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I’M BACK BITCHES (ok just somewhat, but not really).
Much apologies folks, work has been absolutely draining, as usual.
Not to mention my responsibilities at the University Org. Had a Thanksgiving party to organize that nearly ended up in disaster.
Anyway. Here’s the chapter.
The Armament Festival’s preliminary rounds were strictly organized and conducted, as typical of Dwarven tidiness.
Each participant was assigned a number.
The matchmaking in these early matches was random – two numbers would be drawn from a lot, and the two fighters who were assigned those numbers would have to face each other.
The winner would then go on to fight the winner of the neighboring bracket – the so-called tournament method.
Contestants had to fight a mandatory two matches per day, and the festival continued until there was a single participant left.
Entry was open to all until the top 64 were decided.
In some cases, the number of contestants would keep growing, never reaching the breakpoint, making the festival last for months on end.
This year’s Armament Festival had already attracted an unprecedented number of fighters.
And as such, the festivities had been steadily progressing for days.
“Winner, number 566!”
Bash had made good progress in the preliminary rounds.
After five days of non-stop fighting, he had accumulated a record of 10 wins, 0 losses.
He had no trouble defeating his opponents, but nonetheless, they weren’t easy victories.
The Armament Festival featured very particular rules – there were two conditions that would spell defeat for a participant during the tournament.
The first was either loss of consciousness, loss of will, or loss of life.
The second, was non-usability of the equipment.
In other words, if a fighter’s weapon or armor was rendered ineffective due to damage sustained during the fight, no matter the damage to the actual person using the gear, that participant is declared the loser on the spot.
The armor built by Primera’s amateur hands was as brittle as glass for Dwarven blacksmithing standards.
Even though it didn’t seem that way.
The plate-mail, tightly fitted to Bash’s body, looked thick and heavy, while the sword he held was akin to a solid lump of iron.
By all accounts, the armor was a well-crafted piece of equipment.
Neither 5 days ago, nor today, was there even a scratch on its polished surface.
But the sword…
The sword was a different story.
After every one or two fights, it would come out bent and chipped.
So far, every one of his opponents had been taken care of in a single blow, but had Bash been forced into a prolonged engagement, there would have been a fair chance of defeat.
“…”
The Orc Hero silently looked at the blade that could no longer slip into its scabbard.
In the arena, other fights were still ongoing, yet there was nearly nobody in the stands.
Most of the local Dwarves would enter the tournament to participate as either a warrior or a smith.
If an ongoing match didn’t involve them, they wouldn’t bother coming to the arena.
After all, why waste precious time watching the preliminaries when those moments could better be spent polishing up on your skills or perfecting equipment.
The current audience was mostly comprised of tourists and warriors who had already been defeated.
All around the Hero, the remaining fighters were celebrating their respective victories, raising their weapons and shouting to all that would hear them, as to cement their strength and prowess within the crowd’s mind.
In Orc society, gloating after a hard-won victory was one of the most enjoyable aspects of battle.
However, this was only true if the fight had been somewhat fair.
It would be majorly disrespectful – to himself, his opponent, and the whole of Orc-kind, to show off right now, given how easily the Hero had won his matches.
That was the way of the Orc.
Thus, Bash had no intention of basking in vain glory after beating an enemy of vastly inferior caliber.
His objective in entering the tournament was not to show off his strength, but to obtain victory, and subsequently, a wife.
No need to do anything unnecessary.
And yet, Bash raised his blade, pointing it towards the open sky.
Primera was in the audience.
This was not an appeal to the crowd, but to her personally.
The young Dwarf had previously instructed him to show her the sword after every fight, so that she could ascertain its condition.
Upon seeing the bent steel and chipped edge, her face scrunched up as she bit her lip in frustration.
Her work had not stood up to the rigors of battle this time either.
Oblivious to Primera’s frustrations, Bash, having fought his mandated matches for the day, left the arena and returned to the waiting room.
“And I said, “Get your filthy hands off of me! Watch it or I’ll blow you away”… But there were five huge ogres surrounding me. No matter how strong I was, there was no way I was going to get out of there in one piece. I thought I was done for. But the very instant I lost all hope, I saw one if those lumbering oafs fly past my field of vision! Anyone here ever seen an Ogre fly? Yeah, me neither…until that day! And guess who was standing there, fist in the air? Of course it was my incredible boss, Bash, whom I respect and adore with all my heart!”
“Umu.”
Zell was, as usual, bragging, when Bash stepped into the room.
“Ah! Speak of the devil, here he comes! Welcome back boss! How was your match? Oh, why do I even need to ask. You’re you after all! You beat your opponent up in a single, ruthless, brutal strike and came back completely unscathed, right? Of course, you did. Anyways, good work out there! Oh, I’ve prepared some drinks for you. Please, have one! Would you like a shoulder massage as well?”
“Umu.”
The seat Bash had taken for himself on this day was covered with soft, luxurious cushions, and there was cold beer on the small table next to it.
The Hero did as the Faerie told him to – he sat down, letting his weight fall onto the cushions, grabbed a mug, and downed its contents in a single gulp.
Immediately, Zell flew up to his shoulders and began rubbing them.
However, Bash could not even feel a tickle, even with Zell putting her full weight into her tiny hands, though the dust that fell of the Faerie’s body somewhat relieved the stiffness in his joints.
“Oh, um, Mr. Bash?”
One of the fighters who had been listening to Zell came up to the Hero.
Equipped with a plain, unadorned steel armor and wearing wide sword at his waist, he was one of the more modestly equipped warriors in the waiting room.
His body was covered with tiny round scales, and his large eyes had vertical pupils – a Lizardkin.
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