I walked towards the shouting crowd. It was an assortment of people. The front row was composed of younger people who shouted encouragements and taunts towards the inside of the picketed areas, from which metallic clangs could be heard. Older people were mixed in between them, some more vocal in their cheering and opposition and some less, with skins that smelled of iron, dirt and sweat.

The level of strength of the crowd was incredibly varied, with some younglings which seemingly surpassed their seniors. There were also a limited number of people scattered throughout the crowd whose presence was almost imperceivable and from whose bodies a smell of blood and mana could be felt, most likely patrollers responsible for peacekeeping.

From the variety of ways of dressing, it was possible to determine that these people had come from far and wide to watch and attend the annual event that was the inter-perimetral tournament. The noise made by the crowd was incredibly loud, making it difficult to distinguish their words.

“Come on! Get up! You can do this!”

“Don’t let that capitalist bastard get the better of you!”

“What the f**k is a capitalist?”

“I don’t know, it has something to do with rich folk I think!”

Although many insults as such were flying between different members of the crowd, the atmosphere was strangely jovial. The people here were just having fun, venting their pent-up aggressiveness while watching the matches. As I walked through the crowd I discovered that the picketed areas were in fact improvised rings, where young people approximately my age fought each other one on one.

Every single contender was giving their all against their opponent, at times taunting them or shouting the name of their Perimeter of origin with pride. Most of them made reference to the Alpha and Delta Perimeter, but there were still many revealing themselves as natives of the Beta and a few less as natives of the Epsilon. The bouts didn’t usually last for long and the fighters interchanged among themselves continuously, making it difficult to keep track of the exact number of involved combatants.

In time, the inter-perimetral tournament had transformed from a talent-scouting opportunity to some sort of folk festival, without a well defined structure for organising the fights.

Suddenly, one of the onlookers spoke to me.

“Hey, young man, you look like crap! Give yourself a wash before entering the ring. You can go there, see those sheds?”

I looked at myself and finally noticed my body was covered in dirt and clotted blood. As a matter of fact, after my clash with Sloan I had not paid any attention to my appearance and this was the result.

I laid my eyes on the place his outstretched finger was pointing at and I saw a series of cabins erected near the stalls and standing around a big tank. I thanked the spectator and walked towards the cabins. Once I arrived there, I found numerous buckets laying around. I grabbed one of them and filled it up with water, which flowed out of the central tank.

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I brought the bucket with me inside one of the cabins, where I found a coarse brush which I used to scrub my body and clothes. Once I considered myself to be presentable, I left the cabin, poured the dirty water in the shallow pit behind the cabin and returned to my previous location.

While walking between the picketed rings, searching for a good fighting opportunity, I was stopped by an armoured guard.

“Good morning, young man, are you here to compete? I ask for you to first undergo an assessment from one of our senior members. You know, we want to avoid adults fighting children,” she spoke in a friendly tone.

I wanted to avoid spending even more time on something useless, so I decided to make reference to what had happened earlier today.

“I’m here with the blessing of the “old-timer”,” I said.

Her eyes grew wide and her demeanour became stiff. She went on and asked me to explain myself and I responded with the description of the middle-aged man who had told me to call him as such.

She showed me an understanding nod, before sending me on my way.

“Have fun young man, and good luck,” she added

Before disappearing she handed me a band of metallic wire, which I had to wear on my left wrist as a form of identification. This would signal to other people I had been recognized as a competitor in the tournament, preventing other guards from stopping me once again.

I approached one of the rectangular rings nearest to me, where a previously ongoing match had just ended.

“Who’s next?”, shouted the winner of the bout.

He was a young man, taller and bulkier than me and most likely also older, with a scimitar in one hand and a knife in the other. The challenger he had just defeated was covered in cuts and was barely able to stand up and drag himself out of the ring.

I looked around and identified a group of people donning a bracelet similar to my own, indicating them to be participants of the tournament exactly like me. Every single one of them was covered in cuts and bruises and not one volunteered to be the winner’s next opponent.

Seeing this, I approached the ring.

“Oh, a new face. What is your name?”, the man in the centre asked.

“John Doe,” I responded.

He then proceeded to introduce himself and his place of origin. Still I wasn’ti paying attention to him, but rather to the robust man standing near the weapon stand.

“Need anything, son?”, he inquired.

“A shield,” was my simple answer.

He nodded, took a simple looking circular shield from the pile of weapons and threw it to me. I readily grabbed it and held it with my left hand. It was a bit larger than what I was used to, but I would make do with what was available.

He then scanned me from top to bottom and threw me a leather belt with a metallic insert, to which I could hang my mace. This would allow me to move with both my hands free. I put it around my waist, thanked the man with a nod and jumped over the picketed border, stepping inside the ring.

I continued walking until I was less than ten metres away from my opponent.

“I’ve been on a winning spree since yesterday. It looks like this is your first bout, so I will give you the possibility to walk away before you get yourself injured,” he taunted him.

Looking at his bracelet, I could see it was covered in a number of blue stripes. The other bracelets I had observed had a variable number of the same type of stripes. Mine was the only one completely empty. I then presumed the stripes were to be put on the bracelet as a measure of the number of rounds fought or won.

I didn’t respond and simply readied myself for the confrontation.