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Ten million. He stared at the page of weathered parchment, watching the zeroes loop on and on, the last slightly smaller so that it could fit upon the margins. It went up again. A small fortune that one could build their own small country with. It might have even been enough to repair the damages that were left behind. It wasn't a pretty paper.

Breaking his gaze, he looked over to the mirror at his side, his unkempt chin full of short spotted hairs, his tired eyes red and heavy, and his cherry blonde hair grown uncomfortably long and even more so unkempt. It didn't look like one of the most expensive heads in the world, but it was. So young as well, he thought expensive things were usually old; twenty-four wasn't that old, was it? Maybe this was the part where childhood's death donned and he realized he paid taxes now; but he didn't pay taxes.

He wondered what his mother would think. She had undoubtedly seen the papers, hard not to. She would probably be worried that he wasn't eating healthily enough; the sketch really made him look fat. Fat and ugly, he didn't think he was ugly, was he? It wasn't like he could ask anyone; any questions he could pose would only ever be answered with a shriek, which he supposed could be an answer in and of itself, but he always felt that those shrieks were more tied to his reputation than to his appearance. He was famous after all.

One tended to garner fame when their face was plastered all over intermissions of the Bemeanian fireboxes. He was similar to the esteemed Poetaster in that sense. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine the papers with his face on them, the ones littered all across the continent, being sort of like publicity posters. It was just that, unlike Poetaster, his posters weren't advertising a play.

He recalled reading an article about himself once; it had called him an unprecedented evil on par with the White Witch. Which was silly; if his evil was on par with the White Witch, then the evil wasn't unprecedented, was it?

He focused back towards the mirror. His disheartened soul stared back. He wanted to visit his mom. She would make him some clam chowder, heat up a bath from the well water, and maybe trim his hair, futily trying to tame the beast it had become as she told him it was okay. He could cut his own hair, obviously, but he just wanted someone else to do it, someone else to talk to. He hadn't seen his mom for seven years, hadn't seen her since these papers started appearing. The numbers on the paper were much smaller back then.

His daydreaming of simpler times was interrupted by the heavy stomps of footsteps approaching. Their steps were so loud, it was comedic how they thought they were sneaking up on him. Even time after time of constant failures, a next time would come, and they would think that that time would be different: it never was.

He listened to their steps, forming a mental map of exactly where they were, listening for the weight and pace of each step to construct an idea of their equipment, perhaps catch a glimpse of their strategy. It would appear they were trying to surround his lonely shack. A few of them crawled through the thick tree canopy. He wondered if they were aware that all the tree branches they were rustling through up there made them more noticeable, not less.

He listened a while longer, and once he felt he had an accurate read on the size and makeup of the team, a slight grin appeared on his face. He recognized the formation and the associated team, and he couldn't help the mirth he felt as he thought of their silly outfits, those colour-coated armours and horribly inefficient ordainments. They reminded him of the fictional heroes his mother would tell him about when he was younger. It was those very heroes, like the Hero of New Heirisson's conquest and Murugan squad, that had given him that desire to become a valiant adventurer. People like that inspired him, people like those outside his home circling for the kill.

He looked at the mirror and the mirror looked back at him. Then he looked down at the paper with the insulting depiction of himself. He crumpled the unsightly thing and tossed it before heading over to his travelling pack nestled comfortably on a ratty sofa. He quickly inspected the pack's contents and, once satisfied that everything was in order, lopped it over his shoulder. Finally he slowly meandered his way to the opposite end of the room, mirror at his back, where he could collect his tool.

It was a well-kept tool, its metal head so well maintained that, like a mirror, his face was clearly reflected back. In the sheen of the axe face he could see himself. The weapon's slight curve may have distorted the image, contorting it in an unnatural way, but it was still clearly the reflection of a man. Within the small lens of the axe face it was harder to notice the unkempt hair and tired eyes.

He grabbed his axe and stopped before the door outside. He took a deep relaxing breath. He wondered if his mom still thought of him as he did her. He opened the door and walked outside.

Surprisingly, the group was more patient than he was expecting them to be; apparently, they actually can improve, if only slightly. He continued his usual daily routine as if he wasn't constantly waiting for the moment a dagger darted for his throat, even if he was, in fact, precisely waiting for the moment a dagger darted for his throat. It was when he had put his axe down to bathe at the river that they decided to strike; a little ignoble, he thought, but he was not so shy that he would begrudge them for it.

The soft sound of an unlatching mechanism in the tree was followed by the whizzing sound of a bolt flying through the air, and as he knew comedy was always in threes, it made sense that it was followed by the tragic sound of a bolt splashing into the water where the man was now no longer. The expected chorus of laughter did not follow after, and he needed to remind himself that humour was subjective.

