Chapter 48 – Grandmother (Doesn’t) Know Best

Chiara

Lorenzo’s first battle went well. He beat the girl he was sent to fight, as most of them expected he would. He also seduced her, which was also to be expected, and now her brother was excited at the prospect of poaching her from the Rodina. Probably the only good thing that came of the battle, in her opinion.

It kind of pissed her off how often people fell over themselves for the pretty bastard. It would have been better if he at least refused them, but he just had to be such a guy about it every time.

Luckily, he immediately got his ass beat by the next Rodina adventurer, a fifty-year-old water mage who killed his plants by instantly draining them of water and who was—more importantly—immune to his charms.

She’d make sure to mock him properly when she joined him in the infirmary.

After all, she was on her third opponent, meaning was already doing better than him.

It felt good being good.

“Stop moving!”

A blade of solid bone streaked toward her head, one which she barely dodged in time. The follow-up blade from the second hand she barely parried, but the pale claws of the third hand raked across her hip, drawing blood.

Right, she should probably focus on her fight. Coming up with new insults for Lorenzo could wait for later.

“Like I’d ever do that!” she snapped back, adjusting her rapier to jab deep into her opponent’s shoulder. The man didn’t even bother dodging, ignoring the wound as he had all the others she’d inflicted.

It was much harder for him to ignore the crystalline mice which crawled out of her blade. The dozen vaguely rodent-shaped creations let out warbling squeaks as they dug into the massive mound of flesh he called a shoulder, giving her the ability to disengage as her opponent frantically began trying to dig them out of his body.

Chiara took a deep breath, backing away as far as she dared and preparing another spell. This was, surprisingly, one of the most difficult fights she’d ever had the misfortune of participating in. Her opponent—whose name she could not recall because she hadn’t been paying attention—was of all things a flesh mage. He’d turned his body into a ten-foot-tall wall of pure muscle, with five arms larger than her own body and thighs so overengineered they tore every time he took a step forward. On the top of all that body was his head, comically small and protected by a second skull grown outside his skin like an insect’s exoskeleton.

It was disgusting.

Also probably heretical, though she wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. Stones in glass houses, and all that.

More importantly, nothing she’d hit him with seemed to do anything. Every time she stabbed him he simply knit the wound back together, and any bruises faded in seconds. The mice had been a last-ditch effort, but if she couldn’t figure out a weakness soon she’d lose the fight to sheer attrition.

Which would be awful. She’d made a bet with Palmira she’d win at least five rounds and she was not losing her dessert again!

Her opponent finally seemed to realize he wasn’t getting the mice out of his arm. Giving it up as a lost cause, he flexed his shoulder and with a wet ‘pop’ the arm detached from his body, falling to the dirt with a meaty thud.

Ugh. Why did she always get the worst ones?

…Hm, why wasn’t he growing it back?

Chiara narrowed her eyes, completing her spell. The air warped before her as crystalline cracks burrowed through the fabric of reality, forging a reflective surface from within which something pushed through.

A hand reached out from the other side, and Chiara grabbed it tight. Straining, she pulled as hard as she could. Soon an arm followed the hand, and then a body followed immediately after. Finally, her creation pulled itself all the way through, stepping gently this reality with the creaking of crystals.

It was a mirror of herself, exactly the same size and shape and wielding a rapier just as she was. Diamond skin twinkled in the late afternoon light, while in its eye sockets perfect pearls stared blankly out across the arena.

Chiara grinned, pleased with herself. It had taken her a long time, but she’d finally figured out how to mirror herself.

She didn’t have time to feel good about herself though. Within seconds her foe was once more upon her, bone spines and blades jutting from his four remaining arms which came down like spiky clubs. She jumped to one side while her reflection jumped to the other, easily dodging his attacks.

Then she nearly tripped as a wave of vertigo slammed into her.

Right, there was a reason she didn’t normally try to fight with two bodies at once. And that was because controlling two bodies at once was hell.

