I walked silently through the dark tunnel leading to the arena, whacking the weathered walls with my blunted sword, trying to take some extra chunks out of the stone as I passed by.

Somebody must have left the AC on blast, because a whooshing noise reverberated through the hall.

I was strapped up with light plate armor, a blunted sword in my left hand and a small shield on my right arm. A metal helmet protected most of my cranium, while a wide, barred visor offered me plenty of visibility. As usual, the neck, wrist, ankle and crotch reinforcement came provided.

As I emerged into the center of the Coliseum, the mysterious AC got cranked up even further, revealing itself to be the crashing roar of the crowd. The stands were packed to bursting with row upon row of Castellan nobility, soldiery, and rabble. Some of them waved colorful flags with various family crests, others weaved through the crowd distributing trays of grog, and still others picked their noses in public.

Today was the day of the tournament. Time to kick some ass.

As I traversed the dirt expanse of the arena, a few people in the crowd recognized me and pointed at my shackles.

It’s him! That creepy Calderan from hell with the bondage gear!

At least, that’s what they were saying according to the state-of-the-art simulation running through my head. 

I took a deep breath.

It’s fine. I’ll show them all.

My opponent was a lanky, napoleon-dynamite-themed greaseball from one of the military classes. He had roughly the same equipment that I did, except that his helmet had this tall, stupid blue feather plume sticking out the top. Probably a prized heirloom of the noble House Dickinbutt or something.

I’d never seen this kid before, and after today, I hopefully never would again.

Each of the first-round matchups of the tournament were arranged to be between an Adventurer and a Military student. One on one, single elimination. Despite the healers waiting in the wings, and the tournament rules to stop short of a “lethal strike”, it wasn’t uncommon for somebody to get seriously hurt. I glanced through the group multiple times, but Sylvana wasn’t among them. I hadn’t actually seen her since our trip to the killing field - she wasn’t showing up for classes, and she wasn’t going to the cafeteria either. I knew because I’d waited around there all day for her. I really wanted to see her again, to check on how she was doing.

Not that I thought I could console her or anything.

It’s okay babe, people die every day.

My expression darkened in anger. Napoleon caught a look at my face and flinched.

Wasn’t for you champ… but now that you mention it…

“Fight!” announced the Unarmed Combat instructor, the only other person sharing the center of the arena with the combatants.

After a single parry, I could tell that this wasn’t going to be much of a challenge.

The form of his swing wasn’t bad - there just wasn’t much power behind it.

I could’ve gone for a graceful battle, a delicate repartee of blades culminating in a lightspeed, paper-thin stroke stopping just short of his throat, to the delight of the crowd and the creaming of the wenches.

But today wasn’t that day.

I charged the poor kid full-steam-ahead and bashed him with my shield. Like an oily dominos pizza, he toppled backwards roughly onto the ground, sword raised, ready to retaliate.

I dropped my sword and caught his arm as he swung. The blade struck my helmet with a pathetic dinging that didn’t even faze me. I snarled, mounting his torso like it was prom night and started repeatedly smashing my shield into his face. His helmet cockblocked me from doing any real damage, so I grabbed it by the stupid fucking plume and wrenched it free of his head.

“I yield!” Napoleon whimpered.

“I didn’t hear no bell.” I growled, and smashed his face with my shield again.

This time, the first hit turned his nose into a snout. The next couple fucked his eyes up, and eventually his arms went limp.

I kept going.

It had been so long since I was this much in control of anything.

“Bradley! Stop!” the instructor shouted, grabbing me from behind.

I got one more whack in for good measure, prompting scattered booing from the crowd.

Oh, fuck off. This little shit would’ve done the exact same to me.

Lookit mom! Look what I did to the mean Calderan! Aren’t I such a badass? PRAISE ME!

“Restrain yourself! This is about showing your skills, not hurting other students!” the instructor warned me as he held my hand up to signal that I was the victor.

“I will.” I promised.

