.
The server hurried off, and Marcus leaned back in his chair, completely comfortable despite the stares we were getting. "The matches would start in about fifteen minutes. Three rounds today, from what I heard. First is usually the low-level fighters trying to make a name for themselves."
I nodded, using the time to observe the crowd. Most were exactly what you would expect, they were rough-looking men and women in practical armor, weapons close at hand, the kind of people who made their living through violence. But a few stood out.
A woman in the corner, maybe twenty-five, with silver hair and crystalline blue eyes. She sat alone, nursing a drink, and the space around her table was conspicuously empty. People were avoiding her.
A massive man near the bar, at least six and a half feet tall with arms like tree trunks. He was laughing loudly with a group of companions, but I noticed his eyes constantly scanning the room. Alert despite his relaxed demeanor.
A slender figure stands silently by the notice board, hooded and deeply focused on the job postings. Their posture hints at a potential threat—a tense, coiled spring poised to spring release.
"Do you dee anyone interesting?" Marcus asked, following my gaze.
"The woman with silver hair. Why is everyone avoiding her?"
Marcus glanced over, then looked away quickly. "Ah. That's Selene Frost. She's an Ice Authority user. She's got a reputation for being... ruthless. She completed several high-risk contracts that other mercenaries wouldn't touch. Powerful, but dangerous to work with."
An Authority user. Ice-based, from the name. My interest sharpened immediately.
"And the big man at the bar?"
"I don't know him personally, but I would guess a strength-focused fighter. Possibly an Authority or possibly just naturally gifted. Type like that usually relies on overwhelming power."
Before I could ask about the hooded figure, a loud voice cut through the room.
"Alright, you lot! The first match is starting! We've got Max Brennan versus Kira Presecote! Get your bets in now!"
The crowd erupted in noise—cheers, shouts, the clink of coins changing hands. Two fighters entered the ring from opposite sides.
Max Brennan was a stocky man in his thirties, wearing heavy leather armor and carrying a large shield with a short sword. He moved with the steady confidence of someone who'd been in countless fights.
Kira Presrecote was younger, maybe early twenties, with twin daggers and light armor that prioritized mobility over protection. She bounced on her toes, eager, hungry.
"Authorities in this one," Marcus murmured beside me. "It's a match about pure skill. Good basics to observe.
The referee—a scarred older man with a missing ear—stepped into the ring. "Standard rules! Fight until yield, knockout, or I call it! No killing blows, no attacks after yield! Ready?"
Both fighters nodded.
"Begin!"