Chiara barely managed to bring her rapier up in time to parry, only realizing after that it was the reflection who had done that. Her main body instead leapt backwards, dodging a blow that would have easily taken her out before lunging in to attack.

She feinted at him while the reflection attacked—no, wait, she got them mixed up again. Regardless, it worked, and she drew a deep gash from elbow to wrist before swiftly dancing away from the retaliation. Her reflection on the other hand tanked the blow, using her superior durability to jab her own blade straight through the man’s elbow.

Luckily she didn’t mix them up that time.

Chiara circled him from two sides, watching the wounds closely. The flesh wound knit itself back together swiftly, but the shattered elbow was much slower to heal. Her eyes narrowed at the sight, considering.

Was he not able to manipulate bone as easily, or did more complex injuries take more concentration to heal?

Either way, she grinned as a plan slowly pieced itself together. If she could just focus on his joints, she might be able to wear him down faster than he could—

A misty form began to coalesce before her, and her heart dropped.

No no no, this couldn’t be—! She promised she wouldn’t—!

A ghost appeared, revealing an elderly elf in outdated military attire and a long spear held casually at her side. Close cropped hair framed her face, the expression on which could not be described as anything other than condescending.

“How pathetic,” the ghost sneered down her nose at her opponent, pointing her ornate spear derisively at the much taller man. “To think mine kind hath fallen so far—”

“GRANDMOTHER!”

The ghost turned to her casually, her milky eyes rolling back in her head as she sighed. “Yes, granddaughter?”

“This is my fight!” Chiara snapped, flushing as red as rubies. She pointed angrily at her grandmother, her reflection mirroring her on the other side of her confused opponent. “I can win this by myself, so go back to the afterlife! Like you promised you would last time!”

“I refuse,” the elderly elf scoffed. “To think this mutt may even breathe in thine presence is an insult to our exalted lineage. And such insults must be paid for in blood.”

“Goddess above, why do you keep doing this!? It is the twenty-first century, nobody cares about ‘lineage’ or ‘blood!’ Just—stop embarrassing me and leave!”

“To think, mine own granddaughter might care so little of our good name,” her grandmother sighed, shaking her head despondently. “Once, we were a noble house, glorious and true. Have we really fallen so far?”

“You were a baroness, that’s barely a noble! And I live in a republic, nobody cares about nobility here anyway! We vote for our leaders, like civilized people!”

“Fine,” she sniffed, at last turning away from her. “If that is what mine granddaughter wishes, I suppose I have no choice. You’d best win, child, for even if you do not care for our family’s bloodline it is not something that should be so easily sullied.”

Then, finally, her grandmother disappeared, returning to heaven. Probably. Hopefully.

Chiara buried her face in her hands and let out a silent scream, her reflection mirroring her in the act once more. Goddess above, did they have to do this every year?

The flesh mage shuffled awkwardly between the two of her. “Hey, uh, you doing okay? Do you need another minute or are we still fighting?”

Both her heads snapped up in sync. “I’m going to beat your fucking face in.”

It was harder fought than she’d like, but she managed to win that round and the next, and only had to yell at her grandmother to go away one more time. Unfortunately, she did end up losing with only four victories, meaning she now owed Palmira her dessert.

But she lost all on her own, and at this point she’d take that as a victory.

--

Sienna

“Hey boss,” Sienna walked up to the railing, leaning against it with a barely restrained rage. Her guildmaster barely gave her a glance, eyes locked on the battle raging below. “Send me down next.”

That got his attention. “What?”

“Send me down next,” she repeated, glaring at the Rodina adventurer. “I need to break that fucker’s kneecaps.”

Her twin sister Emilia was down there right now, fighting a right prick who was taking way too much enjoyment out of messing with her little sister. He was a Drowned-Man, all green and scaley with a fancy eyepatch to boot. He used two scimitars and some weird jumpy-magic shit and was making Emilia look like a blind fool in front of the whole damn city.

