A sharp wind hissed through the air.
Uriel held a wooden spear with a sharpened stone head. His left hand gripped the bottom of the shaft, his right near the middle as he performed a slashing attack, leading it into a short thrust. Sweat dripped from his face onto the dirt floor of Runt's home.
Uriel repeated the same movements again and again, as if trying to tear his own body apart from strain.
But then—
"URIEL!"
Runt burst into the room, panting, holding a wrinkled flyer in his hand.
"I WENT TO THE MAIN CITY LIKE YOU SAID—AND THEY'RE HAVING THE TOURNAMENT IN TWO DAYS!"
Uriel stopped and turned toward him. Runt shoved the flyer into his hands.
{Come one, come all! If you are of the first rank of cultivation and between the ages of fifteen to twenty-four, you may sign up for a chance to be sent to the Velmora Empire and join their famous academy.}
Uriel read it once, then began preparing. The main city was far from the slums where he and Runt lived.
"Runt, where are the two other things I asked for?"
"I left them in the chest below the table—like I do with anything else I make."
Uriel walked over, knelt by the chest, and opened it. Inside, he found a white mask with a line of gold-colored paint on both sides of the eyes, running straight down the middle. He set it aside and reached beneath it, his fingers brushing against something soft.
Clothes.
Folded neatly, like Runt had taken pride in making them.
The tunic came first—off-white, loose-woven, smelling faintly of ash and iron. The fabric wasn't fine, but it was clean. The stitches were uneven yet strong. The sleeves were long, the collar open and tied with black string. It felt light in his hands, like it was meant to move with him.
Beneath it, trousers—rougher, canvas-like, dyed somewhere between beige and gray. Reinforced with extra stitching along the knees and thighs. Durable. Practical.
Then the cloak—bone-colored, hooded, lined with something darker. The edges were raw and wind-worn, but it was light, wide enough to flow. A leather strap kept it bundled, and a small silver bead hung from the hood—a quiet mark of the boy who made it.
They weren't rich clothes. Not even good clothes.
But they were his.
And Runt had done more than enough.
"Runt," Uriel said, "do you mind stepping out so I can change?"
Runt stepped out without a word.
Uriel began dressing. But as he slipped on the mask, a sharp crack splintered inside his head. Pain bloomed in his skull, sharp and crawling like fire under his skin.
<…Damn it. It's getting worse.>
He gritted his teeth, steadied his breath, and continued putting on the mask. Once he was fully dressed, he stepped outside.
"Runt, if I pass this tournament… I don't know when I'll be back. Stay safe. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."
"What do you mean, stupid?! Do you think I'm like you? Going around losing money that doesn't belong to you?!"
Uriel smiled faintly. He was going to miss Runt—but he had to go.
He left Runt's home and set off for the main city. The journey took about a day and a half of running and resting.
By the time he arrived, night had fallen. The city was alight with bright candles and laughter. Every house stood at least two stories tall, with clean brick streets beneath his feet. The people here had money—gold to spare—and yet kept it close to their pockets and throats.
Uriel's expression tightened.
He turned away and made his way to the gladiator-style arena where the tournament would be held. He chose to wait outside the arena walls until morning, so he'd be first to enter.
When the morning sun rose, a man set up a table near the arena's entrance. Behind Uriel, a group of people began forming, eager to sign up.
The man behind the table had brown hair, black eyes, and clothes nicer than Uriel's—despite being just the registrar.
In a slow, lazy voice, he said, "Hello, sir. If you're here for the tournament, please tell me your age, rank, and name. If you need a weapon, speak to the weapons master inside."
"I'm 18," Uriel said. "I'm the rank Veiled. And my name is Asra."
He gave a fake name.
"Do you mind taking off the mask, or are you not willing to do so?"
"I'd prefer not to. I don't want to disturb anyone here."
"Are you severely disfigured?"
"…Yeah. You could say that."
"Alright, you're allowed in."
"Are you sure? You didn't even check my age or if I'm really first rank. I could be lying."
"It doesn't matter. If you're lying about your age, the academy will figure it out. If you're lying about cultivation… well, you'll probably die. Now, please head in."
Uriel passed through a tunnel-like entrance lit only by dripping candlelight. At the end of the hallway, he spotted a man surrounded by weapons.
The man stood six foot three, bald-headed with almond-toned skin. He wore no shirt, muscles broad and obvious.
"Hello," Uriel said. "Are you the one who gives weapons to those in need?"
"YES I AM!" the man boomed. "IF YOU WANT A WEAPON, JUST TELL ME! AND IF YOU DIE, I'LL TAKE IT BACK! HAHAHA!"
Uriel winced a little at the volume but found it oddly comforting. The man reminded him of Runt.
"And if I win?" Uriel asked.
"I'LL LET YOU KEEP IT! HAHAHA!"
"I'm used to a spear. If you could give me one, that would be nice."
The man rummaged through his collection and pulled out three options: a short spear, a snake spear, and a horse-head spear.
"SO WHICH ONE DO YOU WANT? HAHAHA!"
Uriel pointed. "I'll take the horse-head spear."
"GOOD CHOICE! HAHAHA! IF WE'RE DONE HERE, YOU CAN WAIT IN ONE OF THE ROOMS DOWN THE HALL! YOUR NAME WILL BE CALLED WHEN IT'S TIME TO FIGHT! STAY WELL! HAHAHA!"
"Thank you," Uriel said, grabbing the spear.
He walked deeper into the hallway. Several doors lined the corridor, each labeled Unoccupied on one side, and Occupied on the other. He chose the room at the end of the hall, flipped the sign, and stepped in.
Inside was a beat-up bed and a single candle, dead and cold.
"Better bed than in the slums. I'll take it."
Uriel flicked his finger. A small white flame sparked to life, lighting the candle.
He sat on the bed, exhaling slowly.