Merrick felt his body trembling. The sensations were distant, traveling through his increasingly squeezed nerves to his brain. One this was clear: each moment was agony, like sitting and watching as your family was flattened by a steamroller. Except you were watching yourself pressurized until you popped. Sweat clung to the tip of his nose, itching his skin. But the worst was the silence.

The silence made the agony endless and final.

A little over nine thousand individuals stood on the bobbing platforms. Some stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, some sat with their legs folded beneath them, all with the same expression of concentration on their face. The tournament participants, here to cross the last threshold. They had been allowed to choose whatever position they found the most comfortable, but from there, any sort of significant movement would be deemed a failure.

This test had already stretched for five and a half hours. The thick, oily energy of the Ghosthound flickered merrily in the air, crunching their psyches beneath its sheer force. Images withered and recoiled beneath its pushy ministrations. Merrick had anticipated a lot arguments over what constituted a significant movement by those disqualified and asked to leave the test. However, none he had not seen anyone argue.

Not that he was in his most attentive state. But from what he could tell, all who gasped and collapsed were led away quietly with hollow expressions on their faces.

After experiencing this hell for so long, Merrick understood it. Those who had given in to the force were almost happy to allowed to leave, hiding their disappointment within their strained bodies and frazzled minds. Perhaps they couldn’t even face the relief they felt.

A relief the rest of them now dearly craved.

Merrick allowed himself a small movement, lifting his chin and hissing a breath out through his nose. They were coming up on an hour mark, which meant that the intensity of the Nether would be rising. The trembling in his arms worsened, as he considered the difficulty increasing once more.

He felt chewed. The aura of the Randidly Ghosthound just rolled them like a plump grape between their teeth, ready to squeeze until juice leaked out between the ruptured skin.

All at once, the pressure vanished. The sudden lack made Merrick collapse backward, his head cracking against the wooden ground. The clouds churned above, briefly leaving him mesmerizing. Then he began to sob, realizing that what he just did definitely counted as a significant movement, and some part of him felt a deep sense of relief-

“Congratulations, all those who are still here,” Naffur Suite, the leader of the Order Ducis and the public face of Randidly Ghosthound’s influence over Expira, boomed his voice over all the panting individuals, a balm on their hot skin. He stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes playful. “You’ve made it. You are in the final 8,192. And so, welcome to Tournament Island.”

Merrick pushed himself off the ground, one of the 90% of participants that looked like they had spent the night kneeling in front of a toilet with a stomach bug, rather than just waiting for their opportunity to prove themselves. They rose unsteadily, looking at Naffur’s serious expression. Something broke in Merrick’s heart. His eyes began to gleam and blinked away tears.

He had made it. Despite how many powerful fighters turned out of the woodwork for this tournament, he had been selected. It was definitely a step down from being victorious last year, but-

“You have forty-eight hours until the island is opened to anyone else but the participants,” Naffur continued. In his mid-twenties, he seemed the perfect balance between youthful potential and mature leadership. He turned away, stepping onto a wooden plank that led off the platforms. Above him, buildings gleaming with the fresh edges of new construction waited. “After that, six hours until the tournament starts. So for the next two days… enjoy yourselves. There are shopping outlets and restaurants, bars and music venues. Or you could train. But I do recommend that you spend the time and effort to meet the other finest in the Alpha Cosmos. Because everyone you see is one of your peers, that passed the same trials.”

Merrick followed the flow, walking on stiff legs and with a slightly empty expression. They were released onto a wooden pier, heavy with stands for fresh-squeezed juice and fried bits of dough. The evening sun pressed against their skin, warm and reassuring. Merrick’s inner question over how all these stores could operate without anyone but the participants were answered: Kharon’s Brass Automatons were everywhere, assisting with your slightest whim. Their servos whirled and their brass joints gleamed as they offered participants every refreshment they could imagine.

Oh shit, Merrick wandered forward, taking two glasses of champagne off the tray held by a metal person. His heart pounded. These next two days are going to be so sick.

And they were. All of the beer and spirits present on the island had been made with powerful Classers in mind; they relied more on Skill Levels from the brewer rather than alcohol content for their effects. About five drinks of various bright colors later, Merrick felt like he was floating. Joy bubbled up through his veins as he explored the island.

The constructed place was dived into quadrants. Southeast housed the hotels and participant housing. Northwest was the arenas and training halls, to which a very busy minority quickly moved. Many had likely felt their limits in the entrance test and now wanted to gain any advantage they could.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Merrick, like the truly powerful, perhaps realized that it was too late to make any meaningful difference in his abilities. Instead, he wandered around, his instincts warning him that everyone he saw was dangerous.

The Northeast held music venues and bars. Constant noise and laughter flowed across the entire island, originating from this portion. Meanwhile, the Southwest held a very particular sort of shop, including high-end weapons, armor, and information repositories about Skills. There was even a small shack filled with books, with a short blurb about every participant in the tournament. The famous individuals even had a breakdown of their exploits, images, and fighting habits.

Merrick perused a book about Alana Donal for ten minutes, trying to imagine what it was like to fight while still in the isolated Zones, growing up with Randidly Ghosthound before he had become such a monster. Eventually, he stopped, if only because the attentive automaton waiting for him to finish unnerved Merrick.

