The arena was nothing like the place Sunday had sparred with Elora. It was much more reminiscent of a small coliseum, with cushioned seats for the audience. It took about an hour after the mock hearing, which Sunday had decided had nothing to do with him and more with people trying to one-up each other, for everything to be organized.
It was a strange experience, and at some point, he realized that whatever remained of his artificial happiness had evaporated. He still felt good. Better than ever.
However, the clarity of thought had left room for some contemplation. While he had a plan he was following, albeit quite loosely and chaotically, things were always slipping out of control. The reluctance to sit and learn of the culture he had entered, of the traditions and the different powers of the city and how they related to one another, was constantly leading to consequences.
He was not afraid of losing in the current predicament. A tier two mage was but a joke compared to the hounds or the vampire lords. Granted, the only tier two magi he knew of were Zihei and Kloud, and the former was a romance novel writer with a strange attitude, while the latter hadn’t given away much of his abilities.
All he knew of his would-be opponent was that the guy had a barrier spell that needed him to constantly feed it. It was stronger – a lot stronger than his new Essence Ward was, but it was also limiting in a way. Perhaps there were different ways to use it. Spells had proven to be much more than the one-dimensional tools Jishu had made them out to be.
The thought of the high ghoul made Sunday frown. Each time the bastard appeared in his mind he felt a pull toward the swamp, as if he had left something there. Something unfinished. And it was so. Pearl was there, and now he knew how important she was. If he was willing to use her, then he could create many like Mera. Spell-fused. An army of beings wielding spells with skill and power far above his.
Hell, he still held on to a vial of her blood. Was that an offer he could make? Anyone would jump at such an opportunity if they were just a regular human.
“Are you ready?” Kloud asked. The man had tailed him all the time, seemingly afraid Sunday would wander off somewhere.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. I don’t understand something though. Why all the drama? Why the theatrics? This hearing was nothing more than people speaking of things they understand clearly, and trying to bend them in such a way as to attack the decisions of the Arcanum.”
Kloud sighed. “It’s a constant struggle with the Council. They have a large influence, as it is made mostly of the brewers and merchants responsible for the city’s fame and success.”
Sunday frowned. “But—”
“Not all magi are members of the Arcanum. There are mercenaries, and some families even train their own details to use. After all, trading with the smaller towns and villages in the Flower Region wouldn’t have allowed Blumwin to grow as it has, and crossing the belt requires manpower and spells.”
Ah. That makes sense. Of course, the Arcanum is not the sole holder of magic. That would’ve made them untouchable. The vampires were perhaps an exception, but as far as Sunday had seen so far, the Baron was content with his standing in the city. Which side was he playing thought? And why was he so nice to Sunday?
The thought of the vampire, and even the members of the Arcanum simply supporting him because of his very nature – an enemy of the Divine – was difficult to swallow. People didn’t just do what was good for everyone. They did what was good for themselves.
The Divine and the madness they brought were surely a large danger to society, but a few incidents were hardly a reason for so many different and ambitious people to work together. Maybe he was yet to truly comprehend the danger. Maybe his viewpoint was too doused in old ideas.
“The Arcanum is an independent institution, and more often than not we remain neutral when it comes to squabbles between nobles and merchants. Our outer magi are of course, free to do as they wish. Most prefer the attitude of the institution and give themselves to research, practice of the arts, and bettering themselves. However, there are also those like Sotu…”
“Is he strong?”
“I wouldn’t say so, compared to some. He’s a rank two mage, and rank two is not an easy step to make. While he prefers utility and preparation, do not underestimate his spells, no matter how you think of him.”
Sunday nodded. A coward afraid to fight alongside those who came to rescue him is what he is. Elora was much better in that regard, even if she was just a rank one. No matter, I’ll kick his ass and be done with it. I couldn’t care less about politics and power struggles.
Elora was in the crowd, sitting next to what Sunday knew was her mother. Many others littered the seats now – simply dressed members of the Arcanum, guards, and even a few that seemed very out of place. Outsiders, maybe?
Sunday didn’t care. He didn’t suffer the plights of stage fright like some of the orphans he had known. At one point Old Rud had forced him to juggle and perform cup shuffle tricks for cash. It had all ended in quite the beating when he had tricked someone who didn’t like being tricked. Then again, the guy hadn’t even known it had happened. He had just decided that violence against the street urchin was preferable to losing his money.
He heard the voice of Adept Juvinde sound out as if amplified by a spell but only half-listened. She spoke of the duelists, a disagreement, and some other pointless stuff. His attention focused on his opponent.
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Sotu was a lanky guy, dressed in simple robes. He looked pale and worried, and that seemed to be his constant state. Sunday tried not to read into it. The more he learned of magi, and the world, the more he understood that he was far from being smart enough to play their games – games they had practiced for years. His best bet was just doing what that man had done in his past life and flipping over the table, making his own rules, and using the universal language of violence to fix things.
“… bets.” Juvinde ended her already short explanations.
Sunday blinked and looked at the high chair she was sitting on. “Bets?”
“Weren’t you listening?” Kloud asked in a hushed voice. The man was acting almost like his second, standing together with him on the sandy arena.
“No,” Sunday said honestly. “I didn’t feel like it.”
Kloud sighed. “Official duels require magi to place bets. Else, what’s the point?”
“To see who hits harder?”
“That’s not justice. Unless you lose something, you won’t learn.”
That’s dumb. There’s no justice about any of this. It’s literally a case of might makes right, for fuck’s sake.
“Then what are we betting again?”
Kloud leaned forward and for a moment, Sunday thought the man was trying to stop a smile from appearing on his lips.
