“Wake up Jaldi, or you’ll be late!” Jaldi’s mother shouted from the bottom of the stairs. He hated the nickname, but it was better than hearing “Yaldabisius Dericius XXIV” constantly, and much less time consuming. This didn’t change the fact his nickname sounded womanly— beneath him. It wasn’t fitting of his stature to be called something so soft, and so he far preferred another title.
“Mom, call me by my real name!”
The bright light from the missing blackout shades burned his eyes, but his mom insisted he wake up with the sun, so he was stuck closing them. It still hurt, but slightly less. Throwing the thin blanket over his face slightly eased the sensation of his eyes melting, but it was already so hot the effort simply traded one misery for another. It would be vastly more comfortable with no blanket now, but unfortunately he would be blinded. So Jaldi made a compromise— wrapping it around his face like some kind of malformed turban.
“Don’t disrespect your heritage!” his mother shouted back. Jaldi groaned.
“厨二病 [Kirito] is a fundamentally superior name, unlike the sea of “Jaldi” this, “Baoth” that. There’s a thousand of us everywhere I go!”
“Would you rather I called you Dericius?” his mom countered, again.
“We have this conversation every morning, just respect my opinions for once!”
Her footsteps slowly thudded softly up the stairs and toward him. He died inside as the turban was removed and death-rays of light blinded him.
“How about this, I’ll respect your naming sense when you can provide for your own family? Sound good? Great! Then get moving, you have a tournament to win.”
She left with the blanket.
Jaldi rubbed his eyes miserably. It was true, though, that there was a tournament today. He had been practicing for his entire life, always striving to be the greatest man alive, always striving to be at the top of his class. Even in this shithole of a country that disrespected those who wielded the most powerful form of magic he was good enough to make them let him in. He had defeated every challenger, won every tournament, beaten every opponent, and only after proving himself the best had he finally been admitted to the Ultra-Maximum Death-Tournament of Destruction. If he won, Jaldi would be admitted to the Triumvirate’s most powerful legion— the third— led by the most powerful melee fighter alive.
He had no magic, and yet had survived a direct run-in with the god of fire once capable of forcing even Yaldabaoth himself to retreat. It was often said Regulus was capable of defeating a dragon in one on one combat, and if he could survive a direct confrontation with a being once capable of ruling the world it must be true. Jaldi just needed to win today and he’d be admitted to the Archon training-program attached to the third legion. It would be a cakewalk, of course.
Jaldi summoned red wisps of air to carry him down the stairs. His mother shouted at him to stop flying in the house, but he didn’t listen. Who cares if there’s a little wind? It’s not like it would kill anyone. Besides, today he needed to rest and save his strength for later.
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His mom begrudgingly acknowledged this fundamentally obvious truth, even if she scowled as he laid back, mouth tilted open, for the food to deliver itself from the wooden tray she had prepared. It took thirty seconds for him to feel sick from magically shoving sausages down his throat faster than he could process them. The eggs and toast and fermented butter-cheese didn’t help either, giving it all a disgusting mushy texture. He always preferred to save the energy needed to chew by processing the food externally, but while this was a reason, he mainly just didn’t want to feel it on his tongue and teeth.
He shuddered through dripping sweat at the thought, but despite the sickness of eating too fast and weakness of being literally on fire, Jaldi still had a tournament to stomp, so he moved on. Brown robes it was today like every other day, but they would soon be stained a much more familiar and beautiful shade that would win him the adoration he had always deserved. So many used magic to dye their clothes and hair, but why bother? The energy source necessary to that end was available all around. It was their weakness and loss which made them poor and weak. Jaldi would find no such outcome. They would fall and he would climb to the top.
As he flew closely to the sandy ground, just quickly enough to prevent his robes from getting dirty, Jaldi contemplated the misery that the contestants were just going to be brought back to life. What fun was it to cut someone in half only to watch them reform and complement you later? It took all the fun from battle. Jaldi himself had died before, many times in fact, but while he deserved to be brought back for mistakes he couldn’t have avoided, people really should take the matches more seriously. It’s disappointing to be engaged in battle only for the opponent to surrender by accepting an ax-blow to the face.
There should be chaos and clamor; screams of agony and pleading through tears for mercy. There should be disgusting putrid smells and the view of eyes dropping in the final acknowledgement that this is the end, that there is no hope of escape, and that there really truly is no way out.
Jaldi missed that. There were only so many pitched battles, and when the Triumvirate had taken this region in the aftermath of The Great Scourge he was just young enough to have seen a few colosseum fights to the death in the arena. Unfortunately, now it was being used as a feeder match rather than for pure spectacle. He knew the Triumvirate didn’t want to let potential recruits die just because they weren’t up to muster at evaluation, but it made him miss the good ol’ days from before he was born. His mom had told him the story of his father’s death in battle at the hands of marauding demi-humans and it made him simultaneously sick at the disgusting nature of subhumans and jealous of his father being able to butcher a thousand of those subhuman dogs before falling.
Now it was his turn. The sandstone buildings passed him by in a blur, and the sandy dirt at last gave way to polished yellow-red stone. At last he had found himself at the entrance to the towering colosseum. At last he had found himself at the threshold of destiny. He joined a line a thousand strong and waited for what felt like a day before at last his turn came to sign the standard waver:
“If you die it’s not our fault.”
He licked his thumb, put it in the black-powder bowl to the right of the document, and pressed a signature before the text could even be processed behind his eyes. Not that Jaldi could read well anyway. It took so long to process letters, and wasn’t worth the effort besides, not that it mattered here. They were probably just making him sign something about his long and illustrious tenure to come in the Third Legion. Jaldi still couldn’t believe he’d get to serve with living legends!
The rest of the time passed uneventfully in a sweltering prison below the arena. There were windows and he could leave, but that didn’t make it any less oppressive when leaving would mean career death. But the battle would begin soon, and this tiresome wait would soon be made worth it.