Lenore Wraithwhisper blinked, then blinked again. Until a few moments ago that hadn’t been her name, but she knew it was now. More than that, she knew that she wasn’t in the country or even on the planet that she’d spent the past twenty-seven years of her life. Instead, she was in the city of Krakenmont, at a Proving. It made no sense that she knew that nor that she knew a Proving was a tournament used to determine one’s status in the Demon Lord’s army. Still, she knew it. She also knew that she was pretty much screwed.

  This had to be a dream, right? Sure, she’d seen her share of anime had read enough self-insert fanfiction to recognize what she was seeing with her own eyes, but it was just so ridiculous that she couldn’t process it. Her mind was battling with itself, two sets of memories vying for control and she was stuck in the middle. She could remember long days of thankless work at any job she could find just to be able to make rent, but she could also remember equally long hours struggling to gather enough magical power to light a candle. Hours upon hours of desperate effort weighed down on her, along with the knowledge that nothing she did would satisfy those around her.

  It was maddening, infuriating, unfair, unacceptable!

  While she wrestled with all of that, she slowly became aware of a speaker. The language was foreign to the person she’d been before she was Lenore, but it made perfect sense to her ears. With a growl at no one in particular, she put the existential crisis on hold and tried to pay attention.

  “That about finishes with the pleasantries. May you all find the position you are worthy of. Form up and draw your lot to determine which brawl you’ll be participating in.”

  Great, she’d missed most of the speech. It probably wasn’t all that important. Wait…

  “Did he say brawl?” she asked no one in particular.

  “Of course he did, elf,” said a towering mass of muscle that she’d have been inclined to call an orc even if the Lenore in her head hadn’t told her that he was exactly that. “What were you, asleep?”

  “Something like that. So it’s just like a free-for-all brawl? No special rules.”

  “Did you hit your head or something? It’s the standard Proving Brawl Opener. No magic, just muscle against muscle.”

  There was a hint of sneer in his voice that she didn’t miss, but let slide. Seemed rather dumb to her that, in a world where magical forces were available to tap into, the first test of worth was one of brawn, but that suited her just fine. Lenore hadn’t been a gifted magician like most of her race and she’d known it. She’d spent the recent years of her life honing her body into a powerhouse, hours of running, hard labor, intense muscle training, all for this one moment. By herself, she might even have stood a chance against some of the opponents assembled. Not a great one, but enough to avoid complete embarrassment.

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  The woman she’d been besides Lenore (why on earth couldn’t she remember that name?) had gone farther. Self-defense had been a big priority of her dad’s, he’d enrolled her in a judo class at 12 and she’d stuck with it ever since. She’d made fourth dan and was getting ready to test for fifth before this little… what even to call it? Mental break seemed as good a call as any, but this level of detail and originality seemed a bit unlikely to just be a matter of her losing her grip on reality. Regardless, she was feeling pretty good about her odds of taking on some meatheads.

  Strolling forward when her turn came, she reached into the darkened kettle and pulled out… a small red scarab? Shrugging, she glanced at the orc that had talked to her before. He grinned fiercely and pointed to a crowd of massive warrior types.

  “Bad news, pup, looks like you’re in with the heavies.”

  “Heavies? How’s that work?”

  “The pot usually sorts you based on your overall combat strength. It’s not always perfect, but it gets the job done. Every once in a while, though, some poor sod gets a bad draw and it looks like you’re the unlucky winner this time ‘round. Congrats, kid. Looks like you’re on the fast track to being wyvern fodder,” as if realizing that his words were harsher than they needed to be, the orc took a step back and bowed his head slightly. “Err… best of luck.”

  She ignored him and went to work surveying her competition. This actually wasn’t the worst situation she could’ve landed in. The other groups had larger numbers, some getting as high as 100 members. This one only had ten, less chance of getting blindsided by a lucky blow. In fact, if she played her cards right… Hunching over a bit, she timidly walked over to the group.

  “And what do we have here, boys?” Asked a Troll that had to be at least ten feet tall. “They’re serving us up a Dark Elf? This should be fun.”

  She didn’t say anything, but cringed away from him, letting her eyes tell him that she was terrified.

  “Can’t even speak, love? Well, stick with me and we can find use for you after all this unpleasantness. I won’t even beat you too badly. It’s the best deal you’re gonna get here, I bet.”

  “Oh, shut up, Vrek,” said a shorter, leaner Troll. “Bad luck getting dumped with our group. Shame they don’t let you back out. Your best bet is just to stay out of the way and surrender as soon as someone gets around to dealing with you. I mean, you’ll get a shit ranking, but at least you’ll be alive. Can’t trust most of these guys to be careful just because you’re an elf.”

  Even though that reaction was exactly what she was hoping for, the way his mouth curled as he said ‘elf’ pissed her off more than Vrek’s the more boisterous contempt Vrek had thrown her way.