Chapter 47 – Beat the Rich

Charles charged forth on his ghostly steed, running down the last of the Latenic Adventurers to the roaring delight of the crowd. He raised his sword in triumph as his horse reared, sunlight glimmering against his pristine armor. In that moment, he looked the part of a hero out of legend.

“Wow,” Palmira murmured, drumming her fingers along Morte’s haft. “I didn’t know Charles could fight like that.”

“He is a knight,” her staff reminded her. “At his age, he was likely peer to those Black Knights we fought in Iscrimo.”

“I mean yeah, but he’s always…” she mimed tipping back a bottle. “You know, wasted? All he does every day is mope at the bar.”

‘We concur.’ Her mace nodded, something it could unfortunately do now. ‘The Knight designated as ‘Charles’ was not a registered threat to Us. Only a registered alcoholic. We will need to update Our databases promptly.’

“Goddess, I forget how little experience you two have,” Morte bemoaned, sighing. “A word of advice: treat all adventurers as incredibly dangerous unless you’ve personally fought them. Actually, even if you have fought them, treat them as dangerous! You wouldn’t believe how many people hold back their true strength for dramatic effect! Every time you think you’ve defeated them, they pull out some new trick or ability they were holding back for some Goddess only knows reason. Why couldn’t they just use that from the beginning!? It would have saved us all so much time!”

“That sounds dumb,” she rolled her eyes. “There’s no way that’s a real thing.”

“You’d really fucking think so, wouldn’t you!?”

“Palmira!” Chiara elbowed her. “Stop taking to your creepy staff and pay attention! The Rodina are finally up!”

Ignoring Morte’s silent grumblings, she turned to see the first Rodina adventurer arrive.

“The wait has been long, and the competition fierce,” the referee’s voice boomed over the crowd. “But the moment you’ve all been waiting for had finally arrived! Lords, gentlewomen, and all others, please welcome Firozzi’s most famous adventure’s guild, the Rodina Guild!”

The noise level in the coliseum instantly doubled as people rose from their seats, cheering and hollering as the first of their adventurers stepped out of the gates. Flowers, feathers, and papers were tossed in the air in celebration, and a whole section’s worth of people even stood up with large cards to form the Rodina’s symbol across the stands.

Unlike every other guild so far—who’d barely gotten an introduction by the referee before fighting—the Rodina arrived on the field with a pompousness that instantly made even more annoyed at them than before. Why didn’t anyone else get an introduction like that?

“Do they really do this every year?” Palmira murmured, watching the first Rodina adventurer waltz into the arena, each wave of his hand causing another explosion of cheering.

“Yup,” Chiara rolled her eyes. “It’s because they own the arena. Other tournaments are less biased, but this whole thing is just one big publicity stunt to make the Rodina look good. Even the referee’s on the Rodina’s payroll.”

“That’s so not fair…”

“It’s not going to be fair,” the guildmaster shook his head. “But that’s the point. We aren’t only here to win—we’re here to beat the Rodina at their own game. Exhibit A,” he gestured to the battle as it began below.

The first Rodina adventurer—who had to be some kind of noble with how fancy his armor was—pulled out his sword and began bantering with Charles as the referee began counting them down.

(Not that she could hear what was being said, but the man’s mouth was clearly moving a mile a minute down there.)

Charles, in line with what she knew of him, didn’t utter a word in response. This was because he had the disposition of a wet cat, though he had been looking a bit happier ever since he started fighting.

Was this some form of stress relief for him, she wondered?

While she was pondering, the battle began, and Charles instantly obliterated his opponent.

The crowd was silent, just as shocked as she was.

Palmira blinked, rubbing her eyes. “Shit,” she grumbled, moving to poke Chiara. “Hey, what happened? I missed it.”

Then the stands exploded with noise, jeers and cheers as every color of the emotional spectrum was loudly broadcast by everyone all at once.

“He won, duh,” her friend rolled her eyes. “Guy didn’t even put up much of a fight. Or any fight, really. Heh, weakling.”

“But why would they send out someone so much weaker than him?”

