Shirasil’s mark flares with a pulse of warmth against my skin as I pass through the doorframe. I step out onto a branch, which bows beneath my feet. The movement shakes my balance, and I instinctively grab a nearby branch. But it’s with the wrong hand—my injured fingers slip off, and I nearly topple over, only managing to save myself as I throw my other arm around one of the crossbeams, leaning on it heavily.

Cyros’s eyes widen at my appearance. “Where—”

I put a finger to my lips, jerking my head upward, lifting my gaze. Cyros snaps his mouth shut and glances up toward Widengra as well.

“The rest of you have an opportunity to prove your worthiness,” Widengra’s voice drifts down to reach us. “Additionally, due to a recent opening, I will be selecting two of you to become Champions. However, I require proof of your commitment. I will not accept anyone as soft as Maru turned out to be. Therefore, the qualifications are this: whoever brings me the most heads in the next two minutes will become my champion.”

Ice pours through me. He can’t be serious, can he? No one can be that cruel and senseless.

Except the god of blood.

And there’s plenty of blood to be harvested here. A whole stadium full of it—including Iski and Gugora’s.

I can see the horror dawning over Cyros’s face, too. I hold my hand out to him.

“And… begin!” Widengra says.

“Hurry!” I urge Cyros.

He takes my hand. I pivot on my heels, pulling Cyros back toward the door.

Wood explodes around us. Slivers shoot through the air, and light spills across our perch. My foot slips from the branch, and I’m going down. I snatch for a crossbeam, but once again my maimed hand slips away.

I activate the Noxious Gauntlet. The misty claw appears, and the hand latches around the beam. My weight falls onto my arm at the same moment, nearly yanking my shoulder from its socket. I let out a cry, but the gauntlet holds.

“What’s this?” Widengra’s voice chases us from above, and terror seizes my chest. “Two little mice, listening in.”

Cyros springs around me, vines jumping into place around his feet. He heaves me upright by my good arm. I use the moment to stumble forward and toward Shirasil’s door. I feel Cyros’s arm go taut behind me, stuttering to an uncertain stop, but I yank him after me anyway.

“Don’t stop!” I cry.

“But what’s—”

“Whoever brings me that girl’s head will become my first champion,” Widengra says.

I dive through the door, dragging Cyros after me. “No time!”

I hit the floor of the storage room, and a thud tells me Cyros has, too. I leap to my feet and spin around. Cyros is looking around, bewildered, but it’s the forest that has my attention. A woman has dropped down from the stadium floor and is dashing along the tree branches. A moment later, another candidate joins her.

I rush forward, grabbing the door and slamming it shut. The door rattles in its frame, then goes still.

“What was that!” Cyros demands, spinning around. “Where are we? How did that door appear! What’s going on?”

“A trick of the gods,” I tell him, cautiously watching the door. The closed side remains shut. I’ll just have to hope it’s no longer accessible on Widengra’s side. The left half of the door is open, however, still displaying a view of the crowd and, more importantly, Iski and Gugora.

Shirasil had known about them, that’s clear. He must have been following me and learning about my life for the last month at least. But does Widengra know they mean something to me? Will he go after them?

It doesn’t matter; as long as they’re out there with the god and his candidates, they aren’t safe.

“Come on,” I say, beckoning Cyros toward the open door. “We don’t have much time. Help me!”

“What is going on?” Cyros repeats, bewildered. Even so, he follows me hesitantly toward the door. “A trick of the gods? Sal, your hand!”

I look down at the Noxious Gauntlet, which I still have activated. I consider turning it off then and there, disgusted with myself for already relying on Shirasil’s ‘gift.’ But as much as I hate who it came from, I need it to help Iski and Gugora. I’ll deal with the consequences of that choice when we’re not fighting for our lives.

“I’ll explain later,” I tell him. “Right now, we’ve got about three minutes until Widengra leaves. In that time, his candidates might slaughter everyone in the stadium. You can stay here, but I have people I need to help. You in, or what?”