It pissed her right off, it did. The only person allowed to beat her sister up like that was her.

“I’m gonna break every bone in his body. I’ll make him regret showing up today, I will.”

“I admire your drive, but doesn’t Emilia tend to beat you when you two spar?” the boss sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And he’s currently running circles around her. You’d just lose, and I’d have wasted an adventurer.”

It was at that moment her sister took a final blow to the ribs. The hilt of one of her opponent’s blades definitely breaking something as he finally knocked her out. The jeers of the crowd and the bastard’s smug swagger just added more fuel to her already smoldering rage.

“Oh no, I ain’t losing to that prick,” she growled, feeling herself begin to float in rage. She considered tapping down on it, but being so angry made it hard to care. “I’ll crush him into a fine fucking powder, I will.”

“Sufficient motivation can make up for what she lacks in raw talent,” the big ol’ orc rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And he’s already been worn down, even if he’s doing an admirable job of hiding it.”

“I’d prefer to bet on more than righteous fury to win us the day. It’ll be a massive waste if she loses.”

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

“It could also be a waste to send down someone stronger when she suffices. It’s not like we’d need Leo or Teresa to beat him.”

“That’s true,” the boss sighed. “But we need to do everything perfectly or else we’re doomed. We’ve barely knocked out twenty of the Rodina yet we’ve used nearly half of our own people.”

Sienna listened to them argue with half an ear, far more focused on her sister as the healers dragged her out of the arena. She looked small, despite being big and muscled like all proper young girls should be. It was how beat up she looked, probably. Her tanned face was all bruised, bloody welts hiding her freckles. Worse still, her long black hair’d been all cut up into horrid little chunks by the prick’s swords. Really, did the bastard know nothing of battlefield etiquette? Everyone knew you left a lady’s hair alone in a spar, it was only polite!

They looked so alike that seeing her this broken up was uncanny. Like Sienna’d gotten her ass beat without actually getting her ass beat. Like Chiara, when she pulled out that fake twin of hers.

She didn’t like the feeling.

“I’m going,” she growled, tightening her grip on the railing. It was the only reason she hadn’t floated away yet, and the only thing standing between her and her enemy. “I don’t care what you leccaculi think’s right or not, I’m smashing his damn face in.”

The boss turned to her and—likely upon seeing the rage contorting her beautiful face—gave in with a sigh. “Fine, fine, you can go. Just… try not to actually kill him, will you? Nobody’s died yet today and I don’t want us to be the ones to break that trend.”

“Course, course,” she nodded absently, grabbing her own personal weapon. “I’ll only kill him a little.”

“That’s what I’m worried about…”

She ignored him, obviously. Leaping over the railing, she flew high into the air, and then like a falling star slammed into the arena floor with a thunderous BOOM.

The weaselly faced prick took a step back, smug sense of superiority replaced by something more cautious. Maybe the look on her face was putting him off, or maybe it was the weapon she’d brought with her to magically transform his bones into broken bones.

See, she had no formal education. Not in the quill and not in the sword. Her Pa was a fletcher and her Ma was a sailor down in Bocca. They’d lived a good life in the city, the salty sea air almost making up for the unfortunate amount of fish they had to eat. ‘Course, then the Woman-Serpent did what Demons did best, and her and her sister needed to find a new job. Since they were decent hands at fighting off pirates and the like, they decided to join an adventurer’s guild here in Firozzi.

Her sister Emilia took her bow and arrows, since she’d always been closer to Pa than her. If the flood hadn’t destroyed it she’d likely have taken over the shop. She then used her ‘arrow magic’ to do ‘things.’ What those things were Sienna didn’t rightly know, not really, but they sure were impressive!

She gave it a coin toss on whether her sister could even use magic or not.

But Sienna never really got the whole ‘aiming’ part of using a bow, and she didn’t have the cash to buy and learn a new weapon. So instead she’d gone to Ma’s ship and salvaged the heaviest thing she could find.

