The Fighting Pit, the other Villages clearing the way for Byzantium, the crowd screaming at them to enter the arena.

Loki glanced back at The Tyrant, whose eyes were rapidly darting about the battlefield, memorising the terrain, sizing up the opponent, strategising.

The Tyrant had been awakened by the scent of blood.

Ah, thought Loki, receiving an answer to an unresolved question.

From the reports he'd gathered, Byzantium had experienced a rapid improvement yesterday, winning a Village Deathbrawl with zero casualties. Additionally, The Tyrant's 6-man squad had been undergoing intensive training. Both of these indicated that Loki's old foe had begun to take command of the Village.

The rationale behind this, Loki had been unable to determine with certainty. The most probable explanation had been that certain stages of The Tyrant's secret, ultra-difficult quest required extra bodies, and training noobs would avoid rousing suspicion. However, if The Tyrant were going to demonstrate his talents here, in public, this explanation and many others were sidelined by one that was far more straightforward. The Tyrant had a compulsion, an addiction to command, even in this inconsequential setting.

Internally, Loki cackled with laughter. From dominating the blood-drenched fields of war, to organising a glorified mudwrestling match in Suchi, one couldn't invent a more pathetic downfall. It almost made him want to cry. But he wouldn't shed a tear, for The Tyrant had imposed this humiliation on himself.

Only the weak of spirit would be so enslaved to their impulses.

Externally, his persona Artemis gave a cool snort, amused as she was by the ten-thousand festival-goers goading her on, by the pressure feebler souls might have felt before the mass.

She marched boldly to the head of the Village and down the ramp into the fighting pit, the Byzantines jogging to catch up behind.

An area had been curtained-off for competitors to change out of the armour forbidden from use in the matches. Artemis was too confident and free-spirited to dampen the mood by ducking away. She lifted her arms like a swan spreading its wings, and her equipment melted back into her Spatial Bracelet. Before she was covered by a Greek-goddess outfit that a Textileworker fan had gifted her, the curvaceous form beneath was exposed, nude except for a sports bra and underwear.

The crowd went wild with deep-toned cheers and hooting.

The Byzantines following in tow mirrored Loki's actions, except for some modest members at the very back, who dipped away. Most of the men stayed in their underwear, while Tyrant remained in his princely sherwani, confident that the enemy would never touch him.

On the muddy battlefield, medics in nurse costumes were running about mending the competitors who'd been injured in the previous round. Other 'medics' with jostling trays were serving beer mugs to the victors.

Byzantium's first opponents were a Malaysian Village. The Shaman leading them, with a bald, egg-shaped head was Suchi's 80th ranked player. In 1v1s, they employed a Rongbitan halberd style, Huatau Spearfish Axe, but tonight they'd switched to a mage-healer role because the backlines provided a wider view of the battlefield for commanding.

The Shaman, their pupils dilated and thumbs deeply-blued by a tenth beer, swore when they recognised Artemis's man-hating gaze. "Bro, are you serious? This chick...I'm too wasted to be dealing with this..."

Artemis sneered. "You've never beaten me while sober either, baldy."

In the stands, a gambler who'd staked all their Slum Points on the Malaysian Village winning The Pitfighting Event sprang to their feet. "Give us a decent match! Even the odds!"

After this call had been echoed by a few more gamblers, it spread throughout the venue, until the mob were howling for Byzantium to 'even the odds', by which they meant get drunk as well.

Loki laughed, both his persona and himself.

Try as the crowd might, they could not convince the stubborn Tyrant to forfeit an advantage, the Tyrant being a miser who always stacked the battlefield in his favour.

But Loki's thought process was somewhat off.

Justinian, a hint of inner turmoil behind his heroic features, sliced the air with determination. "Indeed, noble citizens, beneath the Lord, we stand as equals! Byzantium, even the odds!"

The venue erupted with cheers, the 'medics' brought out more beers, and the Byzantines hammered them back.

