“I should disapprove that Teyla did not intervene immediately upon Vimi being silenced,” Miyo mumbled. “I, however, cannot summon my empathy for the cowardly queen. She gives my position a negative reputation.”

“I think it's good to have a referee with a sense for karma,” Rykard answered and got up. “Now, let’s get this show wrapped up.” A blink and he found himself standing opposite Benhuldran. “Anything you’d like to say to me before we try to beat each other to death?”

“You already know all I wish to say.”

“Any chance you’d let me have a first hit?”

Benhuldran scoffed, then summoned his helmet. The knight was immediately enveloped in grey light. Resplendent shield and glowing blade at the ready, he faced Rykard, every armament at the ready from the beginning. “Let us fight like gentlemen!”

“Not in it for another cock shot?” Rykard rolled his neck.

The click of the fingers announced the beginning of the battle.

Rykard took it as a sign of respect that Benhuldran made the first move. The general charged with swift steps, bridging the distance in a second. In that same second, Rykard decided on his strategy.

The shield swung towards the mage’s face, a strike that Rykard managed to narrowly avoid. A fluid lunge followed immediately and there too did the sovereign dodge. Third in the series of hits was a tackle with the right shoulder.

They made first contact. Rykard raised both hands, to counter-shove against the tackle. Before it could become a contest of strength or speed, he let go and used the space won to step back a number of steps. For just a moment, Benhuldran hesitated to give chase.

Rykard was using a strategy so basic, so dull, that combatants on their level rarely engaged in it. Usually, there were ways to circumvent it and, doubtlessly, the general was considering his options. The grey flames prickled on Rykard’s skin, but he could endure them. He could endure a flurry of blows too. That was the strategy: to prove that he had the longer breath.

Faced with that, Benhuldran had a few choices. He could play it similarly defensively or he could use Rykard’s passive approach to go for a decisive strike.

The knight’s choice was evident in the silver of his blade. Rykard had to duck under the elongating blade. Smirking, the king fell on his back, avoiding the backswing of the light blade. Benhuldran stabbed on the floored opponent. Rykard rolled onto the side, then rolled three more times to avoid earth-cutting slice that followed.

Laying on his side, head resting on his knuckles, Rykard looked up at the knight. “Is age getting to you?” he asked the older man.

“Juvenile cur!” Benhuldran shouted. His blade was now more light than metal. The aura boomed and burned the nearby tree roots. Rykard pushed against it with the minimum necessary force, then hastily jumped to his feet.

The knight charged. A slice overhead was just the first of a flurry of blows that followed. Hands in his pockets, but expression deeply concentrated, Rykard wove in between. Silver strikes illuminated the midnight, each a crescent brighter than the ever-full moon above. Step for step for step, Rykard ceded ground. None that watched would have thought for a moment he was on the back foot.

Any one of the wide, arching swings would have been devastating if they hit. Rykard’s complete lack of countermeasures invited the kind of attacks that were meant to finish a fight on every swing. Blows that could have killed a lesser man and seriously hurt the sovereign if they hit. Alas, they did not.

Benhuldran drew his sword back overhead. Too far, too slow, and too ambitious a motion even in this scenario. Casually, Rykard kicked at the knight’s feet. Benhuldran fell.

Rykard capitalized immediately. In his younger years, long before they had ousted him for his might, he used to play a game with his siblings about kicking a ball into a goal. Finding two conveniently aligned trees nearby, he now drew his leg back, hands still in his pockets, and kicked the side of the man with all the force he had to offer.

‘GOAL!’ Rykard thought, when the skipping knight went clattering and rattling between the trees. ‘One point for me.’ “You really ought to skip up your cardio, Ben. Have you considered public sex? Does wonders for a core workout.”

Huffing and puffing, the general fought to get back on his feet. “You’re almost… as…. smug as… Maliande.”

“Humility was never my strong suit,” Rykard rolled his shoulders. “Shall we continue?”

Taking a deep breath, the laboured rhythm already largely evened, Benhuldran straightened up. “Do your worst.”

“If you insist.” Taking a hand out of his pocket, Rykard put the knight in the palm of his hand. A perspective thing alone - yet so much more. Clenching his fist, the mage ripped open the boundary where his fingers had surrounded the knight. Black blotches gave birth to dark tendrils.

Aura flaring, Benhuldran made the tendrils shrivel up before they could touch him. Warcry on his lips, the knight charged.

Dragging his fist through the veil, Rykard tore open the ground behind the knight’s step. A dimensional tear opened and the limbs of other things reached out of the Conjuration Realm. Constructs as much Rykard’s will as otherworldly magic reached for the back of the knight, trying to catch him.

Suction cups attached to the radiant armour, only to be ripped off by holy fire and sheer force. Rykard kept pulling his arm back. Muscles strained under his tight clothes, the supernatural resistance growing stronger with every centimetre. Still he continued and still the darkness trailed after Benhuldran.

