Every week, Dasha went to the beauty salon in the Recreation District. His hair was meticulously done and, while his skin was naturally clear, in this life where battle happened on the regular, it was important to get rid of blemishes before they seeped in.

The soothing hum of clippers and the soft chatter of the patrons filled the air. Frank, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, was his barber. Eyes closed, Dasha distracted himself by subtly widening the flow of Qi inside his meridians.

"You should change."

An eye opened. "Hm?"

"Change clothes, I mean,” Frank elaborated. “The Garbs of Death are the hallmark of a newbie."

"I hired you to cut my hair, not give out advice."

Snip-snip. Frank nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Well, well, well, look who we have here. I was right about you.”

He could barely breathe at the sound of the voice, for in that moment, a monstrous presence plopped down next to him. His eyes widened by a fraction. Souls were unique. There was a smell, a feeling, a taste to them. Frank, a mere cedarwood, and Paul, a conflicted mess of cannabis, and then…

And then…

Dasha dared to look from the corner of his eyes. ‘Golden eyes.’

…this thing beside him was a never ending void. A blackhole that sucked up the world whole.

Someone who, with the gift of Qi, Dasha could sense was horrendously out of place. A creature that did not belong here.

His clothes were different, a square-patterned garment going to the mid-calf, glittering at the edges, and thinly protected by an impossible level of magic.

“Remember me? Rehan!” The golden-eyed man stroked his beard. “I got my trim here. Think it’s nice?”

Dasha inclined his head. “Mm.”

‘I’m imagining it, am I?’ No, the atmosphere of the whole barbershop had shifted, from welcoming to oppressive. There was someone standing beside Rehan, a guard, wearing a decorative blue cepken paired with black loose trousers secured by a green cummerbund at the waist. Freshly shaven, he cautiously observed Dasha, not seeing him as a threat but an intriguing object.

“Salah, Salah!” Rehan gestured at the guard to take the spot next to him. “Come on! You’re making it awkward!”

After much nagging, Salah did sit down, albeit without removing his three swords.

“Don’t worry about him.” Rehan told Frank. “He’s new.”

“I…see.”

“Dasha, meet Mohammed Salah. Salah, meet Dasha.” Rehan raised his arms up in a fist, shaking them triumphantly as he glanced between the two, and leaned back on his chair. “Now, remember, not too much. It took me a year to grow this. I’ve been cursed with no beard genes. Do you know how bad that looks for me?”

Frank had immediately moved behind Rehan, shaking slightly. “Of course, sir.” He swallowed and added, “What is the occasion?”

“Al-Khayzuran is hosting an event with the Justice Sect. You know how it is,” Rehan replied.

Clearly, Frank didn’t, though he didn’t admit as much. Someone else came to cut Dasha’s hair, someone less skilled.

“Oh, but we have a new player here.” Rehan chuckled. “Al-Khayzuran is a member of the Guardians, like me and Salah, except much older. She was the creator of a rare perfume during the Golden Age of Islam, as the most favoured concubine of the Last Caliph of the Abbasid Dynasty, so she’s not a nobody. Her works and personality were so liked that it extended to other parts of the world and led to a thriving relationship with the Empress of China. A true artist, and in this world of magic, she’s only grown her influence."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He had heard of her, or more accurately, read about her. She participated in the very first Heavenly Games, and while she possessed rare magic, her real strength came in later Heavenly Games, that being her knowledge and wisdom. She amassed wealth and influence and became an integral part of the Islamic community.

‘Giovanni Bruno mentioned in his journals that Al-Khayzuran was arguably the best in regards to weaving magical fabrics.’

"Because of her skills and relations, she’s struck up relations with the Chinese Sects. Their uniforms are woven by her entourage." A smile stretched across his face. “But nevermind her! What I’m excited for is Layla Al-Malik. She’s a poet writer! I can’t wait to meet her again! Her voice is the brushstroke that brings written masterpieces to life. Aren’t you excited, Salah?”

“Of course, A—er, Rehan.”