He puffed out his chest, squared his shoulders, and barked a maniacal laugh into the empty forest. "Ho, you really almost got me that time. But you will surely have to do better than that if you want to defeat me the ravenous Calamity Kid!"

It was like a happy reunion with old friends, but the friends were trying to kill you. Five blurs of people lunged from all around the man, with each of their blades violently swinging towards him. He made sure to note in his mind that if he were to ever write a memoir, he would describe their attacks as swings and not strikes as a subtle joke for the keen reader... he also dodged the swings while he was at it. The quick play of only a few seconds led him right next to his discarded axe, and he wondered then what the purpose of catching him without it was. A light gust of wind sent chills through places memoirs wouldn't mention and he grabbed his axe.

"If it isn't the Mewls, my greatest foes. You're always one step behind me, never far behind." He lied.

He endeavoured to hide a giddiness at seeing the funny bunch again. There was a role to play, and his was of a serious warrior, but his mother always knew when he stole extra cookies, and it seemed he hadn't improved since. His uncontrolled smile only aggravated the Mewls more, and they launched themselves into another flurry of attacks.

It was uplifting to notice that the team had improved quite a bit; their strikes were more coordinated and precise, and it was clear that they were attempting to direct the flow of combat, though his immediate reacquaintance with his axe showed how successful those attempts were. It was the thought that counted, and he liked where their heads were.

Sadly, their increased skill only helped them realize how outmatched they truly were, and the man's attempts at pretending to be overwhelmed only helped to aggravate the group more. This was usually where the magic started getting cast. They always started throwing magic out when they were frustrated with the fight, like some semblance of hidden potential they only called in the most dire of circumstances. He found himself giving the Mewls voices he knew they would never utter about them, unleashing their true power! The magic came quicker this time.

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A bolt of arcane fury shot over his crouched head exploding into a trunk behind and felling the whole tree. It was an impressive show, but they should not let the increased destructive ability fool them into thinking they were more powerful. The magic was unrefined and sloppy, and when their bouts reached this stage, he would often have to recklessly charge in just to prevent them from damaging themselves. He would kick one out of their blast radius and take the hit himself or reposition himself inefficiently to prevent their friendly fire. He knew that his soft approach at teaching prevented them from learning from their consequences, but what could he say: he was a bleeding heart.

Even with the magic setbacks, he truly did enjoy his interactions with the Mewls, seeing all their faces, how they've grown. There was even a new addition to their group, she was even half decent as well. She seemed to meld well with the group, complimenting their techniques, and her style was a shoo-in for their typical strategies. It brought him happiness knowing that they were meeting new people and gathering new friends.

He winked at her as he tripped another ally and exclaimed once more with melodramatic gravitas, "Traducer, are you not going to introduce your new friend to me?"

Traducer, the group's bulky leader, was never much for conversation. Nor did Traducer take too well to teasing, which made their friendship all the odder as he oh so loved to tease. Unfortunately, another lesson he failed to imbibe in Traducer was not letting frustration distract from proper technique. He could already notice his quaint comments getting under Traducer's skin as his attacks grew less refined and became more erratic. "Escutcheon, would you like to introduce us?"

Escutcheon was the group's tank, always buried under heavy plates of steel armour and towering shields. His wrathful voice always pacified by the hollow echo of his oversized helmet, "When she heard she had the chance to slit your throat, she couldn't have joined our group faster!"

His conversations with the Mewls were never overly productive. In their earlier encounters, he would try to explain to them, trying so hard to come to some kind of peaceful negotiation. He quickly realized that strategy would never have worked out. He eventually decided to play along with their delusions of the character they thought he was; he eventually found himself even deriving enjoyment in the fanciful roleplay.

The group was getting ever more tired as the yellow day star slowly rose out of dawn. Escutcheon, in particular, was taking the heavy toll of rising heat and waning endurance, the harshest under his heavy armour. He took pity on the poor boy and gently walloped him across the head with the butt of his axe to let him have his rest.

The Mewls had no sense of self-preservation; they would eagerly fight on to the bitter end, be it victory or dehydration. When it came to their bouts it wsa never victory. It would always be up to him to call the spars end and so he slowly made his way through the group, taking out the most tired members one-by-one.

The newest member was the first to accept the fight's trajectory; she yelled at Traducer with concern, "We need to back out now; we can't win this!" There were only three of them left standing, enough to gather the downed and make a retreat, but certainly not enough to claim victory.

Unfortunately, seemingly unknown to the new recruit, this was not how the Mewls operated. "We can't, were so close!"

"Are you kidding me!? Look at him! He's barely dropped a sweat."