“It was probably a political choice,” Ósma informed her from her other side, though he seemed a bit confused too. “Or at least, that’s the only thing I can think of. Either that man had enough political capital that he could force his way out over better fighters, or someone needed that man humiliated.”

“It’s equally likely they underestimated Charles,” the guildmaster pointed out. “He’s much stronger than he appears, so it’s likely they simply misjudged his skill level. Or maybe they misjudged their own adventurer’s skill level. I doubt they’d be so willing to risk the first match otherwise.”

“Fair,” the orc tilted his head, watching as the healers hauled the Rodina member out of the arena. “But I’m now more worried about the response this’ll bring. We’ve instantly knocked the wind out of their sails—they’ll be wanting to regain momentum as fast as they can.”

As he finished speaking the next Rodina adventurer stepped onto the field. It was a pale elf, tall and wiry with a black mask over the lower half of his face. Beyond that it was difficult to make out details at this distance, but much more telling was the reaction of the rest of her guild to his appearance.

“Fuck!” exclaimed most of her guild.

“YES!” roared Matthias, launching himself into the air with sparkling excitement.

“We shall now begin the next battle!” The referee announced as the crowd quieted back to manageable levels. “On the red side, Zeitn of the Rodina Guild! And on the white side, Charles of the Rosa Dominae Guild! The battle will continue either until one of them is unconscious, surrenders, or I personally call the match! Now, on my mark!”

“I can’t believe they actually brought him to something like this,” the guildmaster dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck. We’re so fucked.”

“READY!”

“Wait, what!?” Palmira’s looked around at her guildmates incredulously. “Why are you guys suddenly so fatalistic? Who even is that guy?”

“BEGIN!”

Charles urged his horse forward, sword at the ready.

Zeitn was standing behind him. A wicked dagger the length of his arm was raised and jabbed into his back.

Charles’ ghost horse dashed forward, barely avoiding the attack. The knight clung to his steed in shock, but swiftly gathered himself, spinning back around to charge—

The elf was standing behind him again. The dagger hit this time, digging deep into his thigh. Charles roared in pain, but managing to react brought his shield down to bash his opponent’s face in.

Zeitn was standing on the other side of the arena, unharmed. He did nothing else, calmly waiting for Charles to realize what had happened.

The knight’s shoulders heaved with each breath he took. His sword and shield were held before him, and for the first time it didn’t seem like he knew what to do with them. He made an aborted move forward, before stopping. Hesitating.

The resigned fear he was exuding was something Palmira had never seen before, and it was something she prayed she’d never see again.

“That’s Zeitn von Uhrenstadt,” Chiara whispered grimly. “The Rodina’s time mage.”

The elf tilted his head. Even from here, the gesture felt mocking.

Then he was standing in front of the horse, causing it to rear back in shock.

Then he was behind it, taking advantage to ram his blade into Charles’ other leg, and was once more gone before he could retaliate.

That seemed to be the end of it. Whether from blood loss or the simple fact that his ruined legs could no longer hold on, Charles fell from his horse, crumpling to the ground in a heap.

He surrendered, and the battle ended.

“Well,” the guildmaster turned to Ósma. “You did say they were going to retake the initiative.”

“I wish they hadn’t,” he sighed, watching the spectral steed stand sentinel over Charles’ body as the healers arrived. Its attention didn’t waver from the elf across the arena for a second. “This may be more than we can handle.”

“Like hell it is!” Matthias grinned, the dwarf flying up to be eyelevel with the massive orc. Palmira, who was now under the miniature tornado he was using to fly, spluttered as her hair was sent flying around her face. “Send me down there, I’ll take the bastard down myself!”

“You really think you can do something against a mage that controls time?”

“Look, Ósma,” he locked eyes with the orc, serious despite the unhinged grin on his face. “I’ve spent the last decade plotting how I’d break that smug bastard’s nose the next time we fought. You aren’t taking this away from me. Let me down there and I’ll show everyone how poor a choice the Rodina really made!”

“I don’t know, but…” The old orc glanced at the guildmaster. “Well? Do you have any better ideas?”