"One drink down, but that's not enough!" the mob boomed in a chorus. "How many more will they chug to prove they're tough! Two drinks! Two drinks? Two drinks!"

"Two drinks down, but that's not enough! How many more will they chug to prove they're tough! Three drinks! Three drinks? Three drinks!"

Yes, this was the spirit of The Slums!

Loki was confused.

Why did Justinian make the call? ...The Tyrant often delivered his orders through puppets to preserve his anonymity.

Why would The Tyrant cave to peer pressure? ...Patheticness? ...An extra challenge?

He glanced at The Tyrant, whose eyelids were shut, his mind delving deep into the strategical resources of his Mental Library.

An extra challenge.

Artemis, meanwhile, ignorant of this dynamic, downed the drinks several medics were competing to serve her quickly in a consciously masculine fashion. She refused to ever be called weak by a member of that lesser sex.

Loki would be unaffected by the alcohol, having imbibed a poison-negating potion to preserve his mental functions for maintaining his persona.

When The Tyrant took Justinian aside to talk strategy, the spy, his mind still razor-sharp, used the Bowman ability to zoom in on their faces and read their lips.

The Tyrant, noticing, gave Loki a taunting wink, before shuffling around so that Justinian's back obstructed the view.

Bastard.

What strategy was Loki's foe brewing?

The spy had experienced The Tyrant's commanding prowess many times from both sides of the battlefield.

In Saana II, he'd acted as a Cutthroat scout for Flattening Mountains during The War of Heavenly Mountains, where The Tyrant had controlled a force of 410 thousand to crush the 2.2 million of the game's then-number-one player empire.

In Saana III, Loki'd been a Crusader grunt for The Company at The Third Battle of Nkinhidi, and the opposing Commander at The Collapse of Pulikalon Bridge. He'd also played an Illusionist, his default class, during The Twilight of The Gods campaign, when The Company razed his guild's territories in Heimland.

Under The Tyrant, one felt they were part of something huge, baffling, alarming, but simultaneously perfect, almost religiously so. Against him, one treaded water with a vest of lead in shark-infested seas. Both were exhilarating in their own right.

Why wasn't The Tyrant talking to Justinian through private message?

...

.......

Mind game.

After a while, the two returned, The Tyrant slinking away, while Justinian, with an air of invincible self-confidence, gathered everyone to impart the master plan.

"Long ago..." Justinian suddenly staggered, having been walloped by the full effects of the ten beers. "When Homer, that blind poet of old sang in. In The Odyssey, he sang of two brothers, Teucer and Ajax. These heroes of antiquity, they were. Teucer had a bow. Ajax a spear. A big, demon-killing spear, anointed by holy waters. And a shield. Team Friendship Forever!" He drunkenly swung his arm, his finger not landing anywhere close to a TFF member. "You will be Ajax's shield! You will protect us from God's enemies. Team Green!" Another point that completely missed. "Artemis...is leading you, so you shall be Teucer's bow. Shelter behind the shield! Pick off any enemies who expose themselves! Pierce their lungs! Team Purple! We are.................................................................... Ajax's spear? Let's stab the demons in the heart!"

The Byzantines cheered. "Stab the demons in the heart!"

"Warriors of God!" screamed Justinian.

"Warriors of God!"

Artemis and Loki's sculpted eyebrows were knitted tightly together.

What the %&$& did any of that mean?

Bows? Spears? All of their platoons had squads with mixed team compositions of tanks, scouts, mages, archers, and healers, so the concept of one group playing a distance-role while another tanked was nonsensical.

What was more baffling, the Byzantines were cheering as if they'd understood the message perfectly.

A coded language?

Lady Kitty Kat's father, part of the same team as Artemis, noticed her confusion. "Don't read too far into it. When Justinian's," he hiccuped, "when he's rambling, just go wherever he points. Us," hiccup, "he wants us to stand on that stack of wood."

The man pointed at a mound of planks about three metres high at its apex.

