The playing field was, as Hiro had seen before, rectangular and surrounded by a timber wall. Four discs and elongated iron long plates reinforced the structure so no magic happening inside could escape.

The size was bigger than a basketball court, but not as much as a rugby field. It bore no boundary lines, allowing balls to ricochet off the walls, negating any notion of out-of-bounds. Goals did not align perfectly, with gaps between them filled by walls of planks. The three stood at the same height, resembling the standard goals of Hiro’s world. The innermost goal was notably narrow, while the outer ones expanded to a width far greater than anything he had encountered before.

The halfway line was nonexistent, yet the centre circle remained, though any physical markings did not delineate it. Instead, a ring of runes defined its perimeter, forming the fairy ring—a haven of protection. Within this circle, any player was safeguarded from harm, a sanctuary especially for the wounded. On each side of the field, half-circles of matching runes surrounded the inner goals, bestowing similar protection upon the goalkeepers. However, opponents could enter these sanctuaries and physically assault the goalkeeper, provided they did so within a stipulated ten-second period. Exceeding this limit resulted in expulsion from the game.

A shot to the outside goals meant, most of the time, keepers had to leave the protection of the half-ring so his spell could reach, and by doing so, they’d expose themselves to danger. There were no rules regarding this last matter outside the safety rings. All field players were helpless against punches, kicks, grabs, twists, or any magic that was thrown at them. If someone was knocked out, or worse, the team would have to face the rest of the match outnumbered.

“Well, in theory matches are forty minutes long,” testa said, eyes fixed on the players below. “But as you can see, they almost always end before time is out.”

In the field, a team from the west market and the one from the New docks were smashing each other in an all-out brawl. Not a single magic was cast, to Hiroshi’s disappointment, and the ball, supposedly moving around from player to player, rested alone in a corner, forgotten. One goalie was exhausted, gasping to recover his magic, the other completely unconscious.

“So a ‘hands down’ is like rugby, and a kick forward is like in football.” Hiro said. “How many points with the head or the hand?”

“No, no. From outside must be the feet only. Five points in the inner goal, one in the others. ‘Hands down’ must be the ball touching the field and the hand touching the ball. Ten points inner, five outer. Which one is rugby? The one with the bats?”

“That’s baseball.”

“I tried once to hit a ball with a stick and it didn’t move.” Testa joyously said. “I can imagine how difficult it must be to score a goal. Or do they only use it to crack heads?”

“There are no goals in baseball. No cracked head either.”

Testa scratched his stubble and raised his brows. “Why do you need so many ball games? It’s confusing. Are you good at that one?”

“I was better at football. The one you play with the foot and a round ball, not the other one.”

“Oh, ya. Like I said, confusing. Look, another sand-biter. Last one standing is burning ink, but I think he’ll make it.”

The only remaining player stumbled towards the ball. Struggling to stay awake all the way across a field without opposition, he reached the rival’s castle. “See, that is called an ‘attack on the castle’,” Testa said. “But because the ‘castle is down’, he will score a’ hands down’.”

The player dropped past the goal line, hitting the ground with the ball first. The man sat there and remained gasping and bleeding, with no desire to get up and continue. “What now?” Hiro asked.

“Having scored ten points and taken the lead, he doesn’t need to do anything else. Staying on the ground like all other players will push the referee to call for ‘full hollow field’ and finish the match. If his team was losing, he’d just put the ball at the centre, pushing the other team to start again. But because no one is awake to do so, the ref would concede the ball to the opposing team for ‘time wasted’. Then he’d score again, and again until the time is over. Sometimes it is better to call for surrender, concede thirty points and end the match. Better than this.”

Testa dusted his pants and slid far aside, across an empty bench, on an empty stand. He lit a cigarette and raised his voice. “Finish this and we go to Tarth’s cave. I mean, house-shop. Let’s see if I can convince them to return.”

Said and done, the game ended and they headed to the slums. The poorest quarter of the city, the Southgate, was divided into three subdivisions, each of them considered dangerous after sunset, though Testa seemed unconcerned. Northernmost and closest to Rina’s house, Patrissus haven, was for mostly humans, while the smaller The Hills and Eulalias’s Blessing, south of the Patrissus fortress, were shared by the poorest human souls and the most marginalised of the non-human races. The Eulalias’s Blessing, the most disadvantaged of the two, was where the greatest poverty was concentrated, except for a little ghetto where dwarves thrived in their self inflicted isolation.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The dwarf corner, where Serin and Tarth lived, was a bustling hub, thriving on the skilled hands of dwarf craftworkers. The air there was thick with the scent of metal and stone. Houses stood as monumental blocks, their walls constructed from carved boulders, each one massive and unadorned. The streets lacked the usual embellishments of other parts of the city and instead cluttered with piles of raw materials, awaiting the skilled hands of their owners. The atmosphere felt oppressive and claustrophobic, as if they were venturing through a dungeon, the only relief being the open sky above.