He squinted down at the area, weighing his options. Then he sighed, waving them off. “Fine. Matthias, even if all you can do is take that one elf out, that’s victory for our guild.”

“Sweet! Victory and a raise? Hell yeah!”

“I said nothing about—he’s already gone,” the guildmaster sighed, watching the dwarf fling himself over the railing.

“Don’t worry,” Ósma clapped his shoulder. “We can pay him in beer.”

“I hate the fact you’re right about that.”

--

Matthias

Matthias landed gentle as a breeze, near bursting with violent glee. Finally, today was the fucking day! The day he’d finally get his revenge on that smug prick of an elf!

Not that it would be easy, of course. Zeitn von Uhrenstadt was, without question, the most dangerous mage in the Rodina’s arsenal. Not the most powerful—he lacked the largescale destructive potential that even the likes of Creepy Girl and Pretty Boy could dish out—but if the Rodina needed something dead? They sent Zeitn.

‘Time magic’ was a bit hard for even demons to counter, after all.

To tell the truth, he was just happy the elf was here in the first place. From what he knew of him he spent most of his time behind enemy lines these days, assassinating dangerous monsters and demons before they could become a threat to the more vulnerable border towns. He’d even made a pass at the Arch-Traitor back in the day, though he’d failed and ended up losing his right hand in the process.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

That he was here, participating in a tournament like this for the first time in years, for a mage as powerful as him… it felt beneath him. The only other mage of his caliber who participated in tournaments like this was Raum, but everyone knew that guy was just in it for the money.

But now he could finally pay the bastard back for that asskicking he’d gotten a decade ago. He may not have been the most orthodox of dwarves, but even he could hold a damned grudge!

“We shall now begin the next battle! On the red side, Zeitn of the Ambrosi Famiglia's Rodina Guild! And on the white side, Matthias of the Firozzi Famiglia's Rosa Dominae Guild! The battle will continue either until one of them is unconscious, surrenders, or I personally call the match! Now, on my mark!”

Matthias grinned, flexing for his adoring fans above as they waited for the ref to start the match. Zeitn watched him silently, rolling sunken eyes at the theatrics. Not that he was any better, edgy fuck, but who gave a shit, he was here to win and look damn good doing it!

Though the elf looked a bit different these days. More tired, more pale, and the mask that covered the lower half of his face was somehow even edgier than the all black cloak he used to wear. Considering how sunny it was right now, he’d probably end up with a stupid tan after this was over.

“READY!” the referee shouted.

Matthias turned at that moment, blowing a kiss to an admirer who—oh my, that definitely wasn’t allowed in a public stadium.

“BEGIN!”

A blade sunk into his shoulder, digging directly between the folds of his armor. The strike was casual, almost practiced. The strike of a man who’d simply walked up to a stationary target and shoved his knife in the weakest spot.

For the briefest of moments, Zeitn was standing directly in front of him.

And then there was a faint blur, and the elf was back in his original spot, bored as ever.

Yet despite the wound, despite the pain, Matthias’ grin only widened.

Got you.

He’d noticed. Nobody else had, but Matthias had noticed.

Zeitn appeared, and then stabbed him.

It was a small detail, but it was important. Why would a man who could control time stop doing that before attacking? Why not simply stab him while time was slowed down?

Because he couldn’t. Or, at least, that was his working theory. He wasn’t sure why that was, but in this situation the what was more important.

On its own, it was a small weakness. But luckily for him, he also knew Zeitn’s true flaw.

He was a massive fucking showoff.

“COME ON!” his voice boomed across the arena, louder than thunder and twice as powerful. “Is that the best you can do? Prick me with your puny little needle! Hah! I am Matthias, the dwarf who conquered the sky! You think a tiny scratch like that means anything to me?”

An elf as powerful as him couldn’t help it really. After decades of fighting massively weaker opponents, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was instinctual at this point. In a tournament like this, so utterly below his skill level, he was just going through the motions until he got… whatever the Rodina was bribing him with to show up here.

And as a time mage, was there any surprise in that? The rest of the world might as well be snails compared to him.

