Alan’s jaw dropped. If he didn’t have a mask on, it would be impossible not to notice him. “What are the fucking chances?” He blinked in quick succession to try and clear his vision.

It had to be a mistake. A trick of the eye. A trick of Saro. Something…

How could his ex-girlfriend be here in the Royal Horde, competing for a serpent dagger? Actually, that might’ve been suitable, given her history.

Stop it, Alan.

One thing was for sure: his heart still beat for her, or stalled for her. Emotions went haywire, and his Saro felt unstable at the sight.

“Whoa, what’s going on with you?” Itsy smacked him in the shoulder. “Cut it out. Your glowing again.”

Alan did his best to relax, but the overwhelming emotion was getting the better of him. All of the memories he evoked to hone his Saro came swirling to the forefront of his mind. Seeing her in person triggered his old life in a visceral way.

Their third date on the strip in Las Vegas bloomed to life—watching a Cirque du Soleil show and being called onto the stage with a bunch of angry clowns… her crying with laughter as Alan was pushed onto a lily pad and drifted off stage. Blue and Green Saro whipped through his veins. He remembered seeing a future with her in that moment, despite the embarrassment. She was fun… and brought out the best in him.

Years flashed in a second… the chill of her shifting mood yanking at the White. He came home from a double at the pawnshop without her so much as offering a glance in his direction. She just sat there on the couch, arms folded, watching some dark documentary with the same angry scowl she exhibited now in the arena.

“You said you’d be home at ten.” Her eyes remained on the screen.

“It’s eleven. Sorry, Trish, but there was a customer who showed interest in an 1800s mint coin. The commission would hav—”

“Did he buy it?” Her icy stare finally shifted to him.

Alan remembered standing there, frozen, ridiculed for doing his best.

“Didn’t think so.”

Black dread washed over him, sending waves of darkness clouding his thoughts, narrowing his vision. The tower floor crumbled in his mind, leaving a canvas of nothingness except for Trish’s icy scowl.

“I miss you.” A tinge of golden light sapped with beige framed Trish standing there. “I’m happy you called me.”

They were back at their favorite diner, off strip in Vegas. Second-to-last booth facing the window, where they always used to sit.

Alan slapped down his transcript on the table, which made her eyes brighten. “Ten credits are all I need to graduate. I’m thinking of applying at community tomorrow and finishing my degree.”

“Finally, Alan. You literally have a perfect GPA… this will be a piece of cake for you.”

“And the road to a soul-crushing career,” he muttered to himself.

“Oh, Alan, I’m so freakin’ happy!” She leaned over the diner table and squeezed him hard. It was bittersweet, just like he remembered. Like being given a treat for behavior he didn’t want to exhibit. But if he only went on to complete his degree… maybe…

“Alan!” Itsy slapped him, waking him from his stupor.

One of the ladies in makeup on his left hissed for him to cool down his Saro. His hands were glowing bright gold, so he sat on them. And when Trish looked his way, he nearly fainted on the spot.

How can this be real?

The second contender strutted out in purple ninja wraps with a long Katana strapped to his back. His motions were very rigid and trained, and when he faced Trish, all of Alan’s protective instincts barreled Red Saro through him, making his chest beam.

He needed Afarus now more than ever to coach him out of this. He’d met his love in his second life. How did he temper these insane feelings wrapped in magic?

God, is this what he meant by my path here being clouded? Is it because of her?

The commentator was in full-blown samurai robes—high ponytail and all. He drew his sword and cut the air in between the two about to face off.

“Trish chooses Black Saro with a dagger as her weapon. Mifor chooses Red Saro with a sword as his weapon. First to three points advances to the thirteenth floor—”

The commentator’s words jumbled in Alan’s head after that. As ironic as it was, he couldn’t believe she was attuned to Black. Was she born to the Royal Horde in some Stalker’s cave? Did that mean she’d brought all her demons with her?

Itsy pinched him and pointed to the level sensei in the far corner. This one was burly, holding onto his cloth belt with one hand while cleaning a spot on his wall with a rag.

“If he notices you, you’ll be banned from going up. Then I’ll have to use my highness influence. Brother gets pissed. We lose everything. Yada. Yada. Keep it together! Sensei Cresbo is a stickler,” Itsy said in her loudest whisper.

“Begin!” The commentator dashed off the snowy arena.

Alan’s heartrate rose when Trish dropped into an assassin’s stance he’d seen in Lucius’ cove. He had to remind himself she was a Stalker.

Mifor slashed down immediately with a loud “Hei!”

