“I thought Saorsa was supposed to be next?” Tyr asked, tilting his head as the announcer began to call out the teams participating in the following round. They marched down the tunnel quietly, with Valkan tracing his finger along the runic carvings on the wall.

“Our bracket remains the same, but each high seed is going to be fighting the ranked teams from the free rounds. It's a random roll to determine who we get, and not every team will be matched up in an extra round.” Rafael said. “I know you probably think it sounds unfair, but fairness has no place in the trials, the whole idea is to be seen and noticed by the gods and the world. More rounds is better, and the teams are typically weaker opponents. Giving us the benefit of a warm-up compared to a team that has been inactive for the last few days.”

Making their way up the stairs and into the arena proper, people began doing what they always did. Screaming or stripping naked before security chased them off. Tyr recognized the gaunt man with a sweater embroidered in a facsimile of his own face, frowning. Count Asmon was throwing his hands in the air and waving at him frantically, flanked by two younger and very embarrassed looking men. Tyr returned his wave while a few of the others cracked jokes at his expense. His one and only super fan.

“On the south side of the field!” Leda cried. “You already know who they are, and without further ado, I present you with team...! I literally refuse to say it again, but the first time was probably pretty memorable! Give it up for Lyra!”

After a baleful glare from Tyr down below, she corrected herself. “Fine! Stella is the best, we love Stella!”

Good enough.

As planned, the others hung back while Tyr marched to the center of the arena. Knowing that he had to fight Lucian had affected him more than he'd let on. Agni wasn't the god of winners or losers, he was the god of challenge itself. Still, knowing that the blessing of such an ambiguous god could be withdrawn at any moment should Tyr fail to satisfy him was no small concern. He had to do as well as he could in the following rounds before inevitably losing. And he didn't have much faith in winning the semi-finals against the Varian team. Lucian had yet to fight in a single round, and still they'd swept the matches with little difficulty.

“...The Brotherhood!” Leda cried. “Accumulating victory after victory with their sharp wit and cunning in the independent rounds, they join us for the second time in the official bracket to face off against the republic. And the Lyran's don't seem like they'll be backing down. It's giving me chills just thinking about how this match is going to play out! Will Tyr get squashed again!? We're about the find out!”

She's really enjoying this... Tyr was still curious what he'd ever done to Leda personally to get glared at like that. Maybe it was his long team name.

Ten figures dressed identically in charcoal gray uniforms walked across the field. As Tyr had done, a single member of that team separated from the rest and walked forward to meet him. His wiry arms were bare and covered in all manner of swirling tattoos. A finned helmet covering his face and patterned with a faceplate riddled with holes. A very threatening appearance, somewhat derivative of the gladiatorial style common in Varia. Tyr had seen its like in passing in the arena at Leygein, finding it a bit too rounded and bulky for his preferences.

Tyr didn't feel much from the man, but he'd learned enough to know that an aura beneath his gaze was no indicator of weakness. Lucian's had felt so soft to be barely there, and Varinn controlled his well enough to feel similar. He took a high stance in the lightning style, arms bent and blade perpendicular to his body, extended out just in line with his eyes, feet forward and ready. The man approached, removing his helmet and inclining his head.

“...Tor?”

“Hey man.” Tor waved, still smiling in his lopsided sort of way. “How've you been? Damn, you're tall now, eh?”

“Been alright, been around doing some things.” Tyr shrugged. “You?”

“I'm well enough, got a good job, clothed, fed, all that. I'm glad to see you're okay, kiddo.”

“You too. Are you the challenger they sent to face me?”

“Not exactly, we uh... We forfeit the match!” He called out, shocking the crowd. People began to boo and throw detritus into the arena, but all it did was slap against the barriers protecting that same crowd from the backwash of a mana combustion. Most of the time sent bouncing back right into their faces.

“You... You what?” Tyr stammered. “What do you mean you forfeit? You can't do that!”

“Of course we can. Our only goal was to win a single round in the official bracket and we did that, so I'm out of here. Not a chance in hell that I'm fighting that thing.” His finger extended to point directly at Valkan. “After seeing those gauntlets, our leadership immediately called off their participation and are sending us home.”

