“But despite being a shithole, it wasn’t totally bad, was it?” With one eyebrow cocked, Penbrooke slowly spun on his heel to drive home his message to every spectator. “Or rather, perhaps it’s more accurate to say that for all that was gained in your transformation to Fragrant Grove, there were also things lost along the way, no?”

Another wave of gasps went, concealing the not small number of subtle head nods and murmured agreements to his words.

“In fear of being taken away to the re-education building were you to say anything, I can tell you’ve been dreaming of an outsider arriving and leading you in your fight against this tyranny.” Penbrooke smacked his chest with an open palm, and provided a confident, knowing grin as proof of his brazen claims. “Well, wait no longer for I’m the outsider you’ve been praying for, Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle, hero to the downtrodden and protector of unwashed plebians.”

His ad-libbed speech reached some ears, whereas others questioned if they really had been dreaming about such boring political matters – they could have sworn their dreams had actually been about winning the raffle, and wowing everyone with a lightning-fast knockout during the bout, and outwitting those wily foxes to win over Mr Butcher’s heart.

Out of them, there was one person in particular who wasn’t buying any of it. “What an entertaining lark, Ser Penbrooke,” said the mayor, gently smiling. “I can personally assure you, though, that there’s nobody being held under duress in our lovely village, nor was anything of value lost in the transformation from Shit Hole to Fragrant Grove.”

“He said it, he said it! Does that mean he’ll get sent to the re-education building?”

“Nah. With the rich and powerful it’s always rules for thee but not for me, don’t you know?”

Penbrooke faced the mayor’s stare head on, and remarked, “What about liveliness or joy? What about the very spirit of this place?”

As the knight looked in that direction, Cal noticed Rory was no longer sat next to the pixie-faced brunette and was instead stood behind Ovaro as though he’d been petitioning the mayor for some request, supported by his teacher Blaviken beside him.

The mayor, faced with this cavalier challenge to his power, acted decisively, his mask falling in a snap. He spoke to the amphitheatre. “Due to unfortunate circumstances, we’ve had to speed up the tournament schedule. The verdict of the following semi-final has been decided that Blaviken the Butcher wins.”

There were complaints from the spectators that they’d been thieved of a round, but the mayor silenced their grumblings at once. “And why would you guys care for that matchup? Do any of you even remember the contestant he was against?”

“It was that guy with the swishy swishy move, right?

“Huh, I thought it was the lass with the lasso?”

“Nah, I could swear it was that chef Plop-a-Slop.”

Vindicated, the mayor harrumphed. “That’s what I thought. The butcher would have obviously won against that unremarkable contestant, so really all we’re doing is skipping a non-descript bout to get to the sensational one sooner.”

Cal could only be glad the mayor wanted the knight bested and humiliated in the arena for the crowd to see, and not executed on the spot (at least for now). As to what would follow, he had no clue except for that it probably wasn’t anything pleasant; after all, even if Penbrooke won, what were the chances the mayor would just let him walk away after his insolent behaviour?

Grinning widely with fangs showing, the mayor announced the final bout. “So without further ado, let’s have us a thrilling closer to our first ever tournament. On one side, the eccentric imbecile who thinks himself better than us and claims to be a knight of Neverland; and on the other, the champion of Fragrant Grove.”

The mayor motioned the butcher forward and to address the crowd. “I choose to sub myself out for my student, Rory Stoutheart. I’m sure it’s widely known already that he made the decision to not enter this competition in order to give another contender the opportunity to prove themselves and spread their name. But given the current circumstances, I think it’s only right our strongest takes on this weirdo who dares insult us and wishes to subvert our way of life.”

Ignoring the thrill building up in the audience, Rory stepped out from the seating section and into the arena, placidly going about attiring himself with the equipment on offer in the manner of someone to whom such behaviour was habitual, putting on a padded tunic, kettle hat and equipping himself with an arming sword and rusted buckler.

Out of everyone Penbrooke had faced so far in the tournament, this young man who looked to be about Cal’s age was the least intimidating by far. Hence it occurred to Cal how prescient the vision had been in displaying how fast and viciously Rory was able to strike; and that had been him looking bored, which sat in sharp contrast to the Rory across the arena now whose brow was sharply set and jaw clenched in a face of determination.

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Despite this, Penbrooke was at ease and, even more bizarrely, threw his head back and laughed aloud. “You know, I had thought the quest to develop a knight’s charm had been abrupt and oddly rewarding in exp for how simple a task it’d been. Now I know why.”

The brunet didn’t respond, the embers in his eyes burning hot and the hand holding his arming sword white-knuckled.

“Anyhow, let’s have a good fight.” Penbrooke transitioned into a combat stance.

Rory stretched his head from side to side, working the neck muscles, then nodded once. “I’ll teach you not to touch another man’s girl, you bastard.”

