Isak overlooks the pavilions with a great deal of wonder and confusion. There is a part of him that is conscious of the fact that this is some intertwining of his unconscious, which showcases itself in its mudded, extravagant forms. That all of this is a part of the Trial. Some labyrinthine-like puzzles which don’t have a recipe for successful completion. Neither, an easy way out in case of an utter failure.

Right, failure.

Failure, here, only means the large amount of time wasted in this maze of mind, while his body withers in the dark cell under Temple’s grounds, unable to move. Unable to eat. Unable to drink.

Choice.

Now, Isak has to choose as the time is running out. Every second is precious, hesitation might mean he would be stuck on this in-between plane, devoid of time and space. And he wouldn’t wish to be stuck in the world of illusion. He wouldn’t ever admit defeat at the hands of just some mind-trickery.

He takes a deep breath. His gaze stops at the Battle Arena. A large tent with plenty of people, shouting over each other while looking excitedly at the event in front of them.

Battle Arena, it is. He finally makes a choice. One of many to come. With a confident stride he walks up to the tent, and tugs at the white fabric with blue stripes to pass through. Now, he can also see the main event — a duel is raging in the center.

Two unarmed men stand opposite each other, their fists raised in a stance. On the right side — the fighter's face shows a grimace, while his nose and lips are inflamed and looks bigger than they were — originally — on the man’s face before coming to battle something out with his opponent. The skin on his face is already a mix of blue and red, and Isak could barely imagine how the man would look without punches to his face — the damage is that serious.

The other man, on the left, is shirtless and seemingly doesn’t display any outer wounds on his body, while the knuckle of his right hand is red and bleeding. From this set of events — it’s easily understood who is in an advantageous position.

“The betting is still available, everyone!” Someone shouts in the corner. An employee of the troupe in a worn blue tunic and make-up, only barely reminiscent of one that jesters adorn at the events, throws a coin in his hand up and down.

The shouts of the crowd gets louder and a few people rise their hands:

“Betting on the left one!”

“Me too, left!”

“Left! Left!”

“Right! The odds are too good to miss out!’

“All in for the left guy!”

Isak can hear the cries from all directions as the crowd pushes up to the betting stand.

There is no referee or overlooker. So, the men still stood around in their stances, afraid to move and miss the sudden move of their opponent. Which, due to the bare hands and fighters being unprepared civilians can turn fatal. The men aren’t of large build or have much of an advantage in weight against one another. The best they can be, looking at their lean frame, would be soldiers or guards. Though, guards of non-elite divisions.

Suddenly, the man on the right makes a deep puff of breath from an obstructed and swollen nose, spits a bloodied saliva on the ground. In fact, the spit lands somewhere near the spectators, making some of them yell and scatter to get out of the way as if they’ve been running from a pack of angry wasps.

The man on the left seems to realize that his opponent is about to make a move with that set of preparations. Refusing to wait for it and deciding to finally put an end to the other man's suffering, he swiftly lunges. The same as the other times — before Isak’s appearance in the tents — the man on the right doesn’t have it in him to react to the quick natural movement of the other duelist. His face gets hit again, right on the cheekbone.

Something cracks.

A bellowing scream. And desperate coughs and harsh breaths to rebound from the extreme pain.

The crowd gasps, some cover their mouths.

“Betting is closed!” the creature behind the stand shouts, grinning as wide as his face allows. To the point that a powder on his face shows cracks.

The man, who landed a punch, is holding his fist with the other hand, his face in agony. The man, who received an unfortunate punch to his face — one more, one less — stands with a crooked smile shown through the jumbled and scraped lips. The smile rising up to his now-heated cheekbone, filled with excruciating pain.

In a heavy swing, he lands a fist on his opponent's face — for the first time in this match — as the man with a broken knuckle is unable to focus on anything else other than his aching cracked bone.

And, now, this punch does prove fatal.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Then — the man on the left lies face on the ground, his limbs twitching with spasms.

“Good fight,” the other man mumbles through the broken teeth.

The crowd isn’t applauding or cheering much — most of them lost a fair share of money. The conductor behind the betting stand displays a rather enthusiastic applause, signifying that his business never has been better.

The crowd started chattering, reflecting on the fight and its unconventional result. Though the man on the left was swift in landing his punches, his stamina and physical vulnerability do need a bit of training. Or did need. Isak isn’t sure if that ghostly form of a man is still alive, or if it can even die, or, maybe, it just evaporates from this castle of illusion in his mind. If that is his mind alone and only… and not some far-away place he reached by accident.

