The arena, a mortal showdown brewing between two Village brothers brought to enmity by destiny.

“O miserable fate!” Justinian cried. “O sorrowful predicament!”

Henry, recognising his next opponent and the over-roleplayed turmoil, squinted at the ludicrous acting and groaned disgustfully.

“I swear to your god, Justinian," he spat with menace, "you better be here to accept my offer or I’m going to beat the golden shit out of you in the most jarring, humiliating, character-breaking way possible. I refuse to validate a fake grievance.”

By previous offer, he was referring to linking this Indonesian kid up with a professional team. Justinian had more than enough talent to join Saana League if he could only stop roleplaying a knight stuck in this starting zone because of some idiotic crusade.

Henry was hoping that the kid, after learning of his identity, would know without any further doubt about the legitimacy of that promise. In addition to Mrtyu and Whitefrog, they’d since been joined by several other prominent figures from the pro-scene. A bidding war between the teams could be initiated on the spot simply by sharing the absurd figure of this absurd figure’s physical GQ, which Henry’d estimated from duelling him to be around 210 points, a one-in-a-billion number. Justinian’s mental side wasn’t too bad either - his fight strategy looked dumb due to juggling the simultaneous cognitive demands of portraying a character.

For Henry, The Cripple—who’d been hard stuck at 137 points after more than a century of training—it was frankly offensive that such a mutant had chosen to rot in this shithole. It especially disgusted him that, of all the disgusting possible reasons, this kid was stuck here because of roleplaying.

Across from him, Justinian’s faltering sword began to waver more intensely, the alien soul that sometimes entered his body summoned to the forefront of his consciousness by Sir Henry’s address.

Indeed, the knight's hesitancy contained some of this other soul's concerns (a good roleplayer channelling their genuine emotions into their character), Justinian locked in a spiritual tug-of-war between his own moral crusade and the desires of that teenager from the future who saw the obvious opportunity in the offer.

(In fact, if Hadi critically examined his roleplay, it seemed that this would be the entirety of the doubt-side. Justinian shouldn't be this hesitant, having strong reasons to despise Sir Henry and indifferent to the repercussions for his real self of trying to kill a potential employer. In this regard, Hadi was currently doing an extreme roleplay fail.

Of course, logically, this shouldn't bother him, his real interests being more important than Justinian's grudge.

However, it was not such a trivial matter to sheathe the sword of his hopeless knight persona. After playing it for so long, he’d become entwined with it too much.

Could Hadi perform on stage? He wasn’t a knight. He didn’t possess Justinian’s heroism, didn’t know if he could swing his blade this boldy in the arena, challenging any foe without fear, entering the most lop-sided of battles with an assurance of God’s blessed victory.

Moreover, the knight persona connected Hadi to his Villager friends, to his adventures in Saana, to the goodfolk of The Slums who beamed at the smallest gestures of kindness, and he worried that the end of Justinian might mark the end of these as well.

And then there remained the obvious issue of winning the 1v1 and 6v6 tournaments so he could finally get back his stolen zweihander.)

Justinian’s imitation of that weapon, tugged between his inner battles, stabilised in the middle, the golden point aimed at Sir Henry’s face, his knight’s gaze blazing with resolve. “Tossed upon the waves of doubt, I entrust the steering of my heart to the Lord.” He mimed cutting the problems. “Let God straighten this sword and direct my conflicted soul down whatever path our conflict ordains.”

Henry stared back flatly, so disgusted that he couldn’t even summon the ability to emote a reaction. “Fucking roleplayer scum...”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

That’s all he had to say for this stupid kid.

Henry really did despise roleplayers, these out-of-touch nutjobs, caught up in the narratives of their characters, losing all sense of what was meaningful and real in the world, exposing his own absurdity through the uncomfortable similarity of their and his own deluded behaviour.

But, luckily, he didn’t have to allow this and other misanthropic disgusts to stew inside him anymore. Recently, he'd devised a healthy outlet for releasing his toxic feelings.

“If you want to fight me, then gloves off, armour off,” Henry replied, his protective equipment desummoning as he stripped down to his underwear. “I want the satisfaction of stabbing you directly in your stupid brain. You get three duels, three beatings. First map, Jungle Gym. You pick the half.”