But he wasn’t invincible. He’d lost—to a Demon Lord, perhaps—but he’d lost all the same.

Zeitn’s eyes narrowed. His grip on his blade tightened. And then he was—

No. It wasn’t instant. It was hard to see, even for someone like him—a mage who manipulated lightning—to notice, but he didn’t instantly move from place to place. He blurred.

Which meant he didn’t stop time, he only slowed it down.

Matthias’ grin widened even as the elf appeared once more in front of him. Because this time, he was prepared.

A deafening ‘CRACK’ rocked the arena, and Zeitn slammed into the ground as Matthias hit his right hip with a bolt of pure lightning.

The elf fell, convulsing violently for a brief moment, before his image blurred again and he was standing once more, this time much further away. His eyes were wide and he clutched his blade tightly, heaving as he regained control of shaking limbs.

Matthias laughed at the sight. He’d taken a deep cut along his neck in return, but he quickly disregarded it as not being life-threatening.

“Not so invincible, are you!” he roared, lightning crackling along his arms as a storm began to billow around him. “I know you now, time mage, you weak little shit! You aren’t powerful, you’re just a one trick pony who runs away at the first sign of trouble! Is that what happened when you lost your arm? Took a puny little flesh wound and ran crying to mommy? Hah! How pathetic!”

Zietn was no longer panicking. Now he was enraged, and it showed. He would no longer be holding back.

Good. Because there was one last weakness he’d noticed, one he doubted even the elf himself knew he had.

Zeitn von Uhrenstadt didn’t know how to fight.

He knew how to hurt. He knew how to kill. But when the very use of his magic meant the world stopped moving, how was he ever supposed to learn to fight an equal?

Zeitn disappeared. Likely to stab him in his blind spot again, the only move he seemed to know how to do. But Matthias had a way around that.

With a flex of his will, lightning erupted from every pore in his body. In this moment was no longer a mere dwarf, but electricity itself given flesh.

“You’re fast, elf,” Matthias goaded with a wild grin as his opponent blurred around him, unable to find any opening. “But are you faster than light?”

He was done playing defensive. Lunging forth he blasted across the arena, an ear-shattering boom following his every movement. As he reached the stone walls of the arena—only possible due to moving faster than Raum could possibly comprehend—he bounded off the side, launching himself back across. This form of his wouldn’t last for long, but it didn’t need to. Just the few seconds he could keep it up would be enough for him to win.

Once, twice, dozens of times he rocketed through the arena, the searing heat of his passing glassing the dusty ground of the arena. Not aiming at anything in particular—you couldn’t aim at an elf who could control time—but instead letting his sheer speed corner his opponent. Each pass he made was slightly faster, each forcing the elf into a smaller and smaller space.

Ah, this was what he lived for! Laughter swallowed by the storm he was brewing tore itself from his chest. This is why he’d abandoned the old ways, the dirt and the darkness! For it was he alone who’d discovered the truth!

Dwarves dug holes, such was the way of things. They dug deep, for they were dwarves, and the deeper you dug the better dwarf you were. But why was down the only direction to dig? Why was dirt all his kind cared to mine?

All it took was a simple paradigm shift to make him realize the truth, that up and down were mere matters of perspective! For what was the sky but an ever-shifting earth? He tore tunnels through the air with each second that passed, dug holes in that which his small minded kin would declare undiggable!

Finally, he caught the elf. Whether planned or accidental he couldn’t tell, but he slammed into Zeitn with the wrath of a god of thunder.

Victory was his, but was there really ever any doubt?

For he was Matthias the Storm Dwarf, the sky was his earth and the earth was his sky! And one day, he’d dig all the way to the stars themselves!

--

“I can’t believe he made it that far.”

Matthias not only defeated the time mage, but managed to carve his way through six more Rodina adventurers before finally flagging. He probably could have made it further, but the injuries he’d taken against Zeitn at the beginning increasingly hampered him until the referee had forced him out lest he risk dying of blood loss.

The dwarf had adamantly refused, of course, but Raum simply isolated him in a bubble of personal space and floated him out of the arena.