For every tendril shaken off, there were two more. The expanding gulf gave birth to more and more of the conjured limbs, all of them stretching to catch the knight. Benhuldran’s cape fluttered. He sacrificed his shield to one particularly bothersome tendril. He kept on storming. He was mere steps from Rykard. He gripped his sword with both hands. The tip was pointed at Rykard’s heart. He lunged.

And stopped.

Over a dozen tendrils were wrapped around his limbs, stretched to their extremity like taut fibers. Benhuldran strained, the tip of his blade so close to Rykard, yet so far. “Bad enough?” Rykard asked and gave the man a shove.

Benhuldran was ripped backwards by the tendrils. The grey light was swallowed. Conjured limbs fused into an inky black ocean, roiling and churning around the sovereign’s enemy.

Rykard took several steps back. It wasn’t over yet. Already he could see the bubbles and foam forming. The knight would try to break free.

‘Best stop him from doing that then,’ the mage thought. This time, he put the crushing mass of tentacles in his palm. Slowly, gradually, he closed his fingers into a fist. Mana flowed out through his body. The tendrils swelled in size and might, managing to push back the power trying to rip through them.

Almost, Rykard had clenched his hand, when he met metaphysical resistance. It was as if his fingers clenched around a marble. Then, it was as if his fingers clenched around an egg made of granite.

Light broke through the surface of the empowered tendrils. Rykard grit his teeth and forced his grip tighter. The cracks narrowed, then burst right back open. More mana flowed into the conjured limbs. More grey light came from within. Gold mixed into it. The resistance against the inside of the mage’s fingers grew until he could hold it no longer.

Painfully harsh, his fist snapped open, the recoil shooting down to his wrist. The tendrils crystallized, as if all moisture was suddenly pushed from them, then shattered like a glass dome.

Out charged Benhuldran. Every impurity had been burned from his gleaming armour. The manifold scratches it had acquired over the years shimmered like marks of honour. Immediately focused on Rykard, the knight continued to trample through the black dust of the fading conjurations.

Rykard still reared from the loss of the spell. He tried to put something new together. It wouldn’t be done in time. He could only rip up his arm and knock the hand holding the blade aside. Miraculously, that worked, but it left him wide open. Benhuldran’s right slammed into the mage’s face with all of the force of the charge.

Stumbling backwards, Rykard shook his head. For a moment, annoyance shot through him. Then, a gleeful smile took its place. “It would be boring if it was too easy,” he said and spat out red-tinted saliva. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Benhuldran calmly picked up his shield and resumed his battle stance.

“Fine, no talking then.” Rykard grabbed the vial of Mutagen on his belt. The clasping mechanism loosened when he gave it a firm tug. Swiftly, he raised it to his mouth and-

Benhuldran lunged. His sword extended. Silver and golden light, forming a lance. Rykard threw himself to the side at the last moment. His throat was spared, but the vial of mutagen was shattered. The magical liquid dropped uselessly on the ground.

Rykard did not fare much better. He landed on his side. Immediately, he went for a roll. This time, intuition failed him. There was no teasing the focused knight at this juncture, no goading him into wasting his energies. With terrible precision, Benhuldran sent out a slicing wave of holy light.

It caught Rykard in the stomach. Cloth and skin were cut before he could weave defensive magics inside him that dispersed the cut. What could have been a fatal wound turned into three side-by-side gut punches. Incredibly unpleasant, damaging still, but not immediately worrisome.

Barely on his feet, Rykard was blinded by a wave of gleaming light from the knight’s shield. He knew the charge was coming, yet was blind to its timing and direction. Harshly, the edge of the defensive armament caught the mage in the jaw. A stab in his shoulder immediately followed.

Growling, Rykard refused to take more damage than that. Even without Mutagen, he could induce some change. Against the better instinct of any human, he bit the inside of his cheek harshly enough to draw blood, then pumped mana into his veins. The gash in his mouth closed immediately, as did the deep wound in his shoulder.

The speed of his recovery was enough to surprise Benhuldran. The two large men engaged in a swift bout, one armed with sword and shield, the other with fists and reinforced muscles. Although disadvantaged, Rykard held his own well enough to only take minor damage from the exchange of blows.

Benhuldran swung his weapon sideways. Rykard caught his fist. Benhuldran attempted a shield bash. Rykard put the flat of his hand on the polished surface. Both of the mage’s palms burned where he touched the blessed armour directly. The Contenders pushed against each other with growing intensity, then simultaneously shoved, driving each other apart. Inelegantly, they stumbled back, nearly fell, caught themselves, and stared across the divide.

Likely sensing that any gap between them would not be to his advantage, Benhuldran charged once more.

‘I’ve had about enough of this.’

Energy swelled up inside Rykard. Mana in its purest form travelled through the magical circuits, to the tips of his fingers. Arcane, the energy emerged. Into destruction, it was shaped. Mana became fire. Fire swelled. The projectile whistled as it flew at the charging knight.

“No way…” Benhuldran managed to whisper, just before the fireball struck him in the chest.