Cyros sobers. “Tell me what to do.”

“Come on.” I jump through the open door, and out into the stadium.

Sound erupts around me once more, this time the chaos of a stadium screaming instead of cheering, full of fear instead of excitement. I glance back to see Cyros jump through as well. The door doesn’t disappear; it stays open, half embedded in one of the seats. Hopefully, until I need to close it, it’ll stay that way.

“Iski!” I call, rushing over to them. “Gugora!”

They turn in surprise, and I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I’m alive or that I’m soaked head-to-toe in blood that’s causing their shocked looks. Maybe both.

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“Sal!” Iski says, relieved. “We thought—”

“We need to get out of here,” I cut her off. “Widengra’s candidates—”

“We know,” Gugora says. “We have to get to shelter.”

“This way,” I say, gesturing them back with me. “Through the door!”

Her eyes widen. “What is that? Where did it come from?”

“No time,” I say. “It’s a way out. No one can get through once you close the door. Hurry, both of you!”

“But what about everyone else?” Iski says.

“We’ll get as many to come through with us as we can,” Gugora says.

I want to scream. Of course they’d want to help others. “It won’t matter if one of the candidates follows you through! Then no one will be safe.”

“I can help guard the door,” Cyros offers. “I should be able to stop anyone who gets too close. At least while I have the element of surprise on my side.” He pulls his cloak tighter around himself, obscuring the weapons at his waist. Acting wide-eyed and fearful like everyone else, no one would know he was an assassin.

And I don’t have time to argue.

“Fine,” I relent. “Be careful. Hurry!” I turn to leave.

“Wait,” Gugora calls after, even as Iski is jumping through the crowd like an antelope, directing people toward the strange doorway. “Where are you going?”

“To slow them down,” I say. It’s me Widengra wants. And if I can draw some of the candidates away from Iski and Gugora, all the better.

Echo, how much longer until Widengra’s time limit is up? I ask.

[That information is not publicly available,] she replies.

I grind my teeth. Well how much time has elapsed since Shirasil left?

[Eighty-two seconds.]

And Shirasil had said Widengra only had four minutes left before he’d be forced to leave the mortal realm.

Subtract eighty-two seconds from four minutes and start a timer, I tell Echo.

[Starting a 158 second timer,] Echo says.

The numbers blink to life in the corner of my vision: that will have to do. But those numbers are much too high; anything could happen in half the time.

“I need a weapon,” I say, looking around.

All I can make out is the panicked chaos of the crowd. Across the stadium there’s a wave of people scattering in every direction—like ants fleeing from a drop of rain—which is where one of the candidates must have landed in the audience. I’ll just have to hope they stay over there as long as possible. But that doesn’t account for the other candidates. There’s still too much time left. Way too much time.

I dodge through the crowd, scaling the benches three at a time as I leap between the fleeing audience and make my way quickly to the top. I keep an eye out for any weapons that might have been dropped, but belatedly realize I’m heading in the wrong direction; there are far more likely to be weapons beneath the stadium, in the practice rooms or with the other candidates (dead or alive).

Up here, various booths sprinkle the canopy of the stadium, selling food and drinks and souvenirs. Certainly no weapons shops. But—wait—

I dash over to a noodle stall where a vendor seems to have been halfway through chopping up a large cooked bird with a butcher cleaver before the chaos broke out. He’s presently hesitating behind the counter, half ducked down and clearly unsure if he should hide or run. I glance at the cleaver, stuck into the chopping block on the counter, and inwardly groan.

“Sorry,” I say, jumping behind his cart.

“Hey!” the dryad protests. “You can’t be—”

“I’ll pay you back!” I promise, ripping the knife from the block.

“Hey!” he cries again, this time angry.

I don’t stick around to hear what he says after that.