“For the more important games, they use more referees.” Testa said, and just a part of everything he talked about during the entire trip. “They can see easier if players are cheating and control better the powerful spells getting out of control. They even have foreseers that can anticipate the will of killing. Be aware Hiro, if red flags raise, means a player has the intent to kill.”

“I thought killing is not allowed.”

“Well, the desire to kill, it’s fine. But if someone really tries, referees usually intervene. When that happens, they raise black flags, the march stops and the perpetrator gets expelled. In most cases, damage is unavoidable in sudden outbursts, but death is prevented. At least most of the time. In the countryside, where teams of orcs and trolls are more common and good referees are more scarce, it happens. But don’t worry, this is the capital. We should be fine.”

“Should be?”

With a grimace, Testa put an arm around Hiro’s shoulder to lead him into a large, doorless archway. Inside, large amounts of wood, either logs or timber, were piled up to the ceiling. Crossing the dark room and dodging mice, they came to another large archway where the light rippled from a large fire and the delicious aroma of cooking meat invited them in.

They found Tarth in a corner where a group of dwarves, all smaller than him but still towering over any ordinary man, sat in a circle of chairs with no table between them. Their faces weathered, hands calloused and their beards thick and braided. To the scent of roasted meat joined one of ales and wines. “Testa, come. Have some ribs! Oh, the new guy! Come, come, welcome to my house!” Tarth invitation, loud and deep, matched the dwarf’s robust build to perfection.

The food, melting in Hiro’s mouth with a juicy deliciousness difficult to describe, unleashed an involuntary moan of pleasure, which triggered an apology and a long sincere laughter from the dwarves. Testa ate sparingly, taking his delight from any glass crossing his way. Hiro didn’t remember any of the names, all too long and complicated, but it mattered little because the dwarves dedicated themselves to their stories instead of overwhelming him with questions.

The mix of rude friendliness and hearty camaraderie amused Hiro greatly, and stunned by the situation, he had not realised Testa disappeared a while ago.

“What does my little warrior say?” Tarth said, throwing a piece of sausage Hiro caught right before hitting the ground. “Good one, kid! Testa, you know if she says no, I say no.”

Testa grabbed another drink and settled down. “Surprisingly, she didn’t say no. But her return depends on Hiro. She wants to talk to you.”

Chatting and laughing turned into an eerie silence. “Well,” mumbled one dwarf with the greatest beard of all. “The little guy is a cutie. But make sure your pants remain up, boy. Or Tarth will have to rip your legs off.”

“Or something else!” Tarth broke again into an unstoppable guffaw, as did everyone else. The laughter and comments continued, as is customary among teasing friends with too much drink taken.

In the adjacent room, the darkness of the enclosed yard with boulder walls and no ceiling seemed to swallow Serin. Only the glimmer of starlight piercing the open sky above illuminated her figure, shuffling side to side, dodging an invisible opponent. She moved with a fluid grace; the ball bouncing under her hand as if she was playing basketball.

She continued for a while, ignoring his presence, and only when he cleared his throat, she dropped the ball. “Is it true that you are from the world of champions?” She said between heavy breaths.

Hiro started, not knowing what to say. “Let it go. I want to hear it from your mouth.” She said, her voice soft yet steely. “Mira is my best friend, and she told me. No worries, I won’t tell, neither will she to anyone else. I didn’t even tell Tarth.”

With Hiro’s affirmative whisper, she lifted the ball with her foot and launched it with a powerful arm swing towards the wall. The impact echoed through the walls. “Has the God of Darkness brought you? Did he talk to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It has to be.” Serin eased an aggressive stance to a more relaxed one. “Mira says it was one of the shards of the Broken Sphere. And legend says the Sphere was the trophy the God of Light brought back after imprisoning his brother.”

His shoulders shrugged. She hurried to climb up the forge and followed the rock face. Coming to the edge like a feline, she beckoned him to follow. “Come on, don’t be a coward.”

Much slower, he managed to reach her side. Her legs dangled as she pointed to the horizon. What the streets of the city did not allow to be seen was the magnificence of a stretched, pure splendour. The colossal arm of a galaxy bisected the sky in two, weaving darkness with countless stars shimmering like jewels, more brilliant and numerous than Hiro could ever beheld. At the horizon’s edge, a black hole loomed, as large as a moon, its gravity bending light into a radiant ring encircling its core, casting a terrifying yet astonishing presence.

“That’s the God of Darkness. Does he talk to you?”

Speechless, his head moved side to side. To her disappointment, she sighed. “I’ll stay in the team, anyway. You are here for a reason, I’m dead sure. And I want to be part of it.”