Yeah, I thought. Let's just hope that in this country, an orange eye doesn't mean "I'm looking for a husband" or "I owe the Sultan money." It'll pass for normal.
We arrived at the Arena Hall. The silence was so absolute you could hear a fly buzzing. Everyone stood around, drilling holes into each other with their eyes, analyzing auras. The Sultan stepped out (shining even brighter today) and announced the rules:
"Today, only Combat Mages fight! The Rules of the Ancients apply: 'Blow for Blow.'"
The crowd gasped.
"You will stand face-to-face and strike in turns. Dodging is forbidden. You may use barriers. The last one standing wins."
"Turn-based strategy, damn it," I grumbled. "Like some boring old game."
"But!" the Sultan added. "Your alchemist teammates may assist you. They have exactly fifteen minutes to brew ONE potion of enhancement or protection for their fighter. Only three teams will advance to the finals."
That same mage from "Iron Peak" immediately locked eyes with me. He had a new staff, even bigger and more expensive than the last one. His eyes practically screamed: Alright, you're dead meat without a wand. The elf, passing by on the way to her zone, whispered to me: "Good luck, Halibut." And off she went to obliterate her enemies.
Fifteen minutes of prep time. Alexia darted around the table like a hummingbird. She mixed herbs, roots, pounded something in a mortar.
"Done!" she handed me a vial of murky sludge. "'Titan's Shield'. It increases skin density and magic resistance!"
I took a sniff. It smelled like mint and old socks.
"Seriously?" I did a quick mental calculation of the ingredients. "Well, it might give a 15% boost to defense. Not much, but for fifteen minutes of work, it'll do."
I downed it in one gulp. "Not bad. Needs a little salt, though."
THE FIGHT.
We stepped out onto the sand. Me and the Mage with the Staff. The referee pulled out a gold coin.
"Who strikes first? Choose: Fortune or Sorrow?" (Heads or Tails).
"Sorrow," I answered without hesitating. That's my default state of being.
The referee flipped the coin.
"Fortune!" he announced. "The mage of 'Iron Peak' strikes first!"
The mage broke into a predatory smile. "You're a dead man, upstart," he hissed. "This time, I'll grind you to dust!"
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He began chanting a spell. Long, pompous. His new staff began to glow red, accumulating a colossal amount of energy. He was pouring everything into it. He felt like a god.
"FACE MY WRATH! FIRE DRAG—"
I yawned and lazily snapped my fingers. CRACK. The sound of splintering wood echoed across the arena. His brand-new, astronomically expensive, enchanted staff exploded into splinters right in his hands at the very peak of his mana concentration. The mage froze. The energy, finding no release through its conductor, blew up in his face in a cloud of thick soot.
"H-how...?" he whispered, staring at the wreckage. "Again?! YOU?!"
"Squeezed it too hard," I shrugged. "You got nervous, kid. You shouldn't be so dependent on your stick."
"My turn now," I said.
The mage stood unarmed, in shock, completely defenseless. I didn't even bother casting anything complex. I just waved my hand, conjuring a "Water Slap." A simple blob of water the size of a bucket flew towards him.
"Water?" he wanted to laugh.
But the moment the water touched his chest... CRUNCH. My orange eye flared. The water instantly transmuted into Hell Ice. The temperature dropped to absolute zero at the point of impact.
"AAAAAA!!!" he screamed with an inhuman voice. The supernatural cold burned right through his robes and skin, locking his muscles in place. He collapsed onto the sand, his teeth chattering so violently it sounded like they were about to shatter.
GONG! "The winner is—Greg!"
I glanced to the side. The elf was already standing over her second defeated opponent. She wasn't even out of breath.
Yeah, I thought. She's going to be a problem.
The referee announced:
"Three teams advance to the finals! The Northern Academy Team (Us). The Elf's Team (West). Karim's Team (South)."
(The local Prince either got a free pass or bribed someone).
What's next?
The man rode toward the Capital like a madman. He didn't know if he would make it in time.
"Fresh horses! I need fresh horses!" He changed mounts like gloves, leaving mountains of gold at roadside inns. He hadn't slept in three days.
Fortunately (or unfortunately), Greg was leaving a trail a mile wide. Everywhere he went, people described him the exact same way: "Black hair, pitch-black eyes, extremely rude, a savage, a freak." In the village of Windhall, the Man was met by a girl selling herbs.
"Seen anyone like that?" the Man asked, barely having time to jump off his horse. "Probably has two black eyes by now, nervous wreck."
She looked at the Man. "And who are you to him?"
"Just a traveler. I have a letter for him."
"A letter, is it?" she sneered. "Tell your Halibut that he's a scoundrel, a thief, and he belongs in a dung heap! He left for the Capital probably more than a week or two ago, that black-haired freak of yours!"
The Man's blood ran cold.
"Oh no!" he whispered, leaping back onto his horse. "Just let him not attract any attention! I'm begging you, Halibut!"
At the gates of the Capital, where he finally arrived, the guards stopped him.
"You look too suspicious," one of them said. "And that huge bag over your shoulder. What’s in it? Show us."
"Just a book!" the Man barked. "And a letter for a friend!"
He decided to take a risk. "Look, guys. Have you by any chance seen a black-haired kid around here? He has unusual eyes. Completely black."
The guards exchanged a look. "Buddy, you just described half the world," one said.
"No! Not just dark! Pitch black!"
They exchanged another look. "Come with us," one said, nodding to the other.
They led him down an alley. Soon, the Man found himself surrounded. About ten men. Armed with swords, axes, and spears.
"So, you're the one who's going to answer for his big mouth?" one of them asked. "He insulted the entire guard and turned the whole city upside down!"
Oh, Halibut... the Man sighed. You've already managed to stir up a hornet's nest right at the Kingdom's doorstep.
All hell broke loose. It wasn't a fight for survival, but a fight for the right to pass through. He fought desperately, like a cornered beast.
Half an hour later, the man—covered in bruises and with a bloody lip—emerged from the alley victorious. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
"Where are you, Halibut," he whispered. "Right when I need you most..."