“...That is bizarre.”

“Not really, everyone knows it's either going to be Varia or Haran, like every year. I'm only here for the money.” Tor shrugged. “Better to cut our losses and quit while we're ahead. Nice to see you though, and I mean that. You've been making quite the stir, the famous White Wolf, you have no idea how much tail I pull telling people how well we know one another. Stay safe out there, kid.” He snickered, turning away with a lazy wave toward his old comrades. Walking off the field with the rest of his team, all of them ignoring the displeasure of the crowd.

“Disappointing.” Samson rumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at the turned backs of the Brotherhood. He'd like to have seen what some of those slavers were made of, personally.

“Within expectations.” Tiber was impassive, patting Samson on the arm and doing the same. “Let's go get drunk.”

–

“That was a cowardly act.” Jura spat, resting her back against the stone rim of the hot communal bath. “What kind of man enters a martial competition and forfeits before first blood?”

“In the trials...” Mikhail said. He was unsure as to why Jura had joined them in the male baths, but nobody had stopped her. It was unlawful for a man to enter the women's facilities, but apparently not the other way around, making him consider once again what kind of society they lived in. “You're either first, or your last. There is no prize for the runner up. Each of the top sixteen teams except for the winners are given the exact same tribute for participating. They got lucky this year because the participating teams were so small in number. All along, their plan was probably to secure a spot and then leave, they never could've won the tournament proper and they know that. Gotta get that bag by any means necessary, I don't mind the hustle.”

“It was shameful, in any event.” Samson added, running a waxy balm through his locks. Bare of shirt to reveal the dense collection of scars that covered his back, and the old brand of his former master half defaced through self imposed scarification. “There is no death or permanent injury in this event, correct?”

Tyr nodded. “He indicated the Brotherhood team was afraid of fighting Valkan.”

“No great shock in that.” Valkan said with a wide and languid shrug. He hadn't been interested in the defensive and structural enchantments, but those that managed the mechanisms and functions of the bath were quite pleasant. “The Brotherhood was almost singlehandedly responsible for the slave trade of Anu when such a thing still occurred. Even before the war that split the empires into the successor states, the Brotherhood was a client nation and protectorate of Varia. Granted, this was before the modern Brotherhood even existed, but they must still have some fear in them. Humans are arrogant by nature, always believing them the center of things.”

“Does any of this actually matter?” Tyr asked.

“Of course not.” Valkan said. “Anu are not a culture of conquest, consider it fairly improbable that we ever leave those lands left to us to seek revenge on a nest of rats. If ever such a thing were to occur, we would only find one target on this continent worth risking the lives of our brethren to get revenge on. And we wouldn't. As ready as some of my people might be for that day to come, the idea of killing millions would stop them.”

Tyr sighed. “I expected it to be more exciting, I think I said that already.”

“You're fighting in a controlled and safe environment after spending all that time getting hacked to pieces and constantly hunting monsters. Of course it's going to feel boring.” Daito laughed. “I've always hated tournament arcs. I don't see much point in using them as a medium to quantify the abilities of characters that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things, and power scaling has always been so ridiculous in my opinion. Like, sure, I suppose it can be exciting, but if you've seen one, you've seen them all – y'know?”

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

“What's a tournament arc?” Mikhail asked, but Daito didn't feel the need to elaborate.

“You know...” Jura interjected again. “Something has been nagging at me. We all know how famous and powerful all the primus' are, right? This whole event is in their honor.”

“Sure, and?”

Jura paused for a moment to reorganize her thoughts. She didn't think Tyr would mind disrespect, but she barely knew some of the others. “They are all heroes who live for hundreds of years. Why does nobody ever talk about them? I could name all of them alive as could anyone else, I think, but I couldn't tell you what my own husbands grandfather's name was. Isn't that strange?”

“I guess that's valid, some people have asked that question before, too.” Mikhail agreed. “There are some books that trace back a lineage and names the primus' and even their powers. But there aren't many stories floating around about who they were and what they did. All of the memorials in Amistad were faceless. Only the living primus' had busts that weren't blank.”

