Chapter 6:

This time, I wasn't about to let my opponent dictate the fight. If we were both fighting dirty and this guy had a better idea of what was going on. Without a doubt I knew, I would be in trouble if I stayed within his expectations. So, as we were only a few feet from each other, I hucked my left-handed weapon right at his chest. My hope was that this move was dumb enough that he wouldn't see it coming.

Well, I did catch him off guard. It wasn't exactly what I expected. If I had been better at throwing short swords, I might have been able to spear him through the chest and end the fight instantly. Instead, the hilt wrapped around as it spun through the air and smacked him right in the jaw, at most dislodging a tooth.

Still, it killed his forward momentum and sent him stumbling. However, it did not distract him nearly enough for him to miss blocking my slash with the sword of my right hand. As we clashed a few times. It became clear that he was distracted, but his having two blades was overcoming any advantage I had given myself by throwing my weapon away at the start of the fight.

I cursed myself for being stupid, but after our first several exchanges, I realized that I had been right and that I needed to do something different to win. I needed to be creative and take advantage of my skills. Not as a fighter, but as someone who had to think outside the box.

Perhaps one day, I could win on skill alone, but I wasn't anywhere close to that yet.

I tried throwing sand. He ducked out of the way. I followed it in with a low slash, and he forced me to dive out of the way. As I went by him. I managed to nick his calf but received a long cut along the ribs on my back as I did so. My dive wasn't too pointless, though. I managed to come up with both swords in hand, and we resumed circling.

I tried rushing in after a few circles, but a front kick hit me in the chest when I was too focused on the fancy motions his swords were making. Landing on my back, I rolled frantically. A sword stabbed into the sand right next to my shoulder. As I was scrambling, I caught a second kick into my cracked ribs.

My vision threatened to blank, but I pushed through, getting to my feet. After a few quick steps, I gained some distance, and we resumed our circle.

We didn't talk, but I could see a glimmer of frustration in his eyes. Jorg knew he was a better fighter than me and knew that he should have already won. He kicked sand at me. It was a trick that I had pulled many times, but this was the first time I was on the receiving end. It didn't get to my face, though, as I closed my eyes and stepped forward, swinging quickly.

Due to his surprise, he mistimed the block slightly, and I could feel my sword slide up. Recovering my vision, I flicked my wrist, trying to bring it up off his blade. At the same time, it still lined up with his face, but he was able to force it aside just in time for me to land a nick on his ear instead of slamming into his face.

I followed up with a thrust that he slipped aside and came back at me that I had with a blow that I had to duck under. Now pressed in close, I punched the pommel of my sword into his gut, and he grunted, doubling over. I brought my knee up, but he managed to block with his own forearm, sending his sword over his shoulder.

Taking advantage of this, I hacked both my blades at his exposed hand as he was doubled up in such an awkward position. I managed to hit his fingers and turn them into a bloody pulp with both my blades, forcing him to drop his offhand weapon.

He screamed as the weapon fell to the ground, and didn't even have time to try to bring his remaining weapon to bear. With the cleanest strike I could muster, I cut his head from his shoulders. That was the best fight I had ever fought. I was strangely proud of it.

Jorg's body vanished, and I fixed his face in my mind. We would need to talk later.

I stood panting and bleeding from the big cut on my back. A dozen smaller nicks that I hadn't even realized I received started to hurt all over as well.

Looking around at the empty arena, I realized that I did it. This is a new record for me. I finished off eight. I only had to get four more, and I would be out of the Lesser Hall.

Of course, these four would be people who had all made it farther than the guy I barely beat. But I could dream.

Doing my best to recover my breath, I waited for the familiar moment of blackness to pass as I was moved to my next fight.

Instead of the next fighter appearing in the ring before me, I found myself in a long stone hall. Along the hall were several doors to the right and left. A lacquered door with an iron ring on it sat every ten paces in an alternating pattern.

Each door had a symbol on it. And I could only guess what they meant. The first was a plain black door with a meaty fist gripping a Warhammer. And then I stepped forward, and on the other side of the hall, there was a pair of crossed axes and then back to the first side, a shield.

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Slowly, I walked through, seeing all sorts of different weapons and icons: a scythe, wheat, a spear, a raven, A cow's head, and a ship. Each had some other decorations on the door and small amounts of supporting filigree, but nothing recognizable as a symbol.

At the end of the hall was a smaller door, one made of bare wood with cracks in it. At the base, there was a small puddle slowly rotting on the bottom. On it was a crudely drawn jester.

