A stacked tower of hanging lanterns and combating warriors stretched high over Alan and Itsy’s heads. As they approached the swirling dragon double-doors, a prompt overwhelmed Alan’s vision.

Tower of Quest

Welcome, warrior. Gosfor of the Royal Horde graciously offers a pristine treasure on this faithful day under the wayward sun.

Serpent String Dagger

Original Saro—Green

Bonus Saro—Red

Ability: Serpent’s Path—Strikes using this weapon leave a lingering Saro trail in the air, that when detached, will mimic the serpent spirit trapped in the dagger to momentarily attack your foe.

Upon reaching the fiftieth floor and completing the final challenge, the duelist will acquire the day’s treasure and be greeted by Gosfor himself.

Prior to entrance, choose your role:

Duelist

Spectator

Alan side-eyed Itsy, who hummed to herself.

“Pick spectator and choose your style,” she said while tapping around her prompt. A lion’s mask that looked utterly ridiculous materialized over her face.

Alan couldn’t help but smirk. After choosing the spectator option, a row of masks became visible that he quickly scrolled through. One of them in particular reminded him of a masquerade party he attended once with Trish. It was one of her friend’s ideas to throw the party in the first place. At the time, he couldn’t wait to leave. All of the socializing and pretending like they didn’t know who was hiding behind the other masks—as if their voices didn’t give them away—made him cringe into himself. But now? He kind of missed it. Giggling and lightheartedness seemed like a lifetime away.

With a flash of warmth cradling his belly, he chose the frowning masquerade mask he once wore, albeit with less universe-print stars all over it.

“Ooh, flashy boy, aren’t ya? I knew there was something naughty hiding in there.” Itsy pretended to roar, which made Alan sigh.

“What the hell is this, anyway?” He shrugged.

“Your chance to gain a realm as your ally, stupid.” She tugged on the double-doors.

As soon as they entered, Saro fireworks burst and floated in the air like falling colorful leaves before puffing into dust.

A stout chubby man with a horned mask jumped from the side of the door, scaring Alan back.

“Gracious spectators, welcome. Welcome. Do remember to rate the matches you watch and provide feedback before ascending to the next level. If you are to leave a match early, do give the level sensei a reason why. Each does their best to keep audience.”

“Course we will, Stevey.” Itsy patted his shoulder.

As soon as she spoke he looked down to her bare legs, and then up again.

“Oh, it’s you.” Stevey’s frown was evident despite his mask. “Guess I should alert the level sensei that the sister has arrived. Booo!” He put a thumbs down right in her face.

“Jeez. You’d think I’d get a warm welcome for my hard time in Ojin.”

“Bah! You? The one who ruins efforts of our great sensei? When you leave early on every turn, you make others in the audience question why. Ugh, you’d never understand. You’ve never run an establishment. You just like to light matches and watch things burn.” He threw his hands theatrically in the air.

Alan cleared his throat. “Hello sir. From what I can tell, this seems like a fine establishment. We’ll do our best to be discrete if we must depart early. I’ve helped run a shop before, and can empathize with the amount of work it takes to keep it going.”

Stevey tilted his head, daring to perk up a little. “A… chauffer? Did someone finally have the brilliant idea of keeping you in check, sister of Roland?”

Alan nudged her to play along.

“It was the only way they’d let me in, gosh damn imbeciles.” She shrugged.

“Brilliant. Brilliant! The day is saved. Hurrah.” Stevey set off another round of fireworks.

Itsy leaned over to Alan. “You’re the one who was short on time, remember? My way was the fast way,” she whispered.

“My way is the gain allies way,” Alan countered. “The man obviously takes pride in the tower. Show a little respect.”

She pulled at her faux lion’s mane in mock anger.

“Well, best to get started. We have new contenders beginning any moment.” Stevey led them to a colorful bridge with a manmade lake full of koi fish. The closer they got to the gold-plated staircase, the more noise filtered to Alan’s ears from the floor above.