As the sword passed through Trish’s body, her torso faded into shadow, causing Mifor’s blade to meet no resistance.

Fshnk!

The sword caught deep into the snowy ground as Mifor lost his footing, then whack! A quick back kick to the face dazed the Bladesman, and when he haphazardly swung again, Trish’s neck became ethereal for a fraction of a second, reforming into flesh with a hiss.

Another complete miss.

Using her advantage, she charged and grabbed both hands, eyes locked as she worked to overpower his grasp—slowly pushing his wrists to the side in a shaky struggle. Before he could overpower her, she let go, unsheathed her dagger, and ducked to slice right through Mifor’s gut, ending with another strong kick that landed her at the edge of the arena with bloody dagger in hand.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Point!”

As soon as the commentator raised his flag, Trish’s expression changed from hardened killer to confused bystander. She looked at the crazed masks in the audience, the made-up dolls playing their harps, and shook herself free of it.

Every part of Alan wanted to jump up and whisk her out of the arena, but it didn’t look like she needed his protection. As a matter of fact, he didn’t know what to think.

Green Saro ribbons shot from the sidelines, patching Mifor’s wound until he waved it away with annoyance.

When the commentator signaled both of the duelists back to their corners, Trish backflipped and glided into position, retracing the exact path of her original strike, evoking “Ooos” from the audience in the process.

“A cheap trick, Stalker.” Mifor wiped his blade of her Black Saro residue and sheathed it. “Let’s see how it fares twice. Hm?”

The two fighters bent into ready stance again.

“Begin!”

Trish twirled in the air, to Alan’s surprise, folding into a tight corkscrew. She flung her dagger at peak height, sending it in a downward trajectory straight for Milfor’s gut.

Tnng!

He deflected it with one eye squeezed tight, entire body outlined in a familiar red. Alan knew all too well what was happening. Instinctive Saro. Mifor could analyze every moment of her spin with precision… timing her landing and the probable dash thereafter. Alan could almost see it himself without activating his own.

The signs were clear.

Mifor’s tight grip over his sword hilt, off-hand angling the sheath in the intended direction as he readied to strike. Afarus had taught Alan well.

But this restraint was never something he thought he’d need.

Memories of a sleeveless biker-type guy bothering Trish at a bar sent rippling heat through his veins. The times Alan had to step in to deescalate her drunk father. All of that emotion entwined within Alan’s gut, merging with the present.

Mifor was about to stab her.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn’t.

With boiling angst, Alan stood and clenched his fist, creating an ice tombstone clawing from the ground—catching Mifor’s blade and leaving Trish to land in shock. The encased point stopped an inch from her heart.

“Welp. So much for being discreet.” Itsy threw her hands up.

Alan tore off his masquerade mask to rows full of gasps. Only one stood out among them all.

“Alan,” Trish whispered loud enough to fill the room. She gaped, ignoring her opponent struggling to remove his sword from Alan’s ice wall. “A trick?”

“Guessing you know the broad?” Itsy lifted her mask with a scrunched face.

Alan kept his eyes forward, internalizing Trish’ awe. “I loved her once, in my Origin,” he said monotone.

“Aye. I get it. Everyone’s dumb at one point or another,” Itsy said.

“What is the meaning of this!” The burly level sensei stomped toward the arena.

Itsy ripped off her mask and faced the sensei with equal outrage. “Whoa, whoa, big belly. Official business of the boss.”

The sensei grumbled. “You.”

“Yeah, me. Now listen here. This one comes with us.” She pointed at Trish. “You redo your duel with the loser of the last floor and pretend this little mishap never happened. That goes for the lot of you too.” She pointed to the attendants, a bunch of colorful masks staring blankly back at her.

“Itsy—” The sensei stomped up to her.

“Listen here, belly. This one broke some big laws and needs to be apprehended, yeh? Don’t got time for the formalities of the tower and whatnot. Got prompts spilling out of my ears. So do me a favor, out of the way.” She leaned in, almost nose to nose with the sensei. “’Less of course you want me to tell Roland who let her get away once I make my way upstairs, hm?”

“Rrr!” Sensei growled. “Cheechee, go talk to Sensei Dowel, and get the loser up here, now! Chop chop!”

“That’s what I thought.” Itsy lifted her chin.

Alan rushed onto the arena and grabbed Trish by the hand. “Just go with it,” he whispered, wrapping her other hand behind her back, cuffing her with White Saro links.

She was dumbfounded but accepting of the terms.