It seemed like an awful strategical position to Loki.

The spellcasting cover was poor, and the plank mound was quite close to the line dividing the pit battleground into halves...they would be wasting the bulk of their starting territory...

The Tyrant must be wanting to engage the enemy fast and overwhelm them with speed. Indeed, with his capabilities, a quicker, more chaotic battle would be to his advantage.

Artemis, too vain to give into her drunkenness, nodded as if she understood. "A good spot to rain death!"

She set her platoon up on the plank mound, the other two arranging themselves at its base.

Loki couldn't identify the formation. A new invention by The Tyrant for Tier-0?

Artemis bossily directed the squads under her command around herself for protection. Since she lacked group-combat experience, she accidentally arranged them in a bunched up manner that would cause problems with magical Energy overconsumption.

To Loki's surprise, none of his subordinates corrected her mistake.

Artemis's fame scared them from refuting her? Would The Tyrant micro-manage them?

Despite his ever-growing uncertainty, his outward persona strode confidently onto the apex of the plank mound.

Standing high above all others, Artemis summoned a Mithrilwood bow custom-made for her by a Woodworker fan. Its limbs were slender and plain, without a single notch, yet this lack of ornamentation seemed to make the bow more beautiful, like the arm of a girl with skin so soft and blemishless that any jewellery or tattoo could only detract from its natural perfection. If not for the scornful gaze of the woman wielding the bow, one would have no hint at the number who'd perished to its arrows.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The goddess was ready for the hunt.

When the crowd began to shower her with love and encouragement, Loki was distracted from his inner questions.

Most players in Saana considered him a villain for the many events and guilds he'd sabotaged, yet now the plebs were unwittingly worshipping him. No doubt, some of these losers would go to bed tonight with dirty thoughts of him exposing himself earlier, oblivious to him being a crossdresser.

Hahahahaha...this multi-angled irony had always been one of his favourite parts of espionage.

Artemis delighting in her boyfriend's jealousy when this footage reached him, Loki delighting in the sense of disgust and betrayal these fans would feel on the day of his reveal, they blew a kiss to the fans, causing a couple of virgins to clutch their chests.

The plebs having received their show, she fixed her huntress gaze on the enemy, selecting who she'd slay first.

Loki recognised the enemy formation as a basic Independent Scattered Defense from The Company's training manuals for Commanders - most players hoping to win the 6v6 tournament studied them, the egg-headed Shaman being one such applicant. According to this strategy, the enemy had scattered into small groups and installed themselves at various defensive terrain features. Once the battle began, the squads would move independently at their squad leader's direction, while the commander painted the overall picture through rapid-fire orders for squads to fuse with each other, split, claim or concede terrain, coordinate spell barrages, bait, flank, and more.

An Independent Scattered Defense had several downsides against a packed formation like the Byzantine's—such as some squads inevitably being isolated and destroyed—but it was still typically superior overall. However, this couldn't be called a typical situation, given that the enemy were employing an ISD variant that had been invented by The Tyrant.

After Loki's feet had been planted for six seconds, his avatar began to emit a mysterious aura with a grey parlour of ruin walls.

The aura signalled the activation of the Bowman passive , which reduced the cost for aim-assistance with projectile weapons.

The class had four more abilities in addition to and .

was a short cooldown Ranged Basic Attack that increased the speed of an arrow to 200 metres per second. While most spells and arrows lost their effect after going past 60 metres, and other Bowmen abilities didn't fade until 100, giving the class a range advantage. It cost a third of the Stamina of a Melee Basic Attack and inflicted a third of the damage, so its primary use was harassment or coordinating with an ally.

prevented the target from spellcasting. instantly nocked a new arrow and refreshed the cooldown of one's Basic Attack. could instantly swap weapons in and out of one's inventory, with 2 charges that refreshed after 20-seconds. Finally, was a normal melee Basic Attack.