“I beg you enjoy the Tower of Quest, for all of its valor and spoils. Please read your instructional prompts prior to the first match. That goes double for you, chauffer. We don’t need you following the lead of a certain highness.” He thumbed toward Itsy.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Stevey. Your excitement transferred unto us, didn’t it Itsy?” Alan nudged her again.

“Oh goodness yes.” She jumped like a giddy schoolgirl in the most sarcastic way possible.

“Yes, of course.” Stevey pushed us on as the next group of spectators came through the double-doors.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Stevey cartwheeled his chubby self right up to them, blowing more Saro fireworks over the bridge.

“I’m fearful Gosfor and Junos are similar,” Alan said.

“Hah! You couldn’t be more wrong. This is my brother’s scheme. Gosfor just likes to converse with elites, so Roland concocted a way to create elites. Multiple ways, actually,” she sighed. “But all that crap bores me to death. You can talk to him about it if you really please.”

Alan held the bannister on his way up, noting the Yellow Saro slivers glow to life as he touched it. “Your brother sounds strategic.”

“Big time. Was a right hand advisor to the village chief in our Origin World. Kept the village fed and training, and built up security. That’s what he’s doing here. Has a vision about keeping warriors in the realm, rather than constantly venturing off to Ojin. He wants to build a universe inside a universe, crazy bastard.”

Alan furrowed his brow. Roland sounded ambitious, which worried him slightly. Negotiating with someone like that might wind up having Alan offering more than he’s worth.

“Where do you fit into all that, back in your Origin?” he asked.

“Little ‘ol me? Oh, when the village chief ordered Roland’s execution, I killed the chief instead. A knife right through his belly. Duh.”

“Explains the loyalty.” Alan grimaced.

“He ain’t what you think, Alan.” She arced an eyebrow. “He’s got a good heart… somewhere.”

They emerged on the second floor where bongo drums thrummed throughout the space, played in unison by long-cloaked masked musicians, reaching a crescendo right as Alan arrived. Itsy directed Alan to two open seats on the edge furthest from them.

“Hurry,” she whispered. “It’s about to start.”

Prompts overwhelmed Alan’s vision. Something about being quiet during crucial parts of the match. Cheering is allowed once the commentator declares a point. Only one Saro type is allowed per duelist, per match… the list went on.

“Sevene chooses hook blade and Red Saro. Greniard chooses long-staff and Blue Saro. No essence usage. Healers on standby. First to three points advances to the third floor, where the victor shall fight the victor of the second floor.” A man with a wide-brimmed hat spoke loudly to the floor, making no eye contact while all the spectators in ridiculous masks scrutinized the two fighters.

Alan guessed the uniforms were provided, because one was shogun style with wide billowing pants and the other was in tight ninja wraps. He wondered if Gosfor was either from a feudal era on Earth or loved kung fu movies like he did.

“Begin!”

The fight was interesting. Very formal and swift in movements. Pretty much the opposite of a battle in Ojin, where everything is about survival. Sunlight brightened the far side paper-style wall, casting light over the two clashing staff versus sword. He looked out for new techniques that perhaps he could learn or build into his pearls, and dove into momentary trances to find out the fighter’s origins.

When he returned, he realized Greniard outmatched Sevene by a long mile. His staff was whittled by a tribe of void hunters—minions who were once warriors, apparently—in Karnuk of the purple fog. He was so skilled he didn’t even have to activate his Saro to best his opponent.

“Esha!” Itsy whispered while slapping Alan on the arm, causing a scowl from a spectator in front of them.

“The hell was that for?” he whispered back.

“You’re glowing like a pixie, idiot. Look.” She pointed to the sensei in the corner blocking the stairs, who’s eyes were wide with fury. “Didn’t you read your prompts? No abilities as spectators. You watch, and cheer, and don’t be an idiot.”

Alan put up his hands defensively and sat back in his seat.

They can tell when I’m in a trance? What the hell kind of detection Saro is that?

