Paragon of Destruction

"Just how big is this city?"

Darkfire groaned in frustration, and Arran felt much the same. They had already spent several hours exploring the city’s seemingly endless streets, and yet, Arran knew that they had barely seen a fraction of it.

"Let’s find a decent inn first," Arran said. "After that, we can take our time exploring the city."

They decided on an inn named The Golden Pig. Large and fairly clean, it was more expensive than most inns they had found so far, with a crowd of merchants instead of the mercenaries, caravan guards, and Shadowflame hopefuls that filled most inns.

Unconcerned with cost — he already had enough gold to last a lifetime — Arran got them the two largest rooms in the inn, then paid some more for clean bedsheets.

After they settled in, they headed back down to the common room, where they approached the innkeeper. As soon as he spotted them, the man gave them an ingratiating smile, undoubtedly eager to see more of their coin.

"Do you know where we can find the arena?" Arran asked him.

"You’re hoping to get recruited?" The innkeeper’s smile disappeared almost immediately, a look of mistrust replacing it. Apparently, he preferred merchants over fighters.

"We are," Darkfire replied curtly. "So can you tell us?"

"There’s four arenas in the city," the man answered. "One in each of the northern, southern, eastern, and western quarters of the city. There’s fights every day, as well as monthly tournaments."

"Every day?" Arran asked, surprised. Even for a city this large, having four arenas with daily fights seemed excessive.

The innkeeper sighed. "There’s no shortage of Shadowflame aspirants in Hillfort, nor gamblers to support them."

"Any difference between the arenas?" Even if the innkeeper seemed annoyed with the subject, Arran still hoped he could at least learn some useful information.

"Nothing worth mentioning," the innkeeper replied. "You see one, you’ve seen ’em all."

With that, the innkeeper turned and left to tend on some merchants who were sitting in the common room. Arran could not help but be puzzled at the man’s behavior — even if he disliked fighters, one would expect he would at least like gold.

"Friendly fellow, that." Darkfire gave Arran a smirk. "So you take north, and I take south?"

"You want to split up?"

"Not much point in fighting each other."

The idea made sense. If each of them took an arena, they should be able to rack up wins easy enough, with little chance of being defeated.

"All right," Arran said. In a lower voice, he added, "Just remember to hold back a bit — we don’t want to draw too much attention."

They agreed to meet again later that night, then left immediately, both of them eager to test their skills against new opponents.

Finding the northern arena took Arran longer than he would have liked. Although the arena was supposed to be only an hour’s walk from the inn, Hillfort’s narrow streets made it almost impossible to find his way, and he had to ask for directions at least half a dozen times.

When he eventually found the arena, he was amazed at its size. While the arena in Eremont had been little more than a glorified practice field, this one was large and imposing, with proper stone walls and rows of seats looking out over the fights.

"Entry’s one copper," a man in a slightly shabby uniform said as soon as Arran entered.

"I’m here to fight," Arran responded.

"You?" Although the man gave him a skeptical look, he waved Arran through. "Go to the back, they’ll tell you what to do."

As Arran walked to the back of the arena, he threw a glance at the fight in progress, seeing a burly bald-headed man face a lanky youth. In a moment, Arran could see the youth had little if any training, and he was defeated in just a few blows.

"Next!" the announcer’s voice called out, and as the youth left the arena, another fighter took his place, nervousness plain on the new fighter’s face as he faced the burly man.

Arran turned his attention to the crowd, and saw that there were several hundreds of people, most of them intently watching the fights, with some occasionally shouting in encouragement or anger.

Amid the crowd, several men and women walked, and after a moment, Arran understood that they were taking bets. At once, the size of the crowd made sense — the people in the audience were there to gamble, not to watch any great display of skill.

When he reached the back of the arena, Arran found a doorway cut into the stone, and behind it was a large chamber in which several dozens of people stood waiting.

He entered the chamber, and immediately, a tall man in a pristine uniform approached him.

"Here to fight?"

Arran nodded.

"What’s your name?"

"Ghostblade."

"Grab a sword from one of the barrels, then get in line," the man said, pointing toward a handful of barrels to the side of the chamber. "Once you’re called, you can fight until you lose. If you lose, get out of the arena, and move to the back of the line. Any questions?"

Arran looked at the line of fighters, seeing that there were over two dozen people in front of him. He sighed, then asked, "Any rules?"

"No killing, and Shadowflame members aren’t allowed to fight," the man said. Without bothering to ask if Arran was a member of the Shadowflame Society, he turned his attention to the man behind Arran. "Here to fight?"

Arran took a wooden sword, then lined up behind the others. The line moved slowly, and as he waited, he studied the other fighters. Most of them looked to be hapless youths, although a few had the bearings of experienced fighters.

Finally, Arran’s turn came.

When he stepped into the arena, he was surprised to see the burly man was still there. Apparently, the man was having a good day — at least so far.

Seeing Arran approach, the man gave him an indifferent glance, then attacked immediately, rushing forward with his weapon raised.

A moment later, the man was on the ground, sporting several new bruises and a shocked expression.

"Next!" the announcer’s voice sounded, and as the burly man left the arena, a new opponent entered — a handsome young man with broad shoulders and an arrogant face.

"Next!" the announcer yelled as the young man limped out of the arena, now sporting a black eye and a sulking expression.

"Next!"

Arran fought for several hours, soon losing track of how many opponents he had faced. Most of them, he fought only once, although a few returned several times. The burly man he had faced first tried five times before finally giving up.

With none of his opponents being Body Refiners or mages, Arran never came even close to losing a fight, and he used only a fraction of his true strength.

Still, the endless supply of opponents proved excellent practice — even if they were too weak to pose a real challenge, testing his skills against them and facing their numerous different styles helped Arran hone his swordsmanship.

Night had fallen by the time Arran finally decided he’d had enough for the day, and as he returned to the entry chamber he was surprised to see that there were now thousands of people in the crowd, many of them cheering loudly.

"So much for not drawing attention," he muttered to himself as he stepped back inside, hoping he hadn’t caused too much of a stir.

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