CHAPTER 22
TOURNAMENT (PART I)
Mark finally reached Mavrosia, a bustling, walled town with tall wooden fortifications and watchtowers. Even from a distance, he could see smoke rising from countless chimneys, a sign of the many lives within. The Great War hadn’t touched Mavrosia much – taxes had gone up, sure, but the town was too vital to the region’s economy for mass conscription. Someone had to fund the war effort, and Mavrosia, with its trade and commerce, was doing just that.
As he rode up to one of the towering gates, he saw armed guards checking every traveler. Security was tight; the town had avoided the war’s destruction, and they intended to keep it that way.
“Halt,” one of the guards said, eyeing him. “State your business!”
Mark flashed a friendly grin. “Just a swordsman looking for work, no trouble here.”
The guard raised an eyebrow. “We could use more mercenaries in the army.”
Mark shook his head. “Not interested in the front lines. I work best alone – contracts, bounties, that sort of thing. Not suited to marching orders.”
The guard nodded, then exchanged glances with the other guards, who gave silent approvals. “Alright, you can go in,” he said. “Just keep your nose clean inside the walls. Outside, not our problem, but inside – well, you’ve been warned.”
Mark gave a nod of thanks and rode through the gate. Inside, the town was alive with people. The air was thick with the scents of perfumes, cooking food, and the inevitable sweat of so many bodies. Voices filled the air, people chatting, shouting, laughing. He had to ride at a slow pace, weaving through the packed streets, soaking in the noise and energy of Mavrosia.
Mark finally stopped at one of the town's bigger inns. There was a stable right next to the building, so he tied up his horse and tossed a coin to the stable boy to keep an eye on it. Inside, the inn was bustling – a massive room of wooden beams and countless tables packed with travelers eating, drinking, and chatting away. The staff was busy, with a dozen servers weaving through the crowd to keep up with orders. Above, three more floors held rooms for weary travelers.
Mark made his way to the counter, joining a line of folks waiting for drinks and food. He tapped his fingers on the wood, waiting until someone from the staff noticed him. "Welcome to the Golden Donkey Inn! What’ll it be, sir?"
“Wine, and...what’s good to eat here?”
“We’ve got ham, beef, and rice with a fine sauce,” the man replied.
“That’ll do,” Mark said, tossing over a couple of coins. With the crowd being what it was, he settled in, knowing it’d take a while.
When his meal finally arrived, he drank his wine, savoring each sip, and dug into the ham, enjoying its salty, hearty flavor. The beef and rice, with a sauce that had a spicy kick, were just as good. “Great food,” he told the server. “Quick question: is anyone here looking to hire a swordsman?”
“I am,” said a voice next to him. Mark turned to see a tall, middle-aged man with a slick mustache and a sly look in his eyes – the kind of man you’d know not to trust. “Connor’s my name,” the man added.
The server had already moved on to other customers, so Mark focused on Connor. “What kind of work are you offering?”
“I’m backing fighters for the local tournament tonight. It’s a no-armor, anything-goes match to the death. People use whatever weapons they want. Bets are high, and the crowds love it. Only problem is, my guy’s down with a fever. Can barely move. So here I am, scrambling to find someone who can hold his own. And you, my friend, look like you can.”
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Mark raised an eyebrow. “How much does it pay? I don’t usually do fighting tournaments – my jobs are more about clearing out monsters and bandits. But if the money’s right…”
“It’s more than enough to make it worth your time,” Connor said smoothly.
Mark thought it over, then nodded. A chance to make some real coin was hard to pass up. Connor quickly gave him directions to the tournament grounds and told him when to be there, then left him to enjoy his meal in peace.
Night fell, and Mark arrived at the tournament grounds. The arena was a wide, circular space with rows of seats surrounding a dirt floor where the fights would unfold. Instead of his usual armor, Mark wore a plain black shirt and pants, as the rules required. He carried only his regular sword, leaving his spirit sword back in his room at the inn. The stands were packed with a buzzing crowd, eager for the night’s show. Scanning the area, Mark finally spotted Connor, deep in conversation with a group of men.