I’ll practice just as much restraint as Burt does. How about that?

Burt and I were right next to each other in the brackets, meaning I’d be facing off against him in the next round. Provided that he wiped the floor with his own first-round opponent - a short, nervous guppy of a kid whose eyes just about bugged out of his head as he and Burt were ushered forward.

“Good luck.” I smirked at Burt as I passed him on my way out. “Looks like a challenge for you.”

“Pray for me.” he answered, cracking his neck and stretching his shoulders.

Nobody knows what became of the nervous guppy that day, but they say his spirit still lingers in the Coliseum to this day, reminding students to choke up on their shortswords.

---

 

I’m glad there wasn’t a clock in the waiting room, because that thing would have been crawling.

It was a large stone enclosure underneath the stands by the entrance - impossible to miss if you wanted to stop by and wish someone special well. All around me, a diminishing collection of combatants were clustered together with their families.

Unburdened as I was with family and friends, I would have to bear this anticipation by myself.

You could definitely tell who the Military kids were - they all had the same short haircut, while the Adventuring students tended to let theirs run wild. Even Clayton, crouching in a corner by himself, had gotten a bit shaggy since the beginning of the school year. I caught sight of Stella and tried to picture her with a blue-yellow pixie buzz cut, the short hairstyle accentuating her horns even more. I grinned at the imagery just as she looked at me, and she returned a short, confused wave.

Does this mean… I’m off douchebag cooldown, and I can talk to her again?

I could use someone to talk to right now.

My thoughts until then had been completely focused on Burt, flashing with images of things that might - but probably wouldn’t - happen. Hit ‘em with the ol’ one-two… then three, four, five, six, seven, EIGHT, NINE, TEN!!!

Try that ten times, you fucking bastard.

You’re gonna need to re-take that test of manhood when I’m done with you.

I had no idea if I was going to win our fight, but I knew with absolute certainty that I was going to hurt him. I had a special plan just for him that I’d been brewing for weeks. Looking around the waiting room, I could see some of the fighters fidgeting nervously, glancing around and checking their armor repeatedly. I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t afraid of being called. I couldn’t wait for it - I was practically jumping out of my skin with anticipation.

As expected, Burt returned from the fight shortly after me, and took a seat near Stella, prompting Clayton to relocate to them.

Is it me, or… do Stella and Clayton really not like each other?

Finally, after theoretically disemboweling Burt for the hundredth time, the proctor finally shattered the tedium.

“Bradley! Burt! To the arena!”

My pulse pounded, and my mouth went dry. Instinctively, I checked around for Burt. I caught his face, plastered with delicious anticipation mirroring my own. 

It was too perfect.

For a second, the mask slipped and my own feelings reflected right back at him. Something flickered across his face, but nothing strong enough for him to slow his advance towards me.

“Hey shrimp. Let me tell you something real quick.” he said when he reached me, his tone quick and uneven.

“I know we don’t get along much - but let’s make a deal. No swords. Make things interesting, right?” he asked with an evil grin.

“Deal. You drop first.” I answered.

The funny thing was, I liked his offer. With swords, the whole match can end with one quick little stroke or thrust to a “critical zone”. Fuck that. My second round was gonna go the exact same way as my first - the only question was whether I’d be the one on top or on bottom.

“I will. Because it doesn’t matter if you drop or not. I’m beating your ass either way.” Burt answered.

“I killed a Duodon with my bare hands, Burt. You’re nothing.” I spat.

I might have said that one a little loud, because the people around us started to mutter.

“Hey - can I watch their match?” one of the combatants asked the proctor, raising his hand.

“Participants will wait here until called.” came the reply.

I noticed then that Burt wasn’t wearing a helmet.

Cocky prick! Doesn’t even think he’ll need it?

Against all sane instincts, I decided to follow his lead and leave my own helmet in the waiting room as well. For better or for worse, everyone in the stadium was going to know us and recognize us after today.