The anchor. She’d grabbed the anchor.

And now it sat pretty in her hands, Eight feet of solid rusty iron with Nonna Bagnata—her old ship’s name—barely legible along the length of it. She knew it was an impressive sight, casually resting as it was against her shoulder, and she hoped the man appreciated how well he was gonna get to know it.

The referee—who had seen far weirder things in the past hour, much less his whole career—didn’t bat an eye at her choice of weapon, instead simply beginning the match.

“We shall now begin the next battle!” The referee announced as the crowd quieted back to manageable levels. “On the red side, John of the Ambrosia Famiglia’s Rodina Guild! And on the white side, Sienna 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!”

“You’re that other girl’s sister, aren’t you?” the one-eyed freak asked, trying to act cocky as if he weren’t staring at her anchor in fear.

“Aye,” she nodded, adjusting the weight on her shoulder. She could’ve made it weigh nothing, of course, but that wouldn’t have gotten the same point across. “I am. And I hope you understand what that means.”

“READY!”

“And what does that mean?” he smirked, falling into his own stance. “That I should be expecting as easy a fight as the last one?”

“Nah,” she sneered. “It means I’m bashing your face in with a two-ton mass of pure fucking iron.”

“BEGIN!”

The Drowned-Man leapt into the sky, using his jumpy-magic to swim through the air as though it were water. It looked ridiculous, but he was also moving way faster than he had any right to so she’d begrudgingly admit it probably wasn’t as stupid as it looked. He was closing the distance quickly though, and if he got within arms reach that would be bad for her.

She knew he was way more skilled than her, she wasn’t dumb. She’d watched him fight. So since she wasn’t dumb, she wasn’t gonna fight him.

She was just gonna break him a little.

Sienna pointed at him with her free hand. The scaly bastard frowned in confusion.

Then he fell like an anchor dropped into the sea.

He shouted in pain as he slammed into the dirt, pinned flat as a board to the unforgiving earth. He tried to get up, tried to use his magic to help him move, but there was nothing he could do. Because even with his fancy flying, he was as beholden to Gravity as anyone else.

Sienna smirked, and just as he began to struggle again she metaphorically flipped the switch. Suddenly the force pressing him into the ground was gone, and his futile struggles sent him launching into the sky just like the flying fish he pretended to be.

Then she flipped the switch back off, and he came crashing right back down.

Gravity magic was a funny thing, it was. She hadn’t called it that when she was younger, since she didn’t know what ‘gravity’ was. She’d called it heavy and light magic, since she made things heavy and she made things light. But the orc didn’t think that was a smart enough word for what she did, so instead she was told what she was actually doing was messing with gravity.

She still wasn’t entirely sure what ‘gravity’ was, but she’d long since learned what it could do!

The Drowned-Man was slammed into the earth one last time. By this point even the bubble of space they were given was looking a bit warped, though it swiftly began to fix itself. Her opponent wasn’t so lucky, his scimitars having long since been lost and his armor turned brown from the muck. What visible skin she could see was purpled from all the bruises. He barely struggled now, dazed and likely concussed, but she was a kindly soul and let up, just a little bit.

Just enough for him to barely stand under his own power, even as he wobbled and strained.

Sienna sauntered up to him, and the smug look on his face was now replaced with something akin to fear.

“Don’t you worry,” she grinned, flipping the anchor off her shoulder so that the long flat end was facing him. He tried to move away, but the force of her gravity pinned him in place. “I won’t be killing you. I’ll just be hurting you. A lot. Think of it as penance, if that makes you feel better.”

Then she lowered his gravity as much as she was able, and doubled the gravity on herself. With a roar of exertion she swung, the man barely having enough time to bring his arms up to soften the blow.

“THIS ONE’S FOR YOU, EMI!”

The anchor slammed into him, and he was launched. He flew so fast he cleared the barrier of space with ease, flying straight out of the arena and netting her the only ‘out-of-bounds’ victory of the whole tournament.

