Gerik finished his meal of hard bread, salted pork, and a thin broth made from the last of the root vegetables in the cellar. The food sat heavy in his stomach, but he forced it down anyway. Strength came from fuel, not from appetite. He rose from the table, crossed to the corner where his new purchases waited, and began to strap on the reinforced leather vest. The cracked shoulder guard shifted against his collarbone as he cinched the side laces tight. The short sword went into the scabbard at his left hip, the dagger remained at his right. The cheap copper bracelet with its cloudy quartz bead felt cold against his wrist. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders once, and stepped outside.
The only thing on his mind at the moment was the tournament. Every step toward the arena carried the weight of that single purpose: reach second place, enter Pestilence's service, move closer to the Emperor's throat. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the dirt road into a shimmering haze. Sweat gathered at his temples and traced slow paths down his neck. He kept his eyes forward, mulling over strategies. Prometheus had shown absorption and redirection. Others would have speed, strength, elemental control. He had only steel and resolve. To lose on purpose meant surviving the early rounds without seeming weak, then yielding at the right moment without drawing suspicion. One mistake and he would be out. Or dead. The difference mattered little.
He had covered half the distance when three men stepped from the shade of a roadside oak. They wore plain cloaks over leather vests, hoods pulled low. The one in front had blue eyes that carried a hint of malice beneath a practiced smile.
"Hey there," the man said. "Are you Gerik Grimholt?"
Gerik stopped. His right hand drifted toward the hilt of his short sword. "What's it to you?"
The second man raised both palms in a placating gesture. "Relax. We are all friends here."
The third, shorter and broader, spoke next. "Our boss has an offer for you. Agree to throw in the towel in your match with him by not showing up, and we'll pay. Half now, half later when the deal is done."
Gerik regarded them in silence for a long breath. Then he said one word. "Enough."
He drew the short sword in a smooth motion. The three men reacted instantly, pulling daggers from beneath their cloaks and rushing forward with intent to harm.
The first came high, blade aimed for Gerik's throat. Gerik stepped inside the reach, caught the wrist with his free hand, and twisted hard. Bone cracked. The dagger clattered to the dirt. Before the man could recover, Gerik drove the heel of his palm upward under the jaw. The strike lifted the attacker off his feet. There was a wet crunch as teeth met teeth, then the man dropped, skull thudding against the road, eyes rolling white.
The second and third closed in from either side. Gerik leaped with great agility, clearing the second man's low slash. He used the momentum of the jump to pivot mid-air. His sword came down in a clean arc. The blade caught the third man's right arm just above the elbow. Steel parted flesh and bone with a soft pop. The arm fell away, still clutching the dagger. Blood sprayed in a bright arc. The man screamed, high and raw, collapsing to his knees and clutching the stump.
The second man stared at the ruin for half a heartbeat, then turned and ran. The first remained unconscious in the dust. Gerik wiped his blade on the fallen man's cloak, sheathed it, and continued walking without a backward glance.
From a far distance, atop a low rise overlooking the road, a man with blonde hair and brown eyes watched through the lens of binoculars. He lowered them slowly.
"Hmm," he murmured. "Doesn't seem like he has magic, but oh well. I hate making messes, but it looks like I will have to teach this one a lesson."
A woman's voice came from behind him, sleepy and soft. "Sweetie, what are you talking about?"
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"Nothing," he said without turning. "Just be gone by the time I return."
Though some fighters relished a good battle and would never resort to shady tactics, some were willing to win no matter the cost. In a tournament such as this, killing an opponent was illegal and could lead to disqualification or worse. Many had returned from the ring with life-threatening injuries and could no longer return to their jobs as hunters, guards, or laborers. Only one death had been recorded this far, a brutal accident in the quarterfinals two years earlier when a blade slipped past a guard and found the heart. The crowd had cheered anyway. Gerik's resolve was as solid as steel. He would not bend. He would not break. He would reach the place he needed, and then he would begin the long climb toward vengeance.
In the waiting area beneath the stands, the air smelled of sweat, oiled metal, and the faint copper tang of old blood. Gerik stood against the rough timber wall, arms crossed, eyes on the tunnel mouth where sunlight poured in. Other fighters paced or stretched or spoke in low voices to their seconds. He kept to himself.
A man with blonde hair walked past him. He moved with lazy grace, tunic open at the collar to show tanned skin and a silver chain. Brown eyes flicked to Gerik. A mischievous smile curved his lips. He paused, turned his head back.
"May the best man win," he said. "I gave a choice after all."
Gerik met his gaze without expression. The blonde man chuckled once and continued on.
Both men stepped out of the tunnel into the roar of the audience. The arena floor was hard-packed earth, raked smooth between matches. The stands rose steep around them, packed shoulder to shoulder. The noise crashed down like a wave.
Some chants rose clear above the din. "Marry me, Mikos!" "Mikos! Let me bear your child!" "Kill that nobody!"
Others were in deep discussion. "Who is that? I haven't seen or heard of him before."
A young man with blue eyes and messy black hair sat between two older spectators. A star tattoo curved across his left cheekbone. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"He is a freelancer," he said. "One who looks interesting."
The man beside him laughed. "Yeah right. Good luck to him. He'll need lots of it if he wants to defeat Mikos the Beloved."
The young man with the tattoo chuckled. "Looks don't mean everything."
The announcer's voice boomed from the high platform, amplified by a crude horn of hammered tin.
"Introducing first, from Thornvale, the bounty hunter who isn't bound to any order, Gerik Grimholt!"
A cheer rose, scattered and polite. A few claps. Someone whistled.
"And now..."
The cheer swelled into something thunderous. Roses sailed through the air, red petals fluttering like blood drops. Women screamed his name. Men pounded fists on the railings.
"The Beloved, the Handsome Devil of the Empire, Mikos Trueblood!"
The roar became deafening. Mikos raised both arms, palms open, feeding off the adoration like a messiah drowning in the praises of his followers. He turned slowly, letting the light catch his features, blonde hair gleaming, smile wide and perfect. Roses landed at his feet. He stepped on them without looking down.
Then he turned his attention to Gerik.
Gerik stood motionless while the crowd hurled cans and tins his way. Empty ale vessels clattered around his boots. He ducked one that sailed too close to his head. Another struck his shoulder with a dull thud. He did not flinch.
Mikos spread his arms wider, still smiling.
"I'll make this a show these people won't forget."
He stuck out his tongue, he playful, mocking Gerik
The crowd howled in delight.
Gerik drew his short sword. The blade caught the sun. He took his stance, feet planted wide, knees soft. His eyes never left Mikos.
The bell rang.
Do you think Gerik will win the tournament?
