Exiting the Gasthaus, I am once again greeted by the clean- gold painted streets of the district. My eyes wander around me, noting the many prisoners giving me curious looks as I rest a freshly made rapier on my shoulder. I walk down the steps and make my way to the other end of the district.

Considering the size of this district, it only takes a good five minutes until I arrive at a door guarded by two heavily clad guards. They immediately become wary of the weapon resting on my shoulder, but quickly relax once they notice my leg band and prisoner's clothing.

I glance above the guards and read ‘Prison Yard- Gold Entrance’,

“I haven't seen you around. Are you new here?” one of the two guards asks. He is a larger man with clearly defined muscles and a little bit of stubble on his face.

“Yup. I arrived about eight hours ago. I heard there was a fighting arena and I wanted to test my skills,” I tap my shit-iron rapier lightly.

The guard frowns. “No, you’ll get yourself killed,”.

“Now hang on a moment, Fritz” the other guard, skinnier and smaller, interrupts with a stroke of his mustache. “We’ve not had a gold-rank fight in the pits ever. I think it would be a fun spectacle.”

“Friedrich,” Fritz growls, “the Gold-Blockleiter would not be happy for a gold-rank to die in the pits.”

“Bah,” Fritz waves his hand, “The young lad seems capable. He’s even brought a weapon. I say we let him enter. The prisoners wouldn't kill a gold-rank unless they wanted their insides rearranged.”

Fritz frowns hesitantly at me.

I sigh. With a flick of my wrist, I spin the blade across my hand, up my shoulders, past my neck, and then down to my other arm wherein I grab the cloth covered hilt and take a stance; Blade pointed towards the door while my other hand is behind my back fully in reach of a hidden parry dagger.

“See,” Friedrich says excitedly. “The kid knows his way with a blade. I say we let him in.”

The guard sighs with a shake of his head. “Fine. Go.”

Pulling out a key from a pocket in his heavy kevlar armor, he unlocks the door and opens it.

“Try not to die,” he warns.

I walk through the door, down a hallway, and finally enter the yard.

_________________________________________________________________

If you’ve ever been to a bazaar in a third world country, then you would have a very good idea of what the yard looks like. Shanty-made structures line the streets of the yard, all made with whatever was available and on hand. Scrap metal walls, broken furniture, discarded and repurposed clothing and sheets line every structure.

And just like a bazaar, there are plenty of traders trading their goods. Lining the makeshift stores are wares ranging from weapons, armor, and clothing, to simple goods like toothbrushes and paint. At the counter of said stores are mostly silver and bronze ranked men, protected by armed and armored black ranks.

Seems like a caste system of sorts.

“Oy, goldy. Goldy with the poker!”

I stop walking and turn towards the yelling man. What I find is a rather short, but burly bronze rank standing behind a counter. On the counter and pretty much everywhere around the guy is an assortment of crudely made weapons. They look like pieces of metal bent and banged into the shape of weapons. Other than the hammer, everything else is probably pretty useless, if not just extremely inefficient.

“Wanna change that poker for a real weapon,” the man grins while tapping a longsword that probably weighs too much to be wielded effectively.

I frown, but walk towards the man's stall. With a longer look, I realize that the hammer is actually crap too. Instead of the head being melted onto the steel pipe, they actually just chained the head to the pipe with a shit ton of barbed wire. A good dozen hits with the mace would probably have the damn head falling off.

“Ahhh,” he grins, ”you like the hammer? It's one of my best works. Took awhile to get all the wire, so it ain't cheap. But, I’ll give you a discount if you trade in that poker of yours. Say, eighteen passes.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m guessing passes are the currency. Where would I get some?”

The grin leaves as fast as it had arrived. “What? You don’t have any passes?”

I shrug. “I Just arrived in Downside a couple hours ago.”

The man tisks in annoyance. “If you don't have passes, then get lost.”