“There he is – my new champ!” Connor called out with a sly, wide grin.
“Gotta win first to be a champ,” Mark replied, keeping it cool.
“Oh, you will. I’ve got a good eye for winners. Besides, if you lose, well – you’ll be dead, so I doubt it’ll bother you much!” Connor let out a booming laugh, but Mark’s face stayed unreadable. There was something shady about Connor. But, shady or not, coin was coin.
“When am I up?” Mark asked.
“Right now. You’re opening the night against Gboyega. Tough guy, so don’t underestimate him.”
Mark nodded. Underestimating opponents wasn’t his style – it was the quickest way to end up dead.
He walked into the ring and soon saw Gboyega enter from the other side. His opponent was a tall man with dark skin, long black hair, and a full beard, dressed in mismatched clothes and gripping two deadly, double-edged axes. A short, stocky referee stepped between them.
“You know the rules!” he shouted to the crowd, pausing for dramatic effect. “THIS! IS! A! FIGHT! TO! THE! DEATH!!!” The crowd erupted in frantic cheering.
The referee stepped back, leaving the two fighters to size each other up. Mark kept his guard up, preferring to let his opponent make the first move so he could study his technique. After a tense moment of stillness, Gboyega took a few steps back, then suddenly sprinted forward. Using his momentum, he leaped high, both axes raised, aiming a fierce overhead strike at Mark’s head.
Mark dodged to the side just in time, the axes crashing into the dirt where he’d been standing. But Gboyega wasn’t done; he instantly launched into a whirlwind of slashes and swings, coming at Mark with both axes. Mark blocked each blow with quick, graceful moves, but the relentless assault was forcing him backward. If he didn’t break the momentum, he’d be pinned against the wall with nowhere to go.
When Gboyega’s axes came down near his face, Mark seized the chance – as he blocked the axes with his blade, at the same time he kicked his opponent in the groin. Gboyega grimaced, pausing for a brief moment, which was all Mark needed to slip out of reach and reset the distance between them. This guy was a tank, utterly relentless, Mark thought. Beating him wouldn’t be easy.
Mark fell back into a defensive stance, waiting for Gboyega to come at him again. And he did, charging with the force of a bull. Mark sidestepped just as Gboyega barreled past, exposing his back. Mark slashed across his opponent’s back, drawing blood and a howl of pain. But Gboyega whirled around almost instantly, axes swinging in a deadly horizontal arc, aiming to slice Mark in half.
Mark barely dodged, feeling the axes graze his shirt and draw a thin line of blood across his chest.
Now it was Mark’s turn to go on the offensive. He faked a strike at Gboyega’s face, and when Gboyega raised his axes to block, Mark quickly pulled back and slashed across his chest instead, drawing blood. Gboyega retaliated with a wild swing of his axes, but Mark ducked and drove his sword hard into the man’s groin. Gboyega let out a pained scream. Mark yanked his bloody blade free and followed up with a powerful kick to Gboyega’s chest, knocking him backward into the dirt, his axes falling from his grasp. As Gboyega struggled to rise, Mark lunged, plunging his sword through his chest. The blade came out the other side. Mark withdrew it, and Gboyega collapsed in a growing pool of blood.
The crowd erupted, cheering wildly, chanting Mark’s name, clapping, and whistling in excitement. The referee re-entered the arena, grabbed Mark’s hand, and raised it high. “AND THE WINNER IS MARK!” he roared.
Exhausted but victorious, Mark made his way off the arena floor. Connor rushed up to him, grinning like a kid. “We did it, my man! What a performance! We’ve made hundreds of coins!”
“That’s just round one,” Mark replied.
“True enough. Go rest while the other matches go on. I’ll call you when it’s your turn again.”
Mark left the arena and headed to a smaller building nearby where the tournament fighters could rest. Inside, he sank into a chair, his muscles aching. A server handed him water and a piece of bread. He gulped down the water like he hadn’t had a drink in days and tore through the bread. That fight had been brutal, and it was only the first round. There were still more opponents to defeat if he wanted to claim the championship. But he’d see it through – giving up wasn’t in his nature.