Tension built as Sevene struggled to keep step with Greniard. The bongo drums were tapped lowly as the point appeared eminent. Spectators nearly edged off their seats when with a kick, Greniard launched Sevene to the edge of the white-sand arena.

“Point!” The commentator held up a black flag, and the spectators cheered. Apparently the masks had voice-changing Gray Saro built inside, which made all sorts of beast noises.

“Oh but that’s okay?” Alan gestured among the noise.

“Tower sanctioned, of course it’s okay, stupid.” Itsy cheered.

When the duel inevitably ended, spectators were ushered up to the third floor. All but Alan, who was pulled aside by the level sensei. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes and accusatory finger spoke volumes.

“Apologies, sensei.” Alan bowed. “You have set up a great duel and managed it superbly. I meant no disrespect and it will not happen again.”

“mmph.” Sensei grunted, which Alan understood as acceptance.

A prompt asked Alan how the first match went in survey fashion, from décor to neutrality of the commentator. Does the Royal Horde overuse prompts? Yes. But it did seem to keep the whole Tower of Quest thing in order. Still, Alan didn’t like it, and planned never to implement something so overbearing.

The next few floors included riveting Saro displays and great fighting techniques. From barbaric Knight to Zen Bladeswoman, the clashes were legendary and never failed to keep Alan’s attention. But when he noticed Itsy’s leg endlessly twitching, he realized perhaps he should be sharing her angst. He needed to get to the fiftieth floor, and fast. His people were waiting.

The warriors of Hightower Brack, Flint… Neesha. He couldn’t leave them hanging, and had to return with something to show.

He tapped Itsy’s leg in a stint of anxiety. “Should we?” He motioned to the staircase.

Itsy’s brow furrowed. “Serious?”

“I’m asking you. How badly will we piss off the establishment if we do?”

“Probably about as much as you disrupting the battle right now.”

“Point.” The commentator held up a white flag.

The cheers overshadowed the disrespect.

“Okay. We’ll wait until the end of this match, and then hang back for everyone else to go upstairs. Once they’re ushered in, you can discreetly use your status to get us a few levels up.”

“We’d be disrupting a whole other group mid fight. Look, I don’t give a flying Barlo shit, but I’m just giving you the straight facts, ey? They’re going to see new masks, and say ‘what in the shit are they doing here in the middle of a match?’”

Alan gritted his teeth as the duel resumed. It’d already been three hours and they were only on floor seven. He guessed no matter how he shook it, he would have to wait until the match was ready between the final two contestants on the fiftieth floor, unless he wanted to pull Itsy and march right up to the god.

Judging by the care Roland puts into his events, better to be respectful. This way I can present Itsy as a changed woman too. He scoffed to himself when watching her literally sit with her legs bouncing against the chair in front of her. Or at least a tamer one.

He dwelled in his options as the fight ended. Holding Itsy’s arm for her to stay back, he heavily considered getting in words with Gosfor before the final match so he could close the deal after it. But that could start him off on the wrong foot. Chances are they’ll be more satisfied when the match is done and they’re thoroughly entertained.

His grip loosened around her arm.

“Merchant?” Her lion’s mask tilted.

Alan sighed. “We’ll play the slow way.”

“Aye. Aye.”

As they headed toward the ninth floor, Alan was in his own head. What was Junos doing to all the traitors who couldn’t escape his realm? He should be charging in there now. But he couldn’t… not without War Titles.

As Itsy dragged him to the last two front seats next to a row of women in pearly white make-up plucking beige-stringed harps, Alan wondered the theme of this one.

The first contestant stepped onto the snowy white mat, causing Alan to grasp the sides of his chair and clench impossibly tight.

Jet black hair, a moderate amount of freckles, and a stank face he knew too well in his darkest hours made his skin crawl. Worse, his arms immediately went numb as if all the blood and Saro retreated into his heart to save it from exploding.

Impossible.

No way.

“Trish,” the name escaped louder than he intended.

“Yes, I’m glad you can read.” Itsy pointed to her name and Title listed over her head.

Trish Morgan

Trained Stalker of the Iron Cellar