“Spells.”
The word was like an electric jolt. A lightning strike which made Sunday reexamine the situation. This changed everything! He had been worried for so long on how he would gather many spells, and have a diverse repertoire. He was reluctant to trade his new gold and contribution points so easily, before finding a way to see the good stuff kept in the Arcanum’s vaults.
Now it turned out he just had to go around and anger magi enough so they dared to fight him?
“Spells,” he repeated dreamily.
It was then that Sotu stepped forward, a determined look on his pale face. It was a tad confusing.
And what is his game? Didn’t he see what I did to those believers? Does he want me to melt his face that badly?
“I’ll be betting Messenger,” he said, his voice as loud as Adept Juvinde’s. A crystal cube appeared to the side, carried by an undead guard. Sunday saw something flicker inside of it. Maybe the spell he had used to ask for reinforcements? Had he replaced it for the fight?
What do I bet? The thought of doing so with the Omen of Duality or the Visage of the Berserk Moon almost made him lose his composure. That was out of the question. Essence Ward was perhaps the easiest one to let go of, but it was useful. Phantasmal Fall was bonded to him, and after learning of its true capabilities it was insanity to risk it. He couldn’t let go of a bonded spell without shattering his soul.
There was one other spell that he didn’t care much for. It had been useful, but then again…
Ah, fuck. Mera will kill me. Is she watching? Can she spy inside the halls of the Arcanum? Whatever.
“I’ll be betting,” Sunday said. Somehow his voice echoed through the hall, amplified by the spell of another. He wasn’t even feeling the effect. “The Fearful—”
Sunday stopped himself from saying the full name. Even Mera didn’t know it. The spear appeared inside his hand a few moments later, glistening under the bright light of the crystalline spheres attached to the dome of the arena. It looked powerful and imposing, even if it was just a glorified steel toothpick in Sunday’s mind.
There was a murmur from the stands. One of the Council’s people – the one who had talked for an hour in an attempt to paint Sunday as someone suspicious – smiled. Kloud groaned, and even Adepts Juvinde and Ironbond reacted with surprise.
“Are you sure you wish to do this, Initiate Sunday?” Adept Ironbond asked. He had kept mostly quiet until now.
“Why not? It’s not like I’ll lose to a coward,” Sunday said. He grinned at Sotu. A faint redness instantly appeared on the mage’s pale face.
“You’ll apologize after this is over,” the man said. He sounded angry, and it was perhaps the first time Sunday had heard his voice. It was oddly deep.
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Sunday defended himself.
“You slapped me! You insulted me!”
“You deserved both!”
“Enough!” Adept Juvinde interrupted. “Let’s get this over with. Any use of lethal force will disqualify you, have you stripped of all privileges, and be punished by the full weight of the laws. You may begin.”
Just like that? They need to work on their hype game. Wait…
“Wait!” Sunday yelled out. “Can I place a bet?”
“Bet?”
“Yes, on myself. Is anyone willing?”
“You’ve already bet your spells,” Adept Ironbond said, confused.
“I mean money. A thousand gold pieces!”
There was a brief pause, and then murmuring coming from the stands. Someone chuckled. Another exclaimed in surprise.
“This is a sacred tradition, going back millennia. There is no lowly profiteering allowed in official duels between magi,” Adept Juvinde coldly said. “Begin!”
Bummer. I should’ve thought of that while we waited.
Sotu didn’t waste any more time. Sunday was curious what the man would do, so he stretched a few times before leisurely walking forward. Melting his face was out of the question, so he thought of slapping him silly. It had worked before.
A fireball nearly struck Sunday and he threw himself to the side. It crashed into the walls of the arena, bursting into flames.
What the…
Fireballs?! Actual fireballs?
Sunday stood frozen on the sand, surprised. The second fireball crashed into an Essence Ward he barely managed to conjure on time. Greed and anger intertwined in Sunday as he stared down the man. He was forming a third in his hands. So much for nonlethal force.
At the same time a glistening barrier formed around Sotu, enclosing him in something similar to a cocoon of glass.
Oh, you bastards. You goddamn bastards. You have fireballs, and you offer me this shit?!
Sunday calmed himself down and stood up. Then rushed forward. Another fireball flew over his head, but he paid it no mind. He was fast. Faster than ever. Why hadn’t the guy bet a fireball?! No. Sunday wouldn’t have either. Still…
It took only a few moments to reach the man. His newfound strength had made him much faster than before, and the rush had felt like flying. Sunday thought of reaching for his sword and cursed. He had given both to Klaud before the fight had started, almost absentmindedly. He had the spear, but…
A wall of flame appeared and moved toward him and past the barrier. Sunday conjured two large Essence Wards, before crouching behind them.
The first shattered quickly, but the second held. All the while Sunday felt his anger rise. For some reason, the sign of the spell had driven him mad with desire. It was a classic.
He moved almost on instinct and took half a step as he stood up, ready to summon his moths and melt the barrier. His foot caught on something and he fell forward. The world buzzed. No, it was Sunday that buzzed. Like each molecule in his body was suddenly displaced. Glitching in error. The static was deafening. Confusing.
Freeing.
It was not his imagination.
The world snapped into view.
The barrier was at his back, and the surprised face of Sotu was staring at him. Before the mage could do anything else, Sunday slapped. Hard.
His other hand wrapped around the mage’s robe stopping him from falling, and he slapped again. And again.
And then… again.
It felt like something had changed at the last slap. The unfortunate mage’s eyes rolled up and he lost consciousness.
Sunday slapped him one last time and let him fall on the sand.
The audience was silent.