Chapter 11

Notwithstanding the viands currently in his stomach from the contest, Merrick is ingesting other festival victuals while sitting in the audience in anticipation of the proximate tournament. The crowd begins to cheer as the announcer comes out to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the 75th annual Harvest Festival's Tournament of Warriors! I'm Andur, and I'll be your host for tonight's event. Let's start by clapping and cheering for our contestants showing up right now!" The crowd erupts in cheers as one-by-one the competitors come out of the holding area into the arena, and Merrick perceives Arven among those who have signed up and one of Envarn's cronies furthermore. Altogether, there are forty people in the tournament.

"One of the biggest attendees in this tournament that I've seen in my thirty years of doing this contest, and I see a decent mix of familiar and new faces in the contestants. For those that are new, let me explain the rules. No outside help whatsoever. Permitted items and skills are those that you currently possess. Due to a rogue fireball incident several years ago, there is a severe restriction on magic items and spells in place right now. Any magic that grants a boost in defense, speed, strength, less severe damage, or minor healing is permitted. A barrier is currently active to catch any projectiles that stray out of the arena. If you fall unconscious and don't regain consciousness within ten seconds, fall out of the boundary lines, or, in the worst-case scenario, die, you lose. There are plenty of clerics, and dedicated healers on standby in the contingency skirmishes become too intense, so you can worry less about grievous injuries, but death is a distinct possibility. The last person standing will receive the opportunity to challenge the grand champion in a 1v1. If the grand champion loses, the contestant will become the new grand champion. Speaking of which, let me introduce everyone to the current grand champion; he's currently at five years of being the grand champion, five more away from tying the all-time record. You may also find him if you head over to the Hot Anvil, where he is a blacksmith. Come on out, Roddy Grediz!" Arven and Merrick recognize the Goliath from the Hot Anvil shop as he steps from the curtains.

"Pleasure to be here, Andur. To all the contestants out there, I want you to have fun and fight fair. Good luck. To the audience members, I hope you enjoy every minute of this tournament." After waving to the applauding crowd, Roddy leaves.

"Let's cheer for Roddy," Andur utters, and the crowd lauds. "I have another announcement to make. Since it's been seventy-five years since this first started, the organizers and I communicated to various people specializing in designing arenas to mark such an occasion. Some, I guess, are running through your heads right now. After searching and negotiating, we dealt with someone I think will be quite a treat for you. With several highly acclaimed arenas across Adoran and other nations of Myrith with four earning perfect scores and people on occasion call him the "Mad Architect," ladies and gentlemen give a round of applause to Taeral Sardi!"

A 5'8" male High Elf emerges from the curtains to the cheering crowd. His elongated sleeved, silky jacket covers him to just below his waist, and a string ties it firmly. His coat sleeves are relatively narrow and reach down to just above his wrists; they're decorated with a single thread lining at the sleeve ends. The jacket has a slim, rectangular neckline that reveals part of the refined shirt worn under it, and he wears a leather belt with a giant belt buckle. The leather belt is partially decorative but mainly a purposeful addition. Unvarnished pants and shoes complete his attire; the rare material for the boots forms a prosaic design.

Taerel waves to the crowd. "It's an honor to be here designing the arena. I could ramble on and on in some long speech, but I know that's not why all of you are here, so let's progress to the main event." The audience is solicitous to commence the tournament. "Let the tournament begin!" The gates leading to the holding pens for the contestants close and lock into place. Every contestant in the arena appears confused, and some begin to ambulate toward the gates and convulse the bars.

The arena starts to vibrate as walls emerge from the ground. When they stop moving up, the audience notices a maze materializing with a tree sticking in the middle, and Andur makes an announcement, "Since multiple people signed up, it would take too long to narrow the group down to the last one standing by doing a 1v1, so this is a preliminary round. The goal is simple. Be one of eight people to arrive at the tree and ascend to the top. Only eight people will advance. Begin!"

All I gotta do is reach that tree, and then I can finally be in the actual tournament? Not a problem. Surprised that the blacksmith is the grand champion five years running, but I know I can beat him and be the new grand champion just like my brother was for ten years straight, Arven thinks. Barely walking six steps, he encounters a pitfall trap, and he recoils backward to avoid it. Wonderful. One additional obstacle that requires vigilance. Two minutes after the preliminary round's initiation, the audience notices several traps activating by the victims' sound and sporadic, magical eruptions. 

"Tell me, Taerel. Did you leave a few booby traps in the maze?" Andur inquires.

"Indeed I did," Taerel answers, deliberately masking a tiny portion of his amusement, although it's still blatant. "They're harmless, though, and meant to slow down progress."

"Any other tricks you're keeping secret?"

"Maybe."

Andur turns his attention to the tournament, gesturing the High Elf to a couple points of interest. "Well, it appears that a couple of skirmishes are taking place in the maze."

"You didn't say anything about fighting in the maze?"

"As long it's clean and fair, let them. It wouldn't be as exciting if skirmishes didn't happen."

Mindful in his steps to avoid traps, Arven navigates the labyrinth. After a few minutes of selecting various paths and backtracking after realizing some are dead ends, he hears movement behind him; the movement transitions into yelling as another competitor charges at Arven with his blade pointed forward. Arven casually moves aside and protrudes his right foot, and trips the male assailant's face-first to the dirt. Back on his feet, he retrieves his sword, charges again, and utilizes both hands to pivot his blade.