“Now, now,” the conductor in a blue tunic makes his way to the arena center from the stand. He makes a manneric gesture of disgust while stepping over the downed man. “Get him out of here,” he waves at someone.

The two circus guards in bright overalls — the same as other members of the funfair — emerge from the crowd and, pulling the man by his hands, take him out of the tent.

“So,” the conductor raises his hands. “Who’s next? Who wants to challenge the…” he stops, glancing for a second at the exhausted fighter, who was breathing as loud as a wounded beast. “The Bloat-Face!”

People chuckle at the sudden nickname. Though Isak notes, it isn't such a pleasant place to enjoy some humor.

“You good…?” the creature turns, his fake brows furrow and express curiosity.

The fighter nods, blood splashing from his nose.

“Yuck!” The conductor makes a jump to the right to get out of the path of red substance, mixed with snot. “So, any volunteers? You can make some bank!”

He runs his eyes over the crowd as the people obediently lower their gazes. Watching is fun, participating is another matter.

The conductor’s eyes stop on Isak. The creature’s focused eyes don’t blink or look away. All focused on him, standing at the far end of the crowd. Isak can’t shake off a chilling feel from the stare as if it urges him, binds him into the very center of the arena with its ghostly unseen hands.

Maybe, it’s a hint, Isak thinks. Trial means challenge, in other words. And it's a hint to accept one. But it hardly feels right that an answer to passing the all-important test of the soul and mind is to win some bout with his bare fists.

Isak bites his tongue. And, after a short hesitation, decides to enter the center. The past winner looks half-dead anyway. That man can take a punch, but at this stage — it shouldn’t cause much trouble.

“Oh, yes! We have a great challenger!”

The crowd shouts again, regaining their once-lost vigor. At one point, Isak notices a familiar figure, stepping into the tent at the announcement of a new fight — a juggler clad in white overalls, who he just recently shoo-ed away. The juggler’s expression looks rather pitiful, the creature hasn’t improved its mood much after being chased away.

“What’s your name, fighter?” the conductor inquires.

“...Isak.”

“Introduce yourself,” the conductor, and now a make-shift referee, gestures to the other.

“Ynneb.”

That name is unfamiliar, Isak hasn’t heard it before.

But if everything is supposed to be the twisting of his memories and nostalgia, then why is everything so foreign behind the surface of appearances? He guesses.

“What has led you to our Arena?” The troupe member continues the interview, trying to ignite the crowd’s heat and anticipation.

“I have no idea…” Isak mumbles as the conductor makes an unsatisfied expression at his reply, “you looked at me weirdly.”

The crowd whispers at the unexpected answer. This isn’t the reaction that the creature expected, but it still is… a reaction. Better than nothing.

“You hear?!” the creature yells, trying to fix the situation. “Me, your faithful conductor, can force people into a lethal fight with just one gaze!” He raises his hands as the crowd applauds at the notion. That crowd is really an impressionable bunch.

“What do you think?” He shooks his head at Isak’s opponent.

“...about what?” the man says, his gaze unfocused, voice hoarse and shallow.

“Your opponent, of course.”

“Well… I can’t even see him,” he retorts, his swollen skin around the brows intruding on his vision and a daze of a headache blurs it further. “But, yeah, heard of him.”

Isak takes a step back. Heard of him…? From where?

“Isn’t it exciting?! A blind man with a deadly punch against a former guard-recruit at his full health!” the conductor shouts, prolonging the words, with all his power and lung capacity.

The crowd whistles, though Isak can’t guess what’s so exciting about the upcoming uneven fight. Or, perhaps, the spectators — those phantom creatures — want to see someone get knocked out, regardless of rules or fairness.

“How do you know that…?” Isak questions, still glossing over the conductor’s words.

“Pardon?”

“How do you know I’m a former guard? I didn’t tell.”

“Oh, Isak,” the creature chuckles. “Who doesn’t know you in these parts?” he grins, powder falling off his skin.

Isak shrugs his shoulders, the sudden exclamation making him feel a shiver up his spine.

He jumps a bit, shakes his hands and knees in order to warm up. Clasps and unclasps his fists. Though the winner of the previous fight took much damage, Isak decides to still be careful. Nobody knows what tricks and plans these creatures are preparing in advance.

“I’ll announce the beginning of the fight in a moment!” the conductor gestures with his hands. “Betting pool won’t be open as we all know how it will end up,” he says casually with a note of disappointment and some sense of inevitability.

Lastly, he bows in a wide demonstrative gesture and waves his hand between the two opponents, signaling the start.

The ghostly being of a juggler somewhere far in the crowd pulls its hands in prayer and shuts its eyes in an exaggerated expression of sadness while anticipating the beginning of the match.