Condensed destructive energy first carried the man with it, making him fly several metres, before exploding in a wave of heat. Red and hot, the fire rose in a pillar. Ash and dust were carried up on hot winds. “You thought I was just a summoner?” Rykard shouted over the burning. “I thought I told you, told all of you - I came to this world only accompanied by my queen!”

Breaking out from the smoke, Benhuldran flew towards Rykard. The armour on his chest had dented and melted from the impact, the rest of him was covered in soot, but he was still moving. Having leapt, he flew at Rykard at immense speed.

The fireball in Rykard’s second hand reached the zenith of its power. “Bold strategy,” the mage stated drily, then hurled the second Destruction spell at the knight.

Whatever aerial manoeuvrability Benhuldran had, it was not sufficient. The second fireball struck just as true as the first, sending the knight flying off again. Having charged longer, its devastation was even greater. The knight was sent flying up into the air, before the whistling projectile exploded with enough force to bend the trees first one way, then another.

Like a smouldering piece of debris, Benhuldran fell. Harsh, he landed on the ground, his chestplate shattering into pieces as he bounced over the ground. Leaving black particles in his wake, the knight kept on skidding for several metres, before finally coming to a halt.

He laid there.

Rykard stared. He did not trust this. It had been too smooth and he had been slapped around enough for his liking. Benhuldran remained there, gaps in his armour expelling smoke. The aura of light around him had vanished. The seconds ticked. The minute got closer.

“Ten…” Teyla began the countdown.

Benhuldran’s fingers gripped a handful of dirt. He pushed himself off the ground and growled. “You truly are powerful, young man.” Groaning and coughing he fought himself halfway onto his legs. Shoulders and legs of his armour glowed, then lend that light to his exposed torso. The plate of the knight appeared once again in all of its splendour. It looked out of place, fresh and glowing, without all the scratches of the previous one. All other parts of the armour were covered in soot. “Once more… into battle…” he said to himself.

Rykard watched the old knight walk. The steps were weak and uncertain at first. Every stride was stronger than the last. Vitality was decreasing, power waning, but the will of the general remained unbroken and for people like them, that was all that was needed to keep on going.

“You compared me to Maliande earlier.” Little bits of lightning danced between Rykard’s fingers. “Let’s see how you think we compare beyond our attitude!”

The mage’s hand shot forwards and electricity answered. Where the fire had whistled, the magical thunder roared. Benhuldran swayed to side in reaction. Not nearly enough to escape the spell.

Arms were thrown wide open. Electric energies crackled through the knight. Every muscle convulsed within the armour, causing it all to rattle. Rykard upped the voltage further, until the blue arcs glowed with such intensity that they burned themselves into his retina. Benhuldran could not even twitch at that point. He stood, paralysed by the might of the mage’s spell.

Rykard only stopped because his magical circuits began to strain under the effort to keep the spell up. Fresh smoke rose from the gaps in the armour. Benhuldran collapsed to his knees. “You really are tough,” Rykard acknowledged, his tone completely sincere, “but this is over.”

“It’s not… over… until… it is… over…” Benhuldran disagreed. He planted first one foot down, then the other. Shambling, swaying, but standing all the same, he stared at Rykard through the gap in his helmet. “Perseverance… is its own… reward…”

Rykard sighed. “Stubborn knight.”

Benhuldran did not react to the words. A deep draw of fresh air announced the acceleration of the man’s motions. He ran as fast as he could.

The blade might as well have been cutting through water.

Effortlessly, Rykard stepped aside. He turned, while the exhausted general stumbled past him. Catching himself before he could hit the ground, Benhuldran turned around. Heavy breaths filled the air. The radiant aura flared. Golden light ebbed away mid-motion.

Rykard took a half step forwards. Unable to stop himself, Benhuldran slammed into the raised arm. “That’s enough,” Rykard spoke, letting the taller man’s weight slump against him. “You’ve done all and more that could be asked of you. Rest.”

Half a resistant groan faded into a soft exhale. The last light of the old knight’s armour ebbed away. All of his weight now rested on Rykard. The mage pat the back of the general in a brotherly gesture. Gently, he lowered him to the ground, putting him on his back.

The arena was silent. Everyone awaited the inevitable. Teyla made the announcement. “Benhuldran has not moved for a full minute! The victor of the tournament is Rykard!”

The mage rolled his neck and allowed himself a proud smirk. This was the final confirmation he had needed and proof to everyone else about his position. There were still four other contestants to meet, which offered the chance for surprises. Similarly, now that his power was known, an alliance forming to take him out was a very real possibility. Aiming for the person at the top was ever the most popular strategy to elevate one’s own standing in a game.

“We shall now allocate the Ocean Tiles,” Teyla announced, after teleporting Rykard out of the arena and into the loving arms of Miyo. The redhead showered him in kisses, as the Twinned Goddess continued to talk. “The order of the distribution shall go as such: Maliande, Altana, Vimi, Tess, Benhuldran and finally Rykard! Do keep in mind that your Ocean Tiles must be connected.”