There was more than one waiting room in the arena, but fate had assigned Burt and I to the same one, so we had to share what should have been another isolated, brooding march through the tunnel into the arena, stealing each others’ applause as we emerged.

I couldn’t tell what anybody was shouting out into the cacophony, but I got a faint impression of the syllable Burt hanging in the air. My god damn imagination would kill me in my sleep if it could.

Just as before, one combatant walked away victoriously from the arena as we entered, while another was carted hurriedly away towards the overburdened medical staff.

I couldn’t help but notice that not a single one of them knew healing magic - they were just doing typical combat first-aid stuff.

Where the FUCK is Sylvana?!

I glanced around the arena one more time, just in case I’d missed her.

Can’t be that hard to find somebody with bright pink -

HAIR!

A flash of pink caught my attention, and I zeroed in on the elf-ess herself, standing in the middle of a bunch of other adventuring students, wringing her hands nervously. We locked eyes, and I raised my sword to her. Her mouth moved, and an arrow of something shot through the Burt cloud.

“...healers are out of juice! No maiming or excess force - or you’ll be disqualified!” the instructor warned once we reached center stage, facing each other.

“You got it boss.” Burt said, tossing his sword aside.

A collective oooooh arose from the crowd.

Not to be outdone, I followed suit, hurling my blade all the way to the edge of the arena, getting an even bigger reaction from the stands - the underdog’s in on it too!

Burt grinned, impressed.

Then he walked back over to his sword and picked it up.

No fucking way…

The crowd started to laugh. And you know what? I laughed right along with them.

But before we could get too far into it, Burt reared back and hurled his own sword, getting it a bit closer to the edge than mine.

Touche, douche.

I say a lot of shit about Burt, but I’ve gotta give it to him: he’s a man of his word.

This was really gonna happen. 

We were really gonna have a full-frontal, uncensored, shitfuck brawl in front of the whole damn city.

“Fight!” The instructor shouted.

I raised my shield protectively in front of me.

I’d purposely left plenty of space in between me and Burt, so while he advanced towards me briskly, it still took him some time to cover the distance.

Besides, it’s not like he was rushing or sprinting towards me or anything - he was savoring this.

Too bad for him - he should have hauled ass straight at me as soon as the fight started.

Because behind my outstretched shield, a pale blue light emanated from my hand.

The force was there as well - massive, but not overwhelming. It was hard as fuck for me to do this without the dagger, but if I pushed with all my might, the projectile floating just in front of my palm grew.

Burt was mere feet away from me, already starting to dance with his feet a bit, preparing to take his first swing, gauging whether he should jab on his unarmed side or go for a shield bash. His eyes were wild, his face twitching madly, reacting to my every motion.

Too late.

The ice missile reached critical capacity, and I dropped my shield, aiming my palm at his dome.

His eyes shot open, and his mouth formed a perfect O - for an instant, his face looked exactly like one of those skee ball games. Needing no further visual inspiration, I fired, beaning him directly in the face.

Unlike my first-round opponent, Burt wasn’t made of pizza, so he didn’t fall over immediately.

But his torso quickly decided that would be a good idea when I darted forward and suggested it with my shield.

He rolled as soon as he hit the ground, but I tracked his motion and gave him a clean punt in the head with my boot. He thrashed, attempting to kick out with both legs, but I fell on top of him like it was prom night and turned his face into my second picasso of the day. Heavy on the red paint.

Once again, the instructor had to wrestle me off of Burt.

And once again,  I couldn’t resist - I twisted out of his grip and landed back on Burt’s cringing body, hammering away once more with my wrist shackle, shield… fuck it, forehead.

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!...

Multiple sets of arms grabbed me and finally managed to wrestle me free.

“Bradley Razzetti - Disqualified!” I heard some artistically-challenged douche say from behind me.

I was barely paying attention, though.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the wreckage of Burt’s face, even as I was dragged away.

I hope there’s something in there that they can’t fix with magic.

Cunt.