The knife feels heavy and unbalanced in my grasp. Most of the knives in the Starlight were smaller and used for chopping vegetables. But it’s a knife, so my Knifework skill still applies, and right about now I’d be willing to take a fork and whisk if offered.

Something rockets into the benches nearby, exploding into shards of ice. I duck, shielding my face, realizing I’m doing so with the Noxious Gauntlet and can see right through it.

A candidate stands halfway down the stands, spiky spheres of hail floating above each hand. She lobs another crystal into the audience, and it shatters on impact, spraying the surrounding crowd with shards of ice, leaving dozens injured and screaming.

She’s also heading in the direction of Iski and Gugora’s door.

I leap down the stadium, feeling stronger, more energized, more resilient than ever. I don’t know if that’s the adrenaline, the level up, or whatever the hell Shirasil did, but I do know I need to seize the moment before the feeling passes. I don’t have any potions left; I don’t have any spells or magic swords. Just this knife in my hand and the hate in my heart.

The candidate notices me when I’m nearly on top of her. I guess she hadn’t been expecting anyone to challenge her, and the surprise on her face makes me smile. She throws an arm out toward me, and a spear of ice races in my direction.

I dodge to the side, slashing at the attack with the cleaver. The spear shatters into dozens of harmless shards as I continue my advance. She summons two more spheres of ice and launches them at me as well. My knife smashes through the first, but I’m too slow to bring it around and block the second; it crashes into my shoulder, spinning me around and knocking a gasp from my lungs.

[4 points of Bludgeoning damage sustained.]

[Status Effect sustained: Frozen]

A prickling sensation begins to radiate from my shoulder, spreading across my chest and down my arm. The knife slips from my hand as my fingers grow tingly and cold, and I scramble to pick it up with the Noxious Gauntlet instead. I awkwardly hold it in front of me. I’m not used to wielding with my offhand—let alone with a hand that’s made of some weird kind of mist. Too close to back off now, however. All I can do is press forward.

The candidate smiles. Probably because of my fumble, but I can still hope she’s just generally arrogant. I dash forward, and she raises a shield of ice between us. I slash across the surface, carving away a spray of frost, but my knife sticks in the material and lurches to a stop.

I try to yank it out, but my gauntlet slips from the handle. I grab it with both hands next, but I can’t even feel anything with my frozen hand anymore.

The ice spears around my knife and toward my grip. It passes through the Noxious Gauntlet as if it were truly as insubstantial as mist, but grabs the real fingers underneath. An icy chill lances up my arm. I let out an alarmed cry and try to pull back. My frozen arm comes free, but for the gauntlet arm, it’s too late: the ice already has its hold on me.

I smash at the ice with my free hand, but the growing crystalline structure is already too thick to break. Panic wells up inside me as I realize I’m pinned: a sitting duck.

I Check Echo’s timer: 73 seconds. Still plenty of time to die.

I need another weapon. I need magic. I need to be stronger—something, anything that can help me!

A notification blinks in the corner of my vision: the class evolution. I still haven’t made a choice. Could it help me here? Is it the power-up I need to live another day?

My mind races as I consider the options. Rabid Blade, Bane Alchemist, Culinary Rogue. The first two could help me in this fight. They’re what Shirasil recommended.

The Blade class would give me +20 to Accuracy with Bladed Weapons, which could help me here. The Alchemist class was mostly focused on magic and brewing potions, but its +5 Resistance to debuffs would help raise my defense against things like this ice status effect. Maybe enough for me to break free.

And then there’s the Culinary Rogue. Shirasil had dismissed it as a bad joke. So had I. But with a +25 to Accuracy with Kitchen-Related tools, and +10 Resistance to any temperature related debuffs, this class can become more powerful than the other two combined in very specific situations.

Like the situation I’m in now.

The ice user steps out behind her wall, grinning as she sees me caught in her trap.

No time for me to deliberate. I mentally make my choice.

Echo, activate my class evolution, I hurriedly think. Now. Quick!

A warmth washes over me.

[Evolving Class.]