Spinning around, he walked towards the chosen map. From the weapons rapidly glittering in and out of his inventory, Henry juggled their handles to feel out which would grant him the greatest happiness lodged in this kid’s thick skull.

Yes, he would unleash some of his hatred by beating up this punk.

And, who knows, this could be another valuable step in moving on? Henry'd invited his enemies to fight him in order to resolve a portion of the grudges he’d accumulated during his career, so he could quit this shit game with a bit less war in his heart. A roleplayed grudge, a non-roleplayed one - in some sense, these were identical. Both were ultimately just fictional narratives in a videogame. The mentally healthy individual that Henry was striving to become would make no discrimination between the two, distributing equal beatings to players regardless of their reason for challenging him.

Behind him, Justinian studied his undressed adversary hesitantly, searching for what trickery lurked in this unconventional arrangement...(Hadi really didn't want to remove his clothes with so many people watching - millions had tuned in for the workshop)...the sin of lechery perhaps?

However, whatever wicked plot was afoot, the knight quickly accepted it. Dismissing the last of that other soul's fears, he gave chase. His gilded suit dissolved to reveal his muscular body sculpted by the strains of his crusade, and his golden zweihander was exchanged for a non-cosmetic level 20 one.

“I fear not to meet the devil’s charms unclothed,” Justinian declared, jogging to catch up to Sir Henry – to Him, "for I wear the armour of God.”

Henry shook his head. “Fucking roleplayers...”

Around the stadium, many trainees paused the drills they’d been assigned, wondering what the stripping down represented. Had The Tyrant invented an avant-garde nude fighting technique? Or was this the resolution of some bizarre issue between himself and the roleplayer from his Village?

The crowd swelled as the pair set up on Jungle Gym, a map with a climbing dome and other children’s playground equipment. The Tyrant fixed himself near a looping slide. The Crusader stood on his half’s edge, continuing to roleplay before the officiator counted them down.

Justinian raised three fingers of challenge for Him disrobed of his shadow garb. “Three duels, three cuts, three deaths - three lashes for the begrudged sins of the past.” He stooped, his zweihander assuming a forward guard, taught to him by just one of His murdered victims. “This first cut will be for Swordmaster Betruger, who granted me The Mage’s Shield. Do you recognise the name?”

The knight's gaze clouded for a moment, staring beyond this foe to the distant past, a happier time, a time before evil fate had set Justinian upon the winding, grievous path that led to today's bloody conflict of retribution.

Long ago, the wind-swept vale of Kirschrot, in Western Togavi, the beginnings of a knight’s tale.

This is how his harrowing story had begun. Justinian, a humble soldier of god, had awoken one evening magically transported—

Suchi.

“Yep.” Henry—who’d recognised the name from his and this ""knight’s"" first duel in Suchi, who refused to let this roleplay nonsense drag on—admitted to everything with a shrug.

Justinian scowled with knightly wrath. “As you should! Betruger, my former master, slain in the eighth year of Io by King Gutkonig’s men...on Your wicked orders.”

Yes, that’d been the first grudge for which Justinian could not forgive Sir Henry, the first irresolvable conflict between himself and Him.

Back when the knight had been teleported to this strange planet of witch magic and blasphemous polytheism, he’d been taken under the wing of a kindly old hermit, who’d trained him in the martial arts necessary to survive in this foreign land. For three years, they’d adventured as master and disciple, as friend and friend. Their acquaintance should have continued to this day, had not Betruger succumbed to the shadow’s malev—

“Yep.” Henry, testing his juggled weapons and liking the hand-feel of a war-hammer, shrugged. “I ordered that cunt's execution. What of—"

“His MURDER!” Justinian interrupted, his rage spiking at the sheer disrespect of Him, whose filthy name the knight had sworn never to utter until the debt for Betruger had been repaid - a death for a death. "You ORDERED! His MURDER!"

“...1. Fight!” shouted the match officiator.

“For my MURDERED teacher!” Justinian sprinted forward, his sword hungering to deposit the burning light of retribution into this fiend’s black heart.