And the stink-eye from the healers, who now had to send someone running across the city to make sure her opponent didn’t die.

Not that it affected her much. She’d be riding this high for days.

--

Endrit

Endrit did not enjoy fighting. In fact, he rather hated it.

It reminded him of the his time spent in the Sultan’s armies, of killing his own people to support petty human ambition.

Fighting also meant he risked dying, and that was something he tried to avoid as well.

Unfortunately for him, fighting was all he knew. It was in his nature as a former Janissary, a slave-soldier trained from childhood to excel in the arts of war. And he had certainly excelled at war.

But that was the past. This was the present.

Strange, how similar they often felt.

A flaming fist came down on his head, and he barely blocked in time. His shield dented and warped under the pressure, and he frowned as he realized he’d likely need a new one after this.

Endrit clicked his mandibles in frustration. How annoying. Sheilds were expensive, and his current guild wasn’t in the best financial straits.

The heat eventually became too great, and he was forced to disengage. Stumbling backwards, the Böceği eyed his opponent warily. The glow in his eyes flickered instinctively, an old habit that had slowly returned outside the discipline he’d kept to in the military.

The human in front of him was tall and wide, well-muscled and strong. His dark head was as bald as his own, though an elegant close-cropped beard covered the lower half of his face. He was a fire mage, though unlike Endrit’s guild’s newest member his flames were a deep red which burned hot. They coated his body as he spread them around the arena, boxing him in until he was forced to keep close lest he risk being burned.

He was Giacomo of the Rodina Guild, and he was the most dangerous opponent he’d faced in years.

This was because—despite technically sharing relations with fireflies—he was not, in fact, immune to fire.

Endrit huffed, holding his yatagan ready between the two of them. The short sabre had been tempered by the royal armories of the Muhtesem Deviet-i Atlilarin and was far more resilient than his shield, which was now little more than melting slag.

He was likely to lose this battle, he realized with no little annoyance.

The reason for his annoyance was because, as the battles went on, one thing had become clear to him—the Rodina were not in top form this season.

Perhaps it was decadence. They’d been on top for a long time, such was only natural. Even the strongest warrior could grow soft without a proper challenge.

Perhaps it was skill. His guild was middling at best, though. Or, maybe it had been middling? They’d lost a lot of their more average and weaker adventurers following the split from the Ambrosi. They had half as many members as they had a month ago, but maybe they’d simply trimmed the fat.

Or perhaps there was some other reason. Maybe there was multiple reasons. The answers eluded him, so he put the question out of his mind.

But it was because they were not in top form that he was so frustrated. He’d only defeated one other of their adventurers, and yet the one day they seem to have collectively decided to throw in the towel they send a competent fire mage at him, the bug man.

Was this how Charles felt fighting the time elf? If so, he owed the man a drink. This just wasn’t fair.

Still, never let it be said Endrit wouldn’t go out swinging.

A battle cry passed through his mandibles as he charged his opponent. The bigger man blocked with charcoal bracers, the steel of his sabre digging deep into the charred wood. Not deep enough though, as he was forced to duck under another flaming fist. Pulling his yatagan free he spun around, slicing through a fireball with the blade while using his free hand to go for a punch.

Blocked, of course. This Giacomo was more skilled in hand-to-hand than him. He could make excuses about how his joints weren’t as dexterous as a human’s were, but he was honest with himself enough to admit it was a skill he’d slacked on for many years. Perhaps this would be what forced him to learn.

Yeah, right. He was also honest enough with himself to admit he’d probably die long before the lesson ever truly sunk in.

Endrit tried to disengage again, only to hiss as his foot stepped into the flames. They were getting closer. How long had they been getting closer?

He didn’t have much time to ponder this, as his opponent then pulled his arm to the side and stepped into the fire itself.

Damn, so he was fireproof too? Well, that was obvious in hindsight. Was the new girl fireproof too? He’d never thought to ask.

He was regretting that a bit right now.