The game lore had a bizarre explanation for these abilities and the class itself being named so atrociously. The Bowman progenitor God, having devoted himself so single-mindedly to studying arrows, had had no remaining brain space left for proper naming-sense.

In Loki's vision, added a glowing trail in front of a seagull circling above, predicting its flight path. He instinctually scanned the battlefield and noted the location of the enemy archers and mages who posed the most threat.

Justinian staggered to the front of the Byzantines. "If our crusade is righteous, Jesus, bless us with the tools to enact your divine will!"

The delivery was surprisingly coherent since the line had been a stock phrase.

At his signal, the Byzantines raised their hands, and their grips seemed to flood with the light of holy armaments sent by the heavens if one ignored their Spatial Bracelets.

Half a breath later, every Byzantine was armed with a sword, their Mithril blades glowing silver-blue in the venue's stage lighting.

Those in the crowd who'd never seen Byzantium fight looked at each other in perplexity.

The weapon choice gave Loki a moment of pause, too. Swords were sub-optimal for unarmoured combat - most of the enemy had equipped spears, bows, and shields. Moreover, every Byzantine had pulled out a sword, even the archers, the mages, and the healers.

"Chillax," answered Lady Kitty Kat's father. "It's a custom. Once we start," hiccup, "we'll put them down."

"I see. You Villagers are so amusing," Artemis replied, mistaking this due to her inexperience outside of the 1v1 for an Empire-wide custom.

Loki really should have invested more time into researching the Byzantines and their odd practices.

Finally, the commentators and the spectators started to countdown to the beginning of the match, their merged voices seeming to land upon the competitors with the weight of snow.

9!

"Put down?" asked Loki. "Did you mean put away?"

Suddenly, The Tyrant and a female Earthfriend broke away from their squads and jogged back. As the pair passed the foot of the plank mound, the Tyrant waved.

"Figured it out yet?"

At the front of the Byzantines, Justinian raised his zweihander and roared at the sky, his lungs splitting with blood and holy wrath. "LORD!"

Earlier, when 'The Tyrant' and Justinian had been discussing 'strategy'.

While Henry was winking at Loki, the Crusader was struggling with a war of the heart.

Justinian had been compelled by the knightly virtue of fairness to agree to the Village getting hammered for their first match. This, however, placed him, the one roleplaying this character, into a sticky bind. If he was already struggling to come up with roleplay-congruent commands, what chance did he have while drunk?

It had seemed a hopeless situation until he remembered that Sir Henry had invented the two hammer tactic yesterday despite emptying several flasks throughout team practice.

Thus, Justinian had decided to ask Henry to assume temporary command of Byzantium. Of course, such a request should be given in person, where one's body language could add to the roleplaying drama.

Justinian squinted with life-and-death gravity. "Sir Henry, our words must be swift, for soon our tongues will be encumbered by these hoppy elixirs. I come to you with a grave request and a graver responsibility. These hoppy elixirs seep into my veins, and they lead me astray from the wisdom of—"

"There's a simple cure: Elixir of Roleplaying Cessation."

Justinian ignored the roleplay-incongruent suggestion. "The evening past, during our clash with the Tizcan warlocks, you were granted by God The Almighty a vision of two hammers. Once more, I charge you to raise the sword of strategy and—"

"No. I refuse to continue enabling this toxic roleplaying."

Justinian tried to flourish his cape, only to remember he was shirtless. "Sir Henry, on your shoulders has been heaped the destiny of Byzantium. Will you— "

"This Slum stuff is fluff to me. Us placing dead last in every event wouldn't alter my mood."

"Sir Henry, we have to spare heart for our fellow—"

"That's what I'm doing. Listen, kid, you have the best innate mechanical talent I've ever seen, which means you have the best in the world. If you just stop pretending you're from medieval Europe and adapt to this game's combat system, I can get you into any Saana League team within a week on a contract worth at least a hundred quintillion. Fame, adventure, wealth, they're all yours."

