By the time the last few fights wrapped up, the crowd that had left for shade earlier had gathered once again, eager to see what was coming. The wind had shifted too, carrying the sound of the waves straight to us. I lingered where the rings overlapped, bow unstrung, cloak fluttering around my back.

  The last match to finish was down at Arena 62: two axe users swinging until one dropped dead. The ref's flag went up, one side cheered, and just like that, round one was over.

  Scribes swarmed the central scaffold immediately, carrying clipboards, stacking parchment, shouting bracket numbers. Shieldbreaker, Thorax and Virtune had retreated to the shade under the awning, comparing lists while Shieldbreaker leaned on his elbows like a commander over a war map.

  Around us the Adventurer's Association had already begun disassembly on the unused areas. Men and women with rolled up sleeves tore down ropes, coiled them around posts and carried the numbered placards off toward wagons. They were very efficient at transforming the beach within mere minutes.

  Players milled around in small knots, waiting. A few familiar faces passed next to me, and I was not surprised that they were interested in a tournament like this. I'll look around after the round is over, see who else is here.

  The rest wore that mix of relief and anticipation that only comes after a fight: the heart still racing, but the mind already calculating the next part.

  Then Shieldbreaker's voice cut across the noise.

  "Round two pairings are up!" he shouted, parchment raised. "Bracket posted up front! Excuse us for potential visibility issues, we are trying to get a mana-powered screen from the Association working, but the ETA for that is unknown for now," he laughed before continuing.

  "Arenas one through thirty two remain open, while thirty three to sixty four are closed. If your next match is listed, move to your new arena and stand by."

  A rush. Dozens of players converged on the central scaffold. I took my time, staying behind the wave, scanning the crowd as I walked. The parchment went up, tacked to the wooden post under the bell tower, the ink still drying.

  Round 2 Bracket – Top 64.

  Names, lines, pairings: every duel and its arena number in tiny, careful handwriting.

  I traced a finger down the list until I found mine.

  Arena 11 – Orion vs Disastrous

  A new name. According to the brackets he was a Brawler from Oakenlight.

  Thinking back, I had heard a couple “Disas! Disas!!" Chants from the crowd earlier. Probably a local favourite. I'm not familiar with Brawlers. Should have done some research about all the classes.

  I let my eyes drift further down the list, reading the names I hadn't had time to notice before.

  I saw Cyrus, but he wasn't the only familiar name on the list. Sylph was there too, and so were El Verdugo and El Rafael from Los Asesinos. Djon from the Woe raid and Scale from Cyrus' crew. Then of course there was Lorrando – I never thought he would miss the opportunity to show off -, and others. RagingBuddha from the warg grind group back in Shademere Forest was also on the list. That Wag Form skill must be nasty in PvP.

  The name Athos also caught my eyes. I had heard a lot of talk about him amongst the crowd. From hearsay it sounded like he was favored to win the whole event. Could he be SirSalmon from the forums?

  There wasn't much overlap between the two names, but a player leading a succesful boss raid was bound to be a crowd favorite.

  All in all, it looked like a solid top 64. Tidemark's finest indeed.

  The crowd thickened again as the second round began. The disassembled arenas left more space between the active rings, so each surviving match drew heavier eyes. Arena 11 sat near the high tide line, where the sand was firm and cool. The ropes fluttered low in the breeze, already half dusted in salt.

  My opponent was there early. Leaning on one leg, cracking his knuckles one by one. Disastrous. From the duel request I had seen that he was level 15, a level lower than me, just like the Berserker before.

  It didn't really make a difference, I didn't drop my guard.

  He had close-cut hair, thick wrist wraps and bare arms covered in faded tattoos that looked like they had been deisgned by at least five different people. A small crew of locals stood behind him, all Oakenlight players by the looks of it, cheering the moment his name was announced.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  He didn't taunt, or even speak. Just nodded once when I stepped inside the ring. His eyes were sharp and measured. The opposite of Stigma's bravado.

  Good.

  The ref lifted his hand.

  "No commentators for this match. Combatants ready?"

  We both nodded.

  "Begin!"

  Disastrous closed the distance in low strides, arms tucked, watching me rather than my bow. He was the patient type, the kind that waited for overcommitment. The first Burning Arrow shot hit sand deliberately; a feint, a test of reflex. He didn't even blink. No wasted dodge.

  I circled, adjusted my footing and loosed another shot. He pivoted just enough that the arrow traced past his ribs, clipping only air, then lunged with Shoulder Charge.

  The hit came hard; he turned his entire weight into it, catching me mid-draw. My ribs jolted, breath forced out, but my boots held. I Quick Stepped sideways from his Uppercut, bowstring singing past his ear as I shot from the hip. The arrow grazed his forearm and applied poison. Small victory.

  He spun with the motion, following through with a tight Spinning Kick that nicked my shoulder and shoved me back a step.

  "You're not bad," I muttered under breath. He just grinned, not answering, and advanced again.

  Our next exchange lasted nearly a minute.