“Is it really you?” She looked over her shoulder as fifty masks turned to follow them. “You look so different. What happened to you, Alan? You’re glowing.”

“Shh.” Alan turned, holding his mask over his face with one hand and nodding to the audience in apology. “Sorry for the intrusion. Sensei, apologies.” He bowed, following Itsy into the stairwell.

“Well they’re going to be bottlenecked for a while.” Itsy snapped her tongue once they were in between levels. “The hell was that, Alan? I mean, really. Can’t keep it in your pants like everyone else?”

Alan blushed, tightening his jaw.

“Hah. Just messing with you. Right. Right. Guess you two need a minute, huh?” She pranced up the steps. “I’ll go talk to Sensei Seabath in the meantime. Ey. No point to sit in on any more duels now. All the sensei are going to be jabbering, so best get to the top before the hot gossip does, ey?”

Alan waited until the slapping of her bare feet against wooden steps was far enough out of reach before melting the shackles.

“Is she… are you with…?” Trish tilted her head.

“Her? No.” Alan had never even considered it for a second. “Trish…”

When he looked at her up close, really looked at her… even though she was so different, there was so much the same.

Heart-shaped face, lips like a bow. The lines of freckles down her nose.

She cheated on you, a stray thought popped up.

You never had proof, another thought bounced around.

Alan took a deep breath, just to make sure this moment was real. He cupped her face—same smooth skin and soft hair he’d always remembered. A twinge of sweat from fighting a Red Saro Bladesman smelled like home.

“God. Trish. I have so many questions.” Alan sighed, to which Trish grabbed onto his elbows like she used to.

There was still something there. A rush of emotion connecting two worlds.

Get a hold of yourself.

Alan held her arms. “How did you pass?”

Her head dipped. “Gosh. A man… he wore all black and a white mask with a strange symbol etched into it… like a music note.”

Alan narrowed his eyes. None of that rang any bells, but it did concern him that she could’ve very well been killed by a scout.

“He strangled me with wet taffy.”

Alan’s jaw tensed. That sounded very much like a Mujungo move to him. If that god laid a hand on her—

“I could smell it right before the life was choked out of me. It was on his breath, around my neck. Sick.” She shivered.

“Sorry, Trish, that’s horrible.” He broke the embrace and took a step back.

“I—mourned you, Alan. Your mom and sister, they miss you dearly.”

Alan winced at the mention. He had tried to separate himself from all that, because the guilt would be too overbearing otherwise. He wanted to ask her time of death, or at least the year so he could estimate the time difference between universes, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It would open up a whole other can of worms he didn’t want to obsess over.

In Trish’s own words to Alan way back when—he needed to stay present.

“I… missed you,” she admitted.

Alan didn’t reciprocate. If he did, he’d fall into the same trap he had in his Origin. A pile of guilt and regret for wanting to be who he was—a Merchant. The truth is, he did better for himself on his own than with endless squawking in his ear. He had friends here. Real ones. And a purpose. His potential would be realized.

He ran a hand through his hair and took a beat. “Trish. Is this your realm? You were fighting for a dagger. And Black Saro? How did you fall into that?”

“I—mm.” She turned away sharply. “I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean ‘not sure?’” Alan furrowed his brow.

“There’s a dungeon. It’s deep underground with others who wield Black. We train, and train.” She winced.

That must be this realm’s Stalker’s cove. Her class prompt did say Iron Cellar.

“The memories they pull are dark, Alan. Making me reflect on all my grief… my failures. They often times bring me to you.” Tears well up in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The crack in her voice pierced all of the Saro protecting Alan’s heart. Seeing her remorseful, lost, it worked to break him where he stood.

A piece of sand trickled down beside the tears. He moved in to wipe it from her face, scanning the rosy cheeks he remembered all too well.

Don’t… Alan.

He held her shoulders comfortingly but took a strong step back, making her raise her gaze and wipe her nose.

“Tell me about this cellar,” Alan remained focused.

She shook her head. “There are gaps in my memory. I—I’m part of something. A league? I’m not sure, but I know I have to win that dagger and deliver it to them.”

More sand trickled down her cheek. She must’ve face-planted in an earlier duel.

“You’re free from that now,” Alan promised. “If you want to be.”

A sparkle of hope glimmered in her eye.

“I know the dread of Black all too well,” he told her. “It wields incredible power, but we should be building your armor and weapons with colors to offset it.” He lifted his hand to show slivers of Green circling his fingers. “I wield serenity because of you, Trish. Now let me help you find peace.”