Justinian's knightly-facade crumbled as the teen behind the character contemplated the advice.

During his half-year in Suchi, he'd been approached by recruiters with similar offers, but he'd turned them down.

None of them, though, had stated a number so large.

The new guy didn't seem to be lying.

But...

In the Crusader's hesitancy, Henry saw a reflection of his past self.

When he himself had been younger, he'd rejected many high-paying jobs and brand endorsements. At the time, he'd produced a litany of excuses: he was happy enough, modelling underwear was tacky, he'd never had a problem funding his hobbies, wasting his days on a pursuit he'd mastered would drive him crazy with boredom, his privacy would be ruined by paparazzi, and so on.

It wasn't until later that he'd recognised the idiotic naivety, the selfishness of his choice. Money, he would come to learn, was infinitely more than money. It could be a roof that doesn't leak. It could be a lasting impression for a stranger because your clothes are tailored. It could be the freedom to imagine, to truly dream, without the torments of impossibility. It could be a doctor's visit that detects a problem early and extends your life. Most importantly, even if one were content themselves, it could be all these things for the people one loved.

"Take the money."

Justinian, returning to character, shook his golden locks with the disappointment of a priest whose flock had been tempted by sin. "Byzantium is calling! A knight cannot rest while the goodfolk suffer under—"

"If you're still roleplaying, you're on your own - that's my final answer regarding this matter. As for you, I don't expect you to agree immediately, but you must agree at some point. Whatever hang-ups you have mean nothing before this amount of money. When you wake up tomorrow, look around your house, take a walk through the neighbourhood, and just think about what could be improved. For you, it's possible."

"Yes..." Justinian lowered his golden head in painful acceptance. "I was mistaken from the start, my eyes blinded by greed. A knight should never expect another to endure God's tests on his behalf."

Straightening out his back with feigned confidence, Justinian returned to the Byzantines.

Behind him, Henry shrugged.

Habits worn for months or years cannot be stripped through such a brief conversation. At least, the seeds of change had been sown.

"LORD!" cried Justinian, his shout a gesture of heroic rebellion in the face of an assured defeat due to his total inability to strategise.

The rest of the Byzantines, noob enough to believe that having Artemis would save them from defeat this time, heaved their swords in support. "GUIDE! OUR! BLADES!"

1!

Fight!

Loki and Artemis were startled when the entirety of Byzantine frontline players, including the ones she'd tasked with her personal defence, rushed the enemy in one giant, uncoordinated, bare-skinned mass.

The patented Byzantine suicide rush!

Justinian—fearlessly leading the vanguard without armour, the drunken Byzantine backline too slow to heal him—was immediately eliminated by a hail of enemy arrows to his bare torso.

His elimination didn't stop the rush, though. The Byzantines were accustomed to their leader being taken out first and, strategically, a rush required no coordination. They rushed on, all of them charging at the enemy leader, all of them ignoring the surrounding enemy squads who began picking them off more easily than shotgunning ducks in a barrel.

On top of a hill, the enemy commander stared at the Byzantines rushing towards him with a mixture of astonishment, that they would focus exclusively on him, and happiness, because of how absurdly braindead this strategy was.

When the Byzantine frontliners attempted to summit the hill, most of them, already uncoordinated from the beers, slipped over on the muddy-slope. Meanwhile, those that managed to reach the top were shoved back by the shields of enemy Fighters and Crusaders stationed above. The falling bodies compounded the problem, knocking down those climbing behind like drunk bowling pins.

Artemis, without tanks to block incoming projectiles, frantically ducked and dodged while fighting for an opportunity to shoot her arrows.

She managed to sneak a clutch without aim-assistance under an enemy Fighter's raised shield to silence an Arcanist behind them about to complete a . It was a miraculous shot, but, against the catastrophic rate at which the Byzantines were being eliminated, it seemed as futile as trying to halt a waterfall with a feather.

The crowd were slapping themselves silly.