For obvious reasons, they all looked at Tyr – and he was obligated to reply. “First, it's because they live so long. My grandfather left more than a century and a half ago. In human lives, that like six generations at a minimum, and people have short memories. Second, it's because of what they call 'the way'.”

Their looks indicated that the non-Harani among them were unaccustomed to this phrase beyond the obvious, vague symbolism of a code of ethics. Fortunately, Tyr was relaxed enough to enter his domain state: 'Ultra Info Dump Nobody Cares About'. That's what Daito called it, at least.

“I don't fully understand it, it's like a collection of laws and behaviors a primus is supposed to follow upon awakening. They aren't forced to, but they are punished if they don't. One aspect that I am familiar with is the fact that the modern and living primus' are supposed to be given all attention. The deeds and doings of primus' after they leave the world are collected by the churches and locked up in an archive deep beneath the earth. Only one of our kind, and I highly doubt they'd let me in – can go down there and see them. The Way says that we are only supposed to be looking toward the future and present, but never the past unless to draw upon a cautionary tale from it. Primus' who leave the world are honored in anonymity, they aren't supposed to be legendary heroes or remembered in songs and sagas, but some of those exist, too.

The Mockingbird was a primus. That children's song about the bird telling the bear that a forest fire was coming, it's just romanticized enough that the church doesn't care. Oh, and the Radish Man was a primus too, you know? Radish Man, Radish Man, bury your axe in your neighbors skull, take from them everything, burn it all. No? Really? I used to love that song when I was a child.”

Fennic squinted at Tyr, thrusting his neck forward like a chicken. “It's Radish Man, Radish Man, love your neighbor and aid in their labors, earn their favor lest empire waver. What the hell kind of version did you hear...?”

“So you're saying that agents of the united churches scour the achievements of past primus' from the world?” Jura frowned, and Tyr shrugged. It was true, in a manner of speaking. “That seems sad. To be forgotten like that.”

“Thinking it's all about the primus' specifically is probably incorrect. I'd expect they just don't want people looking too far back into the histories, but I couldn't answer the 'whys' behind that either. Publicly accessible knowledge will tell you that no primus has ever died, for instance.” Tyr measured his tone carefully, the truth was information someone would only find in a black book. Cortus was the only primus in recorded history to have ever been killed, and nobody really cared about him to begin with. Since it was done by another primus, it was largely excused. Tales were already common of his brutality, before he'd lost the very short war against Haran. How Hastur and Cortus were supposedly 'different people' according to Jartor still confused him. 'They are different, but also the same'. What sense did that make?

Tyr cleared his throat. “They leave. Ascend to heaven, maybe. They go somewhere else when it is their time, but all primus' are supposed to be immortal and invincible. Some think that they become gods, but I highly doubt that, and it's heretical to say so out loud. Primus' are not to be idolized or worshiped, the Eight Pillars forbids it. The united human churches, if you weren't aware.”

“Why do you think that is?” Samson asked, genuinely curious. Agoron revered the primus', same as everyone, but they didn't have one of their own. Even the Assyrians did, all man owed their fortune on this word to the gods first, primus' second.

Tyr shrugged, tilting his head in thought. “Power plays by the clergy, the fact that a primus might conquer the known world or go against their divine mission. Not sure, don't think it really matters though, gods first – primus second. I doubt any primus wants to be worshiped.”

“Do you think something bad happened in the past that they don't want us to know about?” Mikhail asked. “Now that she mentions it, it does seem strange... I've never really thought about it.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Fennic chuckled. “And it's so obvious, I don't think I've ever considered that in my lifetime.”

“I think it's better to not ask questions neither you nor anybody else wants you to have an answer to.” Tyr said. “The easiest way to explain it all is that The Way is specifically geared toward protecting and seeing to the health of humanity as a whole. There are a lot of mysteries in the world, but that doesn't make them part of some conspiracy, some just aren't meant to be answered. That's how you end up writing a black book, I guess.”