  His Rising Uppercut clipped the edge of my guard once; I felt the jolt buzz through my teeth. I answered with Flaming Arrow, sand igniting between us as the shot landed clean on his thigh. The poison stacked again, and his HP bar began its slow, steady bleed.

  The duel looked even from the outside; his footwork crisp, his strikes heavy. But I was already counting his rhythm. He'd weave two steps left before every charge, dip his shoulder just slightly before his right-hand attacks. Predictable if you watched closely enough.

  Then he changed tempo.

  "Wasp Stings!"

  Four strikes, faster than they had any right to be, each one a darting jab that blurred his hands. The first two missed by inches but the third caught my side and the fourth glanced my wrist. Small hits, but fast. Too fast.

  "New skill," I hissed, shifting weight back.

  He smirked like he’d heard that a dozen times.

  The poison pulsing through his veins bought me breathing room. His movement slowed just enough that my next Leap Attack cleared his guard completely. My boot met his chest, the bow snapped forward, and my Fan of Arrows hit full bloom at point blank range.

  He staggered, blood and sand mixing beneath his feet, HP dropping deep into red. Still not out. He triggered Iron Body, skin glowing faintly bronze as he soaked the next shot. Then, one last step forward, trying to force the trade.

  I Quick Stepped back again, pulled the string smooth and tight, and sent a Piercing Shot through the fading glow.

  The arrow punched through his shoulder and buried itself in the sand behind him. The buff flickered out, and the poison ticked its final numbers across his bar.

  He dropped to one knee, smiled faintly, and raised a fist toward me before the ref’s flag cut the air.

  "The winner is Orion!" the ref called.

  The Oakenlight crowd clapped anyway, a few calling out his name as he stood and bowed slightly. He’d earned that respect.

  It wasn’t a blowout but it was not a struggle either. A good but reserved fight, the kind that made your pulse hum without ever threatening to break it.

  As he left the ring, I found myself smiling. Finally, someone worth the warm-up.

  I stayed near the scaffolds again, watching the next matches unfold. The casters had switched to Arena 5 this time. It was Lorrando vs. a rogue from Shadowreach. Her name was LynxCat.

  The crowd was eager for it. Half the onlookers pressed closer, expecting a good spectacle.

  Shieldbreaker's voice carried through the sea breeze, pitched lower now.

  "This fight has been going on for a while, but Lynx was not yet able to deal any damage to Lorrando," he scratched his head. "It was a good fight, but maybe Lorrando should end it. Then again, from what we have seen, Crimson Court has a... different view on sportsmanship."

  That got a few laughs. The tension rippled outward like the tide itself was listening. I moved close enough to see.

  Lorrando stood loose and tall, bow in hand, longcoat whipping around his legs. Even without a zoom lens you could tell that his gear gleamed higher grade, his stance practiced. Across from him, the Rogue crouched low, twin daggers curved like fangs, face half-shadowed by a hood.

  LynxCat blurred first: Shadowstep, clean movement, perfect start. But Lorrando had her pegged the moment she vanished. His Piercing Shot landed square into the smoke, followed by an instant Fan of Arrows spread that turned her sidestep into a trap. She reappeared mid-dodge, bleeding.

  She tried again, this time flanking left. Lorrando didn’t move.

  He just aimed,one fluid draw and loosed a skill I had already seen from him. Black Arrow.

  Headshot.

  The Rogue crumpled before even finishing the animation.

  The interaction had lasted maybe five seconds.

  "Here you go, I'll end it for you," he smirked. "You can't even let me play with trash."

  And with that he turned and walked away from the booing crowd in all his hawk-nosed arrogant glory. The spectators didn't cheer. They watched in silence, a few muttering to each other. No one liked a bully, not even when he was good at it.

  "That's... one way to make a statement," Shieldbreaker said.

  Crimson Court’s reputation had already been shaky from their PK incidents back in Carpa. This wouldn’t fix that. If anything, it made the whispers louder: show-offs, griefers, arrogant. Lorrando either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He left the ring as casually as he’d entered it, stepping past his fallen opponent like she was just another dropped item not worth picking up.

  I turned away, brushing sand from my boots. I wish he was my next opponent. I'd drop him even faster.

  The sun was climbing higher, the smell of salt sharper now, the wind colder. The next round would be called soon.

  The Association scribes were already out again, pinning the new parchment to the same weathered post by the bell tower. The words “Round 3 – Top 32” were written across the top in Shieldbreaker's unmistakable scrawl.

  I waited once again for the crowd to thin before stepping up.

  The parchment smelled of salt and ink. My eyes followed the lines down until they found my name again.

  Arena 14 – Orion vs RagingBuddha

  For a moment I just stared, letting the memory catch up.

  Shademere. The hunt. The Warg collapsing into mist and the skill rune pulsing in that druid’s hand, his laughter sharp and surprised as he realized what he’d just pulled. Change Form: Warg. He’d called it a godsend.

  And now, not even two days later, that same druid was standing between me and the top sixteen.