Artemis and Loki checked the team chat for an order to salvage this mess.

-Justinian: Team Friendship Forever, thrust the shield...into the belly of the dragon...Team Green, line up your sights... nock your arrows on...

Loki glanced back.

The Tyrant and his Earthfriend partner were 50 metres away, both casually throwing heals and shields at the Byzantine backliners. With the distance the pair had put between themselves and Byzantium, they were too far to support the frontliners, whom they had abandoned from the start.

Huh?

"$$&#!" swore an Accompanist by Loki's side, their dissipating on its penultimate syllable. "Arcane's Dead!"

"Dude, we still suck..."

"Divine's Dead!" added a Miracleworker.

The Byzantine backliners had been spastically offloading their heals to keep their suicide-rushing allies alive, consuming the area's resources in seconds.

In a move of pure madness, instead of repositioning to unexhausted spots, they—archers, healers, and mages—picked up the swords that'd been stabbed into the mud or left on the planks by their feet and shouted in unison.

"LORD, GUIDE OUR BLADES!"

With no organisation, they rushed two enemy squads approaching from the right to disrupt the spellcasting the Byzantines had disrupted themselves.

A moment later, the rushing Byzantines tried to scatter as an Accompanist's humming drum soared overhead - none of them were sober enough to think to shoot it out of the air. With the ground so muddy, the rapid shifts in direction caused them to slip.

Half of them were caught in the 's stun-explosion radius.

The enemy squads speared them to death.

A second explosion further across the battlefield announced the Byzantine frontliners being -stunned, too. Locked in place, with no backline support, they were vaporised by , punctured by , and exploded by . Meanwhile, an enemy squad that'd flanked them executed those slipping to the base of the muddy hill.

Artemis watched another enemy squad arriving from her left, sent from the opposite side to disrupt the Byzantine backline. However, since the Byzantines backliners had charged into the melee, she'd been abandoned to face them alone.

Regardless of her skill, she doubted she could win a 1v6. In 1v1s, Crusaders often burnt their spell-shields to ignore her attacks while recklessly charging for a grapple. With the opposing squad having dedicated healers, they could use this tactic repeatedly.

She was blocked off on three sides, the new squad to her left, Byzantium's frontline getting wasted to her front, Byzantium's backline getting wasted to her right.

Turning for the one safe direction remaining, backwards, she spotted three stealthed Cutthroats sneaking up the plank mound.

She shrieked in frustration. "Die!"

to a shield and one-handed spear, she sprinted at them, her steps imbued with almost enough rage to shatter the earth. Right as she was about to reach them, however, she covered her eyes with the shield, activated bullet-time in secret, and used the speed to slip past.

An arrow from an enemy Bowman pierced the back of Loki's thigh.

The spy tripped forward, tumbled down the plank mound, and, faceplanting in the mud at the base, received a mouthful of dirt-water and two spears to the back.

Eliminated already...

While fleeing like a coward...

Without slaying a single enemy...

An ending belonging to a casual amateur pleb...

Around him, he could hear the splash-stomping of boots running through the mud and the crash-zapping of spell explosions.

Lifting his head, his face caked in mud, he saw The Tyrant and the female Earthfriend.

Both were motionless, but not due to the ongoing bullet-time but because they now stood outside the borders of the battleground. They'd eliminated themselves.

The Tyrant's imperial attire was unsoiled except for faint brown splashes around the ankles. Amused by the spy bowing in the mud before him, like a subject come to pay respect, he gave a cheeky grin.

So this is the plan? realised Loki. To engineer a loss so atrocious, so pathetic that no one in their right mind would stick arou—

Before the thought could be finished, a Mithril spearpoint protruded from out of the spy's mouth, the third Cutthroat having stabbed him through the back of the skull.

Oh no, it seems you've died!

You have dropped The Bow of Artemis.

Please choose a Reincarnation Monument to transfer your soul to. If no choice is made within 30 seconds, the nearest will be selected.