The image reminded me of the joker on playing cards. A faded blue, green, and red tricorn hat with bells at the end and a makeup-covered face laughed at me through the door. I immediately felt drawn to this image. It was a joke being here, and I knew that I needed to choose one door to advance, so why not this one?

I didn't fit any of the others and had a feeling that I would find them locked. I had an idea of what they might mean; I was in Valhalla, after all. Many of the people I had talked to worshiped the old gods. And I didn't fit with any of the reputable ones.

So I gripped the ring and pulled with all my might, and the door nearly ripped off its hinges. It squealed in protest as they refused to bend, and I could see the nails pinning them to the wall starting to be pried loose.

Eventually, I got it open a handful of inches. I was able to get my shoulder in and wedge myself through. The world went black again. I felt a burning pain on the inside of my elbow, just above the joint on my upper arm. I tried to scream out, but I didn't have a mouth to do so. Eventually, the pain faded.

Bloody runes formed in front of me in the nothingness and resolved into my status screen.

Status: Tier 3: The Lesser Hall

Weapon proficiencies:

Sword: F-4.

Spear: F-2.

Striking: F-3.

Stats:

Strength: 8 + 2=10.

Speed: 8 + 2=10.

Constitution: 5.

I couldn't move in surprise like I wanted to. My buff potion was still active, but that wasn't it. There was one more category that I had never seen before.

Blessing: Loki's Eye.

Class: N/A

Strength: +0.

Speed: +0.

Constitution: +0.

Additional effects: ???

Huh? Well, it seems I got fucked by the choice. It didn't seem to do anything. Suddenly, the arena was back, and even as my opponent eyed me up, I looked down at the inside of my arm where the burning was. Just above my elbow joint stood a version of the jester's hat branded into my skin. It was in thin black and white lines that I could barely make out, but. Two of the hat's tips had bells, and the third one had fallen to the ground behind the jester's head.

I didn't have a chance to examine it further before my opponent was on me, and I was fighting for my life. Each time he struck, I managed to turn it away with a sword. But when I took my other sword to strike back, his sword was already in place. This nameless barbarian swordmaster completely outclassed me in nearly every way, but I still had my speed and strength boosts. Using every single bit of skill I had, I put up the best fight of my life.

***

I expected Mary's face to come to congratulate me on setting a new personal record in the challenge. Despite my fervent wishes, she didn't come. As the darkness surrounded me again, the arena winked out. I found myself standing upright, completely unharmed. At the end of the familiar hallway was the same man behind the desk guarding the velvet rope. I looked around carefully before I started forward. As I walked, I rolled my head to crack my neck, trying to get a handle on what happened.

Despite the break-in routine, I felt confident after making it further than I ever had before. Still, that confidence felt hollow. The brief talk I had with Mary each day was usually the highlight and was the only reason I had managed to stay sane through such levels of bloodshed and violence over the past six months. It helped me transition my mind from the life-or-death fight of the challenge to the training and relatively normal atmosphere of the halls.

Making that transition without her was surprisingly difficult. But I managed to mostly center myself by the time I stepped up to the reception desk.

"Mr. Miles, I'm glad to see you have a reservation this time." The nondescript man in his fancy suit said. He lifted the velvet rope and waved for me to follow him as he led me through a room of tables. Each one was a unique piece of art. Mostly dark woods with decorative canning and inlays. The table he was taking me to was made entirely of a purple heart tree and gold inlay. I boggled at the expense of it.

The table already had someone sitting at it, someone who looked vaguely familiar. A taller man who had long, dark hair framing a pale face. His icy blue eyes watched me as I sat down across from him. I looked at his formal suit, which didn't quite match the modern fashion from back home. It had a weird cut that reminded me almost of a robe, and I could see a fur-lined cloak hanging off the back of it as an accessory. The man made a motion to a waiter, who came and filled both of our glasses with some wine.

He lifted his glass by the stem and swirled it, sniffing at it before taking a sip. All the while, his eyes never left mine. Eventually, the awkwardness got to me, and I blinked. Coughing into my hand, I looked down and reached for my own glass of wine. When I smelled it, I felt like I was coming home. The scent of oak barrels and ripe apricots hit my nose, and I couldn't find the words to describe how glad I was that it wasn't mead.

I took a sip to hide my awkwardness and eventually met the man's eyes again over the rim of my glass. After holding my gaze for a second, the mysterious man finally spoke. "Hello, Miles. I'm glad to see that you've accepted my mark."

Blinking in surprise, I had trouble processing his words. His mark? Was he talking about the little tattoo on the inside of my arm? I didn't respond with any words, not wanting to give my ignorance away. Staying silent in negotiations was a good tactic, and it seemed to work on the man.

"I'm sorry. I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Loki."