This made the knight chuckle. “I didn’t mean to do anything like that, son, but all the same you’re just another obstacle for me to raze in order to become the hero of your village.”

The brunet snorted but wasted no more time on conversation, dashing forwards with small, measured steps. Penbrooke, too, advanced towards him, longsword held upright with elbows bent for a swift strike. Coming into each other’s reach, Penbrooke slashed down in a wide arc, but Rory easily brushed the blow aside with a wave of his shield and used the opportunity to step into the knight’s proximity. His arming sword thrust straight and true.

With a cry of pain Penbrooke kicked towards Rory, but the brunet had already backed out of range, in his eyes now the gleam of a hunter preparing to pick their prey apart piecemeal.

“You got too cocky,” Cal mentally intoned to Penbrooke, cursing the fool for taking such a large swing.

“I know, I know,” the knight muttered back through gritted teeth, freeing a hand from the longsword grip and rubbing his chest. “Thought I could have a bit of fun, but he’s out for blood. So I guess I won’t hold back either, then.”

Without warning, Penbrooke tore forwards with his longsword cleaving down. “[Log Splitter]!”

The buckler moved in place to deflect the blow away from Rory’s body, but the longsword, instead of cleaving down, moved laterally to reposition and attack from this new angle. Penbrooke repeated the same thing, screaming the name of his attack and motioning as if he’d carry it out, only to pull his blade away at the last moment.

What is he doing? It’s not like he can damage Rory with his voice. The realisation was slow to reach Cal that the knight was trying to drain his opponent’s mental resources by keeping him on constant edge with persistent feints, utilising his longsword’s superior reach to keep out of harm’s way until he saw the opportunity to drive an attack through.

Yet once the brunet had gained a good measure of knight’s timing and idiosyncrasies, the counter to this strategy was shortly revealed; Penbrooke feinted once again and in the snap moment he twisted his blade away, Rory lunged towards him, forcing him to hastily draw his blade back to parry the arming sword.

Keeping in close proximity where the longsword’s extra reach was a disadvantage, Rory followed through with a barrage of attacks. Penbrooke did well in parrying most of them – causing the boy to tremble – but those that landed riddled him with stinging pain, the dull blade of the arming sword snapping against his shoulder, nipping at his forearm, and worst of all, viciously thrusting again and again into his chest where the first blow had landed.

On the backfoot, Penbrooke wasn’t given a second’s rest as the boy came after him mercilessly, forcing the knight to commit to desperate [Log Splitters] and [Home Run Hitters] to regain space. Despite their short swings and awkward angles, these hasty counterattacks had unnatural levels of force behind them, causing Cal to suspect the mere act of shouting out their names (besides being cringeworthy) was having a transformative effect on their explosiveness. Although he didn’t know how Penbrooke was achieving this, what he could tell was that it alone wasn’t enough.

Rory would tense and shudder whenever he ate another [Log Splitter] with his buckler, nonetheless he’d then dash towards the knight with hardly a pause, refusing to give Penbrooke the space for a breather. More than anything else, what made Rory so dangerous compared to any foe Penbrooke had faced before was that as a result of being accustomed to melee combat, he possessed a body conditioned to physical shocks and therefore was able to shrug off most attacks.

“If this carries on, you’ll lose!” Cal said in a panic to Penbrooke, “You’ve got to do something.” Yet Cal himself had no helpful suggestions on what could turn the tide. In the first place, how were you supposed to win against a significantly more experienced opponent?

“Don’t worry. It’s been blocked enough times now, so the evolution criteria’s been met,” Penbrooke answered in ragged rushes of speech. “Watch this.”

He raised his longsword high into the sky with both arms extended and left his body wide open.

Watch what? You’re just letting him finish you off!

Rory thought likewise, advancing with the certainty of a hunter moving in for the killing blow. When Penbrooke’s longsword started descending, he simply darted to the side and out to make it harder for the ungainly chop to land; even if it were to, his arm wielding the buckler was propped up to block the blow as he’d done so multiple times already. Unlike before, however, the longsword wasn’t aiming for the boy but the shield itself.

Penbrooke twisted his body and arms in perfect accordance with the boy’s motions to dodge, and the longsword descended ruthlessly onto the metal buckler. “[Shield Splitter]!”

The blade ripped through the shield and snapped it down the middle with an unholy crash, missing the gripping fingers by a sliver but all the same sending tiny pieces of collateral metal into the flesh. Rory flinched and scrambled to make distance, teeth clamouring and breath tattered, his burning eyes no longer those of a hunter’s but of an injured beast’s.

“You’re a skilled fighter, kid, but you never stood a chance of winning,” Penbrooke said. His muscles ached from overexertion and no amount of adrenaline could hold off the dreadful pain at bay from the wounds he’d accumulated, yet the knight showed a brave, stolid face in spite. “Let me tell you why.”

Because you’re obviously using some sort of spectral power to cheat!