Rehan’s hair wasn’t terribly long, though some bangs did hang close to his eyebrow. Frank’s work was monitored by the Salah like a hawk prepared to hunt its prey. He anticipated a mistake. He wanted a mistake.

Dasha already knew who Rehan really was, and that the question of why he was here that much more peculiar.

“How are the Heavenly Games?” Rehan carried on. “I hope the munadi haven’t been too annoying.”

“No.” The herald was bothersome to others but not him. Everyone left Dasha alone.

“I can tell you’ve gotten strong.” Rehan's tone went slightly higher, thrilled. “Care to tell me what you’ve been doing?”

“Reading.”

“Reading? Can’t say knowledge isn’t strength but seriously? Reading?”

A nod.

“Wow.” Rehan huffed. “You should come to the majlis. I’m sure one of our people can help, although you miiight need to join our guild.”

A swift reply from Dasha. “No thanks.”

“Aw. Worth a shot though.” Rehan looked at the mirror in front of him, turning his cheek left and right, and grinned. “Nice job, Frank. Good to see I wasn’t wrong about you.”

“Yes, sir.” A zip of a reply. Frank’s scissors were steady but afraid. It wasn’t just him, upon a second look, he could see the same fear in Salah.

Dasha opened his mouth anyway. “Interest in players only happens after Gate 10. So why the invitation?” he asked.

“Huh?” Rehan blinked and his eyes went to the ceiling. “Good question. I think it’s because…you’re nothing like I was when I was playing. You seem to know what you’re doing. That’s a good thing. Hmm…” He seemed to be toying with an idea. “Say, you should come with me today to Valhalla’s Colosseum. There’s a big match going on between the Imperial Sect and Unorthodox Sect.”

Dasha pretended not to be curious. Two martial artists of sufficient skill would be an excellent learning experience. “And I should care why…?”

“Because the two fighting are class eight players. It’s been a while since that’s happened. I can’t wait.” Rehan paused and, without questioning whether Dasha already knew, elaborated, “Oh, right, beginner. Players such as yourself are divided into classes for your power. After Gate 10, you’ll automatically be considered first-class and given access to the tenth floors of the Colosseum: the tenth, twentieth, thirtieth, you get the drill. These floors are where massive tournaments are held, spectators and all. Well, not always tournaments, but usually tournaments, since those floors are just massive stadiums.”

“I know,” Dasha replied. “The people at the Colosseum told me. At the end of the tenth gate of the Heavenly Games, you are given a classification based on power, and depending on the level of classification, you are granted access to higher floors in the Colosseum.”

It was why no matter what the Colosseum did they would always be subservient to the Tower. It was the central piece to everything in the Heavenly Games. A seat of government that granted the other areas of the White Abyss their authority.

At the time, Dasha was banned from entering a floor above ten. To be able to access those upper echelons, the Heavenly Tower needed to advance beyond Gate 10. Afterwards, he would need to complete floors one through nine with a supervising angel, which would grant him the second class card and the next section of floors.

The gap between each section of floors was exponential. For example, floors eleven through twenty were intended for first and second class players. Twenty-one through thirty: third and fourth. Thirty-one through forty: fifth and sixth. And finally, floors forty-one to fifty, for seventh and eighth class players.

Hence why interest in players grew after Gate 10, because that was when players were formally classified.

“So…” Rehan drawled, grinning. “You know how rare it is for two eighth class players to fight. So how about it? I got front-row tickets!”

“Am—”

Salah’s voice was cut off instantly. “Salah, please, I’m in the middle of a conversation with a friend. Could you please not interfere?”

Salah hesitated but opened his mouth again. “But—”

“Ah! Ah-ah-ah!” Rehan pointed a finger at him and covered his ear. “Don’t wanna hear it! Don’t wanna!”

“But—”

“Nope!”

“Um, sir?” Frank, as slowly as he could, asked, “Could you stop moving?”

Rehan promptly stopped and wore an apologetic smile. “Oh, my bad.”

“I’ll go,” Dasha said. “And they are front row tickets, yes?”

Rehan grinned. “Absolutely.”