“True. That went much better than I expected it to,” Ósma hummed, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Not well enough, though,” the guildmaster grumbled, rubbing his forehead. “We can’t keep this pace up. Johanna, Charles, and Matthias were three of our strongest members. We need to send in some of our weaker adventurers lest we burn out too quickly.”

“I don’t disagree, but are you sure it’s the right time? The woman down there just took out Matthias. It might be too much of a leap to send out one of our younger members.”

“I disagree. That,” he pointed at the young battle priestess standing in the arena, “is not a threat. She only won against Matthias because the idiot was actively dying while fighting her. We don’t need to send a dragonslayer at her, we just need someone competent. Someone like, I don’t know, maybe Lorenzo?”

“Lorenzo? Don’t you think that’s a little mean? …Or are you trying to poach her instead? Play to the kid’s strengths?”

“Hey!” Lorenzo snapped from where he was sitting five feet away.

“The girl just defeated Matthias, she’ll have bragging rights for the next decade. Who cares if it’s a little mean,” the guildmaster scoffed. “…and if she suddenly has a change of heart and joins our guild after this is all over, well, that’s not any of our business.”

“Hey.”

“Don’t worry, Lorenzo,” Palmira gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “We know you’re more than just a pretty face.”

“Eh,” Chiara made a ‘so-so’ gesture.

“I hate you all,” Lorenzo groaned, standing up. “Whatever. She doesn’t look too tough, I can take her.”

“In a fight, right?”

“When I get back I’m strangling all of you except Palmira!” he snapped. “Starting with Chiara!”

“Kinky.”

With a strangled scream Lorenzo jumped into the arena.

--

Lorenzo

Some days he wondered why he put up with his guildmates.

Probably because he was aware they weren’t serious, even if he wished they stopped bringing it up all the time.

Yes, he had been with many people. Yes, he was hot. Yes, his dad was a bard.

But that wasn’t all he was! People didn’t give Chiara—

Well, okay, no, people gave Chiara an equal amount of shit.

People didn’t give Palmira anywhere near as much shit for carrying around a human skull all day! Why was he always relegated to just being ‘the hot one?’

Lorenzo sighed. Maybe he just needed to fight more. Get a nasty scar or two. Or would that make things worse…?

“Hey, uh,” his opponent called out to him. The battle priestess was, unfortunately, very pretty, with fluffy brown hair and big blue eyes. He really hoped she didn’t find him attractive. “Are you doing okay? You seem a little out of it.”

“We shall now begin the next battle! On the red side, Catherina of the Ambrosi Famiglia's Rodina Guild! And on the white side, Lorenzo of the Rosa Dominae Guild! The battle will continue either until one of them is unconscious, surrenders, or I personally call the match! Now, on my mark!”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine,” he waved her off with another sigh. “Just dealing with some teasing from my guildmates, you know how it is.”

“Ah, I get it,” she nodded sympathetically. “It happens to all of us. Still, I hope we can have a pure and righteous battle.”

“READY!”

“Yes, that sounds wonderful, I look forward to beating you as well.”

“Hah! Cocky, aren’t you? Well, I don’t dislike that.”

“Please do.”

“BEGIN!”

Catherina planted her foot, battle-habit fluttering in a nonexistent wind. With a flex of her biceps she readied a claymore longer than she was tall and began to approach, keeping to his left as she circled ever closer.

“The Daughter was weak, when her flesh was pale and her blood red,” she began to pray, the faith of the Goddess enhancing her. “For her soul had been born of silver stars and songs of old. A powerful soul in the body of a frail mortal, throughout her childhood she was a sickly, wretched thing.”

While she was setting herself up, Lorenzo wasn’t idle. Special seeds pushed their way from his arms, falling to the damaged ground to bury themselves in the suboptimal soil. With a flex of his will he forced them to grow, years of growth occurring in seconds under his careful control.

“Many saw only the surface, and looked down on her. But those of pure hearts and sharp minds knew the touch of divinity when they saw it. Their whispered prayers followed in her wake, knowing her as she knew them. The last Demigod, a final test of the Divine.”