The center of the island was marked by a massive cylindrical complex that featured other amenities. More mundane varieties of shopping (including several scents of shampoo all based on the Ghosthound), massages, movie theaters, grocery stores… the exterior was marble and each entrance was massive, almost four meters tall. The open middle was filled with a manicured, spiraling bonsai tree ten stories tall. Each set of branches corresponding to the ten floors of the shopping complex bloomed with differently colored and shaped flowers.

The lowest level was tiny powder-blue flowers that were so dense in some spots you couldn’t see the branches. Above that were open yellow blooms with petals so long they cascaded down like streamers. Above that, the flowers were nestled between green leaves, violet and vaguely spiky. Up and up, all the way to the open skylight above. It was an impossible bit of plant life that had Merrick standing and gawking. He watched long enough for Brass Automatons to clamber expertly up the wooden trellis spaced intermittently around the trunk and carefully comb the tree for any flaws.

A few leaves were snipped, nubs for new branches removed. Wilting flowers were respectfully clipped and taken away into one of the strange tunnels that the automatons used to move throughout the island.

“Wow,” Merrick blinked. Then he shook himself and left the building. After exploring the entire island, he went to the Northeast. He needed some relief from the stress he felt growing in his chest.

As he obtained more drinks, the night began to blur. He stumbled onto a bar where a Frost Dragon faced off against a man in an eating contest, a wooden table piled high with roast pigs and thick mushroom sauces, to the roaring approval of a crowd. When he finally couldn’t stand the sight of the dragon any longer, Merrick moved down the cobbled street to a classier establishment, where a half dozen Brass Automatons effortlessly played string instruments and groups of participants played cards at a dozen tightly packed tables.

He sat at the bar, which was empty aside from a bear-woman nursing a drink. She glanced over at once, twice, and then clear her throat. “...would you like to join me for some shots? I’m trying… to let loose a little.”

Merrick said that he needed to let loose as well. Somewhere between five and twelve shots of specially brewed liquor later, the two were arm-in-arm and swaying as they left the bar to find somewhere else to drink. They passed by a bowling alley and an outdoor volleyball court, where an octopus played along against a group of humans.

The duo was overtaken by a group of bobbing frogpeople, heady with excitement. Trailing in their wake, they went into a homey pub with a roaring fire crammed into one side of the establishment. Their beer came in mugs and while they cheers and threw back their drinks, a solo arrival came into the building.

Lucifer, the powerful poster-child of Franksburg sidle up to the bar next to them and inclined his head. “Charlotte. Glad to see you are getting off of that rainy island.”

The bearwoman made a sour face. Merrick swayed side to side, unable to believe that Lucifer, the intense man with long hair and a Skill named after him, had come over to their group to join. Lucifer cleared his throat. “I actually had another reason for looking for you. As I’m sure you know, I’m recently married. I’d like… to surprise my wife with a portrait of us, drawn by you. I’ve brought some photos-”

“I don’t draw much, anymore,” The bearwoman, apparently Charlotte, said. Merrick wondered if she had introduced herself and he had forgotten or whether it just hadn’t come up during their drinking.

Lucifer’s hands were large and he tapped his finger evenly against the bar. Despite the noise of the rest of the patrons, those finger taps seemed to resonate with Merrick’s chest. “Maybe so. Well, I just thought I’d ask. If you change your mind, let me know. I hope you enjoy your night.”

Afterward, Charlotte’s mood turned bleak. They took several more shots, but the magic had been lost. Merrick cleared his throat, trying to sound mature. “Is everything alright?”

She simply shook her head. Very soon after, she left, leaving Merrick to find his way on his own. He wandered out of the quaint place, drawn by thumping bass and bright lights to the place at the end of the street, called Moondust. Purple spotlights shone up on billowing gossamer banners, the light rippling with the fabric in the night wind. Once inside, Merrick was hit by sound and the smell of sweat all at once; sometimes, it was a negative to have their empowered senses. He squeezed through the press of dancing bodies, some of that tension coming loose as he saw a dozen individuals dancing at such fast speeds that their bodies blurred.

For an indeterminate amount of time, he joined them, flailing and screaming along with the latest Raina hit song. The lights pulsed in different colors and someone was projecting images of waves crashing through the club. Everything rushed around, sloshing in the enclosed space. Merrick didn’t need to breathe, didn’t need to think. Motion carried his entire existence. He was image, personified, all body and emotion in a surging sea of the same.

Eventually, even the powerful brewers out of Donnyton couldn’t keep his senses blurred. He came back to himself, slick with sweat and with a fast-disappearing headache. Coughing, he pushed his way off the dancefloor and found a balcony.

There, he found a young man standing and staring off the high ledge toward the other glittering establishments along the street. At the same time, as he walked out and stopped, the young man looked up. Their eyes met. There was a sort of defensive guardedness in his eyes that Merrick found very appealing. The young man had his spear leaning against the railing, out of any storage device, which revealed he was one of the people from Tellus.

“Hello,” Merrick managed.

“Greetings,” the young man returned.

Merrick tilted his head to the side. “...would you like to do some shots?”