He smiled jovially, slapping Mikhail on the back. Wrapping a towel around himself and noticing their interest turn to more mortal topics of concern. Women, drink, and other things – with the more mature and elder of their group departing to be replaced by other denizens of the estate that Tyr had never taken the time to know.

He wrapped Jura in a long robe and threw her over his back dramatically. “Time for bed.”

“Oi! Let me down!” She beat her fists against his back but she was laughing, the blows had no strength behind them and she managed to wriggle herself into a princess carry as he crossed the threshold and into the estate proper. “This is how you're supposed to carry your mate.”

Tyr chuckled, dragging her all the way back to their room before throwing her on the bed and staring down at her. Graceful and shapely in all the right ways, she had matured in the face and her features were harder, more defined and rigid. She stared up at him, waiting for him to join her in bed, but he didn't.

His smirk was gone, and Jura tilted her head in confusion as he went about mumbling to himself and waving his arms about, those silver gloves on his hands.

“Are you... Casting spells?”

“I am, divination arrays are too complex to use with the spellbreakers so I've been practicing a little bit on some lesser alarms and anti-detection wards. In any case, we should be free of observation.” Tyr frowned, his eyes squinting as he stared at her in a way that might communicate anger or displeasure, certainly not love and affection. “You are very clever, Jura. So smart, and far too inquisitive for your own good.”

“...Thank you?” She didn't like the vibe that Tyr was giving off, he looked too serious – almost like a different person. Which is exactly how she felt now, her husband was bold enough to show affection in public but he'd never been so forceful, that was her way, not his. She inconspicuously withdrew a dagger from her dimensional ring and concealed it beneath the fold of her robe.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to embrace your lovely, extremely clever wife.” Jura rose from the bed, giving him a sultry look and leaning against his chest. In a flash, the enchanted dagger buried itself in Tyr's throat, sending him back and scrabbling for purchase. She shook off his hands and landed a fearsome headbutt on the bridge of his nose, driving him to the ground. Stabbing again and again until 'its' throat was reminiscent of a festival ham.

“Do you think I am a fool, creature?” Jura growled. Tyr couldn't speak with all of that blood in his mouth. It all came so suddenly that he didn't know how to react, she was someone he trusted the most and well aware of his ability to heal. Why would she stab him? “Where is Tyr?”

Tyr snapped his fingers to drive her up and forcibly into the ceiling, pulling the knife out and casting it aside. She struggled against his magic, but while Jura had her talents – she was no match for it. As for the diminutive form of Freki the Terrormaw, he managed to take one of Tyr's ears off on his way down. Shooting from Jura's body as only a true familiar could. Scratching at his calf and growling, for such a tiny creature, his claws and teeth were quite fearsome.

“Okay, time out. What the hell was that!?” Tyr yelled. Jura became gray in the face as his wound closed and he stared up at her angrily. “What did I say about the throat?”

“Not to stab you in it because you're afraid of drowning... Er...” Jura's face cringed in discomfort even after he let her down. Not very gently, either. “You were acting so strange, I thought you were someone else.”

“This whole thing is off the rails.” Tyr slapped the remains of his torn ear to his head, only after Freki had released it from his tiny, fanged mouth. Terrormaw indeed. “Just... That stuff about the primus' and the churches, the past. Never speak about it again in public like that. I couldn't answer your questions honestly, even if I knew the answers. There are things in this world that control it from behind a curtain, and I've known about them, whoever they are, for a very long time now. Don't tempt fate, I'd rather not have you disappear on me.”

“Don't try to touch me with those bloody hands of yours.” Jura frowned, slapping his hand away. “I just bathed. This is your fault for being so damned strange all the time. Clean yourself up!”

Tyr glared at her in exasperation, but did as she asked. He'd grown in control enough to create a 'relatively' stable sphere of water, using it to remove the blood from his hands, cleaning the floor as well. There was a jet of it across the room when his spell inevitably fell apart as it always would, ending in a blossom on the sheets. Those, unfortunately, were beyond his ability to save – but the enchanted linens would clean themselves after a time if left alone. Hopefully.

“Ah, gods but my blood is rushing!” She laughed. “Do you want to--”

“Yup.”