"She has a point; I haven't dropped a sweat. Very observant, well done."

Traducer pulled out a small bag from his belt. It always pained him to see Traducer resort to these sorts of tricks; supplements were never the answer. The stem of the bag was locked shut by a cute little ribbon, easily untied by tearing teeth. Within the bag was a quaint cluster of strange shells caked in a green viscous fluid. The odor emanating from the bag was the most damaging attack the group had managed to land on him yet.

Tears ran down Traducer's face, nothing but pure hatred in his eyes. He took a single slimy shell and placed it in his mouth; he carefully dragged the oddly serrated edge down his tongue. He gingerly placed it atop the wounded muscle and closed his mouth, blood bubbling through his gnashed teeth. Then he swallowed it whole.

He winced as he watched the silhouette of that shell drag down Traducer's throat in a stilted, imprecise manner, the leader's face wincing with every struggle push. Once Traducer managed to swallow the whole thing, he pointed a violently shaking finger to at him and screamed. "I will kill you, you monster!"

With a massive eruption of magical energy, Traducer lunged forward. Traducer was completely consumed in magical energy, and each of his swings sent out tremendous waves of arcane power. His face became scorching red, and blood cooled out of his nose. His onslaught was unending. The two remaining members were left with no choice but to join in on one last feeble attempt to take out their opponent.

Traducer's swings, although relentless, and the man had to admit they did contain sizable power, were totally uncontrolled. If Traducer's opponent were the forest, he would be doing an amicable job combatting it, but seeing as his opponent was but a single man, it was embarrassingly inaccurate. One of the rogue blasts keeled over the tree in which the team's archer was hiding, sending them flying off and plummeting toward the ground. To prevent the archer from concussing themselves on the forest floor, he jumped into them as they fell, knocking the archer out of the way of the falling tree and right into another tree behind it.

The archer smashed into the sturdy tree stump in such a way that they were unquestionably incapacitated but without any potential long-term damage being caused. Without time for pause, Traducer unleashed a gargantuan arcane cannon. If the strike were to hit, it surely would've atomized him. Of course, the strike didn't hit. The cannon skimmed by his side and effortlessly passed through the tree behind. Thankfully, the archer was slumped low enough on its stump to be unharmed, and the tree fell away from her, but Traducer very well could have accidentally taken out his own ally right then.

Perhaps he had let the charade play out for too long this time. He swiftly closed the distance and kneed Traducer in the gut, forcing him to wretch out his stomach's content, including the strange shells. Traducer's face paled to a ghostly white, and he crumpled to the forest floor, unable to move a single muscle despite how hard he tried.

Tears rushed out of his eyes, snot streamed over the dried blood under his nose and down his cheek, and puke bubbled up while he slowly choked on his own vomit. The man walked toward Traducer; the new girl stepped to interfere but immediately stopped in her tracks against a single glare. He used his foot to push Traducer's head to the side so the puke could flow out of his mouth onto the floor. Traducer continued to lurch and writhe while his body spasmed and liquids oozed from every and any orifice. Traducer struggled to stutter a painful plead between his tears. "K-kill me."

"We all got to keep on keeping on, including you."

The man crouched down and rummaged his hands through Traducer's pockets, finally pulling out a piece of paper. One and a quarter, it went up. He stood back up and faced the new girl, still petrified about where he last left her. He gave her a pleading look and asked, "You're skilled and you're smart. I know they can be brash and stupid, but they need someone like you. Try to take care of them, will you?" Her terrified body could hardly respond, but eventually, she managed a stilted nod of acceptance. "Good, it will take Traducer a few hours to recover. Make sure he rests on his side or else he'll… you know."

With his last piece spoken, he took his time properly dressing himself. The girl dared not move a single inch the entire time. She waited for him to finish, to gather his pack and depart, and even then, she waited until he was long gone into the depths of the woods. Only when she couldn't even hear his steps anymore did she sprint over to the deteriorating Traducer, uncontrollably flailing about on the floor.

He simply walked on, this particular safe house to be forever abandoned. It was no longer safe, but neither was it ever really a house. He tried to whistle with the birds, distractions to keep his mind playful. He needed those. He wasn't good at whistling.

He hadn't had the chance to brush his teeth before the Mewls made their presence known. He lifted his axe to see if any breakfast had stuck between his teeth; how embarrassing that would have been. For the few people he ever interacted with him to see him in such an unkempt state. What would they think of him?

He couldn't tell if there was anything between his teeth. There was too much blood on the axe to see his reflection.

He pondered, taking the time to clean it right away, but got distracted by the sudden chime of a bell, and then a strange sight. In front of the man there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the man holding a glowing parchment: It read.

You have been invited to The Tournament You are The Bounty