This sword is awkward, Arven thinks, as he exploits the same blade from one of the Phantom Brotherhood members and his shield to block and parry his opponent's assault. At least he's an amateur considering his stance and technique. "What convinced you to a tournament like this?" asked Arven.

"I'm doing it to show off to my girlfriend."

"Hate to break it to you, but after she witnesses your ass-kicking, she'll abandon you for someone much more of a man and a fighter." The male charges and yells and Arven knocks him off balance by batting his shield against him. He trips him before using the hilt of the sword to knock him unconscious. "Sweet dreams." Arven resumes his navigation of the maze. He then hears announcements of three competitors arriving at the top of the tree. They must've gotten lucky. Nearer to the tree, he hears that a fourth person advancing. A sudden blast of magic impacts him and sends him somersaulting back several feet. What the hell?

A female High Elf stands in front of Arven. Terrific. Just what I need. Another person wasting valuable time, and she has to be a mage of all things. Damn. "Listen here, miss, you're not doing yourself any favors by fighting me. How about you cease your attacks, and we can advance to the next round together? Then you can cast magic on me to your heart's content."

"Not interested," she answers.

"Why not?"

"Art of Conjuration: Magic Missile!" The High Elf doesn't answer and fires three magic missiles at him. Each feels like an ogre's punch at half-strength to Arven, causing him to bend his knees. 

Enraged and breathing heavily, Arven starts to bolt towards her. "So be it then."  

"Ice Nature: Slippery Terrain!" The High Elf positions her hands on the ground and turns the area in front of her to ice. The slick floor causes Arven to struggle at maintaining his counterpoise as his feet slide in every possible direction. An ice mage? Fucking terrific. What would my brother do in a time like this? "Ice Nature: Ice Ball!" The mage proceeds to fire ice balls at him. One grazes him, and one lands a solid hit after Arven clumsily dodges the rest. "Ha-ha-ha-ha. This is the end for you, Runestalker."

Hearing his family name, Arven snaps his attention. "How do you know my last name? As far as I know, I don't recall encountering you at any point in my life."

"That is none of your business."

"Somebody must've sent you to target me."

"I'm not saying anything. Now shut up while I eliminate you out of the tournament. This shall do it." The feminine Elf casts another ice ball, but it's a size considerable than the previous ones. The force of it impacting his shield causes him to skid backward towards a wall due to the slippery terrain, and it pins him against the barrier; his body starts to succumb to the increasing pressure, and his protection shows signs of shattering. There's no way I'm allowing a mage to triumph over me. Arven unleashes every ounce of reserved strength to counteract the force of the spell by placing his left foot on the wall for support and launching himself forward while swinging his shield. The frigid sphere soars in the opposite trajectory, and the High Elf, currently sneering mirthfully at the sight of Arven's predicament, alters her expression swiftly to aghast as she realizes her own spell now gaining ground on her. Her narrow body barely avoids the ball by laying on the ground as flat as possible and senses gelid air while it flies above her and proceeds to produce a hole through three walls before halting. Before she has a chance to get up, Arven stands above her and knocks her unconscious by kicking her in the head.

I wonder if she has any evidence on her. Rummaging through her pockets, a ring with a sapphire on it falls out and produces a clang, and he inspects it in his hand. On the inside of the circle, there are two names engraved on it. One is Miarel, and the other is a name he's all too familiar with. Envarn? That prick. No evidence directly connects to him, but I suspect he's the person behind it. I better hurry up. More people would have advanced to the next round by now, and time's running out. Besides, I'm starting to run out of breath, and I need as much strength as possible. 

By the time Arven makes it to the room with multiple trees, only one spot remains available. Another man wielding a shortbow arrives at the place at the same time as him. Rather than engaging in a fight, the man instead chooses to climb a tree. Arven quickly follows suit and picks the same tree. The tree has a vast trunk, but there are multitudinous low-hanging branches to climb on. As the two quickly scramble up the tree, the limbs become miniature and frangible towards the top. The competitor has superior climbing ability while Arven struggles to ascend the tree. The man latches onto a branch and hoists himself up, but it breaks, forcing him to decelerate and regain balance, allowing Arven to gain ground, and it's now a tie. Near the top, they resort to punching each other since the lack of space compels them to move closer towards each other. The exchange of blows causes them to lose their balance and now hang from the branches they were standing on. They can hear the crowd cheering and the announcers giving the play-by-play. 

"Let's give the audience a finale they won't forget," the man speaks to Arven.

"I already plan on doing it." Arven hoists himself back up the branch, uses his left hand on another sturdy unit for support, and unsheathes his shortsword. 

"What are you planning?" The questions as he dangles, the feet kicking wildly in the air.

"An unforgettable conclusion," Arven answers. Operating the sword as an impromptu hatchet, he hacks away the man's branch. After several whacks, the branch collapses, and the man falls, hitting numerous branches before impacting the floor with a sickening thud. His body contorts in unnatural ways. With nobody opposing him, Arven reaches to the top of the tree and gestures to the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the 8th and final person advancing to the next round," Andur announces to the audience, and everyone begins to praise Arven. "With eight people finally chosen, there will be a fifteen-minute interlude for the crowd to perform bodily functions, obtaining snacks and breather for the contestants." 

"Hear that, brother? Your younger sibling is one step closer to becoming a grand champion just like you," Arven speaks to himself as he stands on top of the tree, staring towards the open sky.