I roll my eyes at the man's mood and walk away. I stroll to the deepest part of the yard, near the central building that rises to the prison ceiling. It is here where the makeshift fighting pits are located, and it is also here where the cameras attached to the central building are streaming the fights. Near the pits are even more stalls of hawkers selling their wares, including those who work with bets. It is also here that I find a man wearing a suit and tie created from prisoners' clothing.

As I approach, the man looks me up and down. He pauses for a moment at the gold band on my leg, and then refocuses on me. “Are you here to fight?”

“Yup.” I answer.

He nods. “Good. Do you have anyone in particular, or does it not matter?”

“The bear, or I guess bears. Actually, let me just fight all the animals.”

The man snorts. “You need to earn the right to fight Tibber. People don't want to just watch a man get mauled, they want a fight.”

“Really, Tibber?” I shake my head at the name. “Fine, who's the most badass, strongest fighter you've got? If I beat him, then you shouldn't have any qualms about me fighting the bear.”

“You’re really trying to get yourself killed.” he states.

“On the contrary, I’m trying to improve my chances of survival, and that means making a dead bear as soon as possible.”

He raises an eyebrow, and then shrugs. “Fine, it's your funeral.” He points a distance away, deeper into the pits. “Boriss is the reigning champion. You beat him and I’ll let you fight whoever and whatever you want.”

“Perfect.” I state and make my way in the direction he pointed.

In said direction, I find myself passing by ever larger and more dangerous looking fighters with weapons that are marginally better suited for combat. Still shit, but of a better quality shit; more like a four than a seven. Still shit, though.

“Oy, which one of you is Boriss?” I call out.

Everyone goes silent. All eyes turn to me with interest and curiosity.

Then, like a tide, the people part so that I have a good look at a tall bodybuilder with a top tier beard that really enhances his strong jawline. The man puts down the book he is reading, carefully takes off his reading glasses and places them on the book, then stands up at a towering height of six and a half feet, accompanied by a width that would make a linebacker jealous.

“Da, I am Boriss.”

I smile. “Perfect. I want to fight you.”

Boriss stares at me curiously.

I meet his stare with my cocky, confident grin. Unless Boriss has nearly ten thousand years of life(s) experience, then he’s got little to no chance of winning.

“No.” Boriss finally answers.

The other fighters chuckle. One even goes to speak up.

“Sorry kid, but Boriss doesn't like to waste time pummeling weaklings.”

“No,” Boriss says again, and the chuckles halt.

Boriss points at me, “He is strong. Very strong.” He nods to himself all the while the other fighters are growing confused.

“The kid with the little poker is strong?” one of them asks?

“Da,” Boriss nods again. “You see eyes. They are eyes like KGB officer. Strong, confident, and smart like comrade Soviet Premier.”

He taps his chest, “I am strong like Russian bear.” He flexes his muscles, “I can fight bears and win.” Then he points at me again. “But bear is Suka to him. Da, If we fight, then is like me as little child fighting angry mother. I will lose, and then I cannot sit. Is bad, yes?” he looks at the confused fighters for confirmation.

I stare in astonishment.

“Um, so we can’t fight?”

“Da, no fight. I not like to lose.”

“What if I call you a coward?” I ask.

“Is not work. I am trained KGB spy.” He taps his skull, “KGB officers beat pride like mother spanks rowdy children. Insults do not work.”

What the fuck am I dealing with?

I sigh. “Look, I'm kind of in a hurry. I’m trying to fight a bear, and I can't very well do that unless I prove my strength, which involves fighting the strongest fighter, which is you.”

“No, I am second now. You are first strongest.”

I roll my eyes, “Right, but Mr. Suit doesn’t share your astounding perspicacity.”

Boriss eyes sparkle. “Da, then I speak with suit man and explain how you are like angry mother. Then you fight bear and we become comrades. Yes?”

I open and close my mouth several times, and then eventually nod.

“Yes. Let's do that.”

“Da, is good.” he pauses a little, “What is name?”

“Mine? It’s Quasi Eludo.”

He nods, “Da, Is good name, like KGB leader with strong communist mother.”

I sigh. “Come on, lets go talk to the guy. I’ve got a bear, and probably whatever other animals to kill.”