Endrit’s arm was twisted, and he grimaced as he felt something pop. His opponent was sporting enough not to also set the limb on fire, though considering how surrounded he now was that was cold comfort.

He finally managed to free his arm, but now it was far too late. The fire mage stepped further away, content to outrange him now that he was trapped.

If only he still had his bow. Unfortunately, that weapon was currently burning some distance to his left, likely little more than cinders at this point.

Did he even have anything—?

He glanced down at the ruined shield on his arm.

Well, it probably wouldn’t win him the match, but if he hit it would be very cathartic.

--

Palmira winced as Endrit chucked his shield at the enemy fire mage. His opponent easily dodged, and surrounded as he was by a sea of flames she knew he’d as good as lost.

“Damnit,” the guildmaster grunted, scowling at the fire. “I’d been hoping he would’ve done more.”

“Me too, but you have to admit we’ve been doing well,” Ósma crossed his arms with a frown. “Not as well as we’d hoped, but better than we’d feared. It may not be ideal, but we’re not out yet.”

“The bigger question is who we send in next,” the guildmaster frowned, turning to scan at the rest of them. At this point their section was looking rather empty, with more than half of their adventurers in the infirmary. Only Johanna had returned so far, acting insufferably smug at the fact she still held the longest streak of victories.

“Well, the man seems to prefer large area of effect attacks. He set the whole field on fire, after all,” Ósma pointed out. “And we don’t exactly have a lot of fireproof adventurers ourselves. Unless you want to send in Leo already, we may only have one option.”

It took Palmira only a moment to realize who they were talking about.

“Me?” she yelped. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been expecting to fight, but somehow the thought of actually going down there made her so much more nervous than expected.

“Hell yeah!” Anima grinned, reaching over the seats to wrap her in a one-armed hug. “Time for Three-Dukes Palmira to show what she’s made of!”

Wait wait wait she was not ready for this!

“Fight fire with fire? The idea has merit,” the guildmaster hummed thoughtfully. “But if they’re both fireproof, it means this’ll be closer to a battle of physical might over magic, and I’m not confident she’d win that.”

“You forget, Palmira’s fire magic isn’t focused on destruction,” Ósma reminded him. “Most of her spells focus on buffing over raw damage. She may not be able to use her fire to hurt him, but she wont be lacking for magical might down there.”

That… made her feel a bit better, actually.

And, now that she thought of it, wasn’t this a Rodina fire mage? The same guild which refused to hire her for being a fire mage?

Ah, good, anger was preferrable to fear.

“I’m ready to go down,” she stood up before she could lose her nerve. With Morte in one hand and Malocchio in the other, she marched up to the guildmaster. “Besides, I have to fight eventually, don’t I? Better to do it now, where I’ll have an advantage.”

She looked him in the eye as he considered it, both of them ignoring Anima hyping her up in the background. “Are you sure you’re ready for it?”

She swallowed. “I am.”

He held eye contact for another moment, before looking away with a small smile. Below, Endrit was finally defeated, and the match was called. “Then good luck, Three Dukes. I look forward to seeing if you measure up to my sister.”

Damn, he really did know her well now if he was trying to fire her up like that. And she hated the fact that it was working.

Palmira shook her head with a scoff, walking up to the railing. Then, she hesitated, and turned back to the guildmaster.

“Um,” she gestured to the railing. “Should I…”

He sighed, waving her off. “Whatever, you might as well. It’s not like anyone else in this guild’s taken the damn stairs…”

Right. With a nod, she turned back to the arena and leapt over the railing, trusting her fire to help her land safely. Her nerves returned as she left her guildmembers behind, mixing with her anger to grant her an uncomfortable cocktail of emotions that she really wished she wasn’t experiencing right now.

She pushed them down, though it was hard. The flames which guided her to the floor burned brighter as she landed. Turning to glare down the fire mage across from her, she gripped her friends tight as she prepared herself.

It was finally time for her to fight.