There were many people who heard ‘nature magic’ and scoffed. They considered it weak, the domain of healers and druids. Fools who thought simply because a tree could not chase them it wasn’t dangerous.

What arrogance.

Nature was growth. Nature was change. Nature iterated endlessly upon itself, each generation born slightly faster, slightly stronger, slightly more resilient. Nature’s true power wasn’t in what existed now, but in what it could become.

Lorenzo wasn’t a mage like Palmira or Chiara, who could come up with new spells on the fly. His magic was slower, more measured. Even as he flaunted the laws of physics to force the vines at his feet to grow faster than mayflies it was still pathetically slower than anything most other mages could do.

“But some were wicked and coveted this divinity for themselves. The false priest Largor ambushed her, and with blackened blade in hand aimed to steal her pure heart for himself.”

But that was fine. In focusing on her own power his foe was giving him all the time he needed.

He forced the vines to stop. Seeds within the thin bark budded and bloomed and burst, erupting from their ‘parents’ and using their corpses as fuel to grow ever larger. These vines were slightly thicker, slightly more agile, and slightly more resistant to holy energy. Plants which were just a little bit better at dealing with the battle priestess before him.

Better, but not enough.

“But fool he was. For the Mother is the Daughter, and under the blinding light of her soul, even her frail flesh was turned to steel.”

So he repeated the process. Again, and again, and again. Decades and centuries worth of optimizations condensed into a matter of minutes. Each new generation slightly better suited for the battle ahead.

But Catherina finally finished her prayer and attacked. Each of her footfalls dug inches into the dirt, and her very skin now glowed with holy light. She brought her massive claymore around and swung, and he was forced to sacrifice the less optimal vines to slow her progress.

Damnit, maybe he was moving too slowly. He’d hoped he’d get more time.

Focusing on his opponent he forced half his vines forward, letting the rest continue to iterate behind him. Instead he tried overwhelming the woman, using the tougher vines to distract her sword while the stronger ones pulled at her legs.

While she couldn’t ignore both—she wasn’t Teresa, thankfully—they clearly weren’t doing enough. But that was fine. They just needed to hold her off long enough, and were even helping him refine his true creations as they gathered him more practical knowledge.

Catherina cut high and then low, spinning her claymore around in large arcs. She was still moving. Slowly, but inevitably getting closer.

He sent a few more of his better vines to distract her, relieved when they gave her more trouble than the last. That was good, it meant they were developing properly.

The fight continued in this vein for a few more minutes before, finally, his work was complete.

The plants he had created were disgustingly optimized. They drew all the energy they needed from the desiccated corpses of their forbearers. Their flesh was harder than steel, they could crush with the force of a dragon’s claw, and they were almost completely immune to holy energy. They also grew way too fast. The last three iterations were simply to slow down its life cycle so that it wouldn’t immediately die upon birth.

These vines would survive maybe fifteen minutes at most before the sheer weight of their own fucked up genes killed them.

But fifteen minutes was more than enough.

He raised his hand, and the last quarter of his vines followed his will. They barreled at the battle priestess, turning what was once a manageable tide into an indestructible wall of leaf and wood.

As her sword bounced off the vines she had only a moment to widen her eyes before the hordes were upon her. They grabbed her arms, her legs, her torso and her head, dragging her straight down to the earth and burying her as if she were one of their own seeds. Within seconds only her head and shoulders were still visible, leaving her immobile and unarmed.

Catherina laid there, chest heaving and eyes wide with shock. Then Lorenzo stepped over her, commanding a single vine to place its bladed tip directly under her chin, tilting her head up so she could meet his eyes.

“Do you surrender?”

“…Yeah,” she gasped, her brilliant blue eyes staring into his own leafy green. “I do.”

Lorenzo relaxed, calling off the vines as the referee called the match. As he helped her out of the hole he felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him.

See, Chiara. He could totally win a fight without seducing anyone.

“And, uh, hey,” the battle priestess fidgeted, lingering in the arena even when she really should have left by now. “My full name is Catherina de Nemici. After this is over, why don’t we grab dinner? To, uh, celebrate your victory. What do you say?”

Fuck.