For a boy who had spent his entire life in a backwater village and a timber-built tavern, the sheer scale of the city was suffocating. The buildings were monstrous slabs of soot-stained granite. The streets were choked with merchants, mercenaries, and cutthroats, all yelling over the deafening, endless clang of the city’s industrial forges.
Mata wrapped her mottled cloak tighter around her shoulders, her blindfolded face tilted down. "The air tastes like ash," she hissed, deliberately stepping over an open gutter. "There is no life here. Only rot."
"Smells like commerce," Tiny countered, his boots splashing through the filthy slush. He was practically vibrating, his soot-stained goggles pushed up on his bald head. "Look at the edge alignment on those guards' halberds! Absolute garbage. I could make a fortune just fixing their bevels."
Wanhan wasn't listening to either of them. His eyes were locked on the massive, circular structure dominating the center of the district. The Arena.
The line for the Knight’s Tourney registration spilled out of the heavy iron gates and wound through the muddy courtyard. It was a sea of walking armories. There were massive men in full plate, scarred veterans carrying greatswords as tall as Wanhan, and arrogant nobles flanked by armored squires.
Wanhan took his place at the back of the line. He wore a patched wool tunic, muddy boots, and had a single, over-muscled left arm resting on the dark iron pommel of Fenrir.
He didn't just stand out. He looked like a joke.
"Hey, half-portion," a rumbling voice growled from behind him.
Wanhan didn't turn around. He just shifted his weight slightly, his feet automatically sinking into the loose, perfectly balanced stance of Diner Dash.
A massive hand the size of a dinner plate clamped down on Wanhan's left shoulder. The man behind him was a mountain of scarred muscle wearing boiled leather and carrying a spiked mace.
"The beggar's alley is three streets down," the brute sneered, his breath smelling of sour wine. "This line is for warriors. Move, before I use you to polish my boots."
The brute shoved. Hard.
For a normal, one-armed boy, the force of a two-hundred-pound mercenary shoving his only good shoulder would have thrown him face-first into the mud.
But Wanhan wasn't normal. He had spent five years carrying overloaded trays through brawling drunks. When the force hit him, Wanhan didn't resist. He went with it. He pivoted entirely on his left heel, dipping his shoulder and letting the mercenary's momentum carry forward into empty air.
The brute stumbled violently, entirely off-balance.
Before the man could recover, Wanhan’s empty right sleeve whipped around. He used the torque of his own spinning torso to snap his left leg up, driving his heel squarely into the back of the mercenary's knee.
The giant went down with a heavy, metallic crash, splashing face-first into the freezing mud.
The immediate area of the line went dead silent. A dozen heavily armed warriors turned to stare at the lopsided teenager standing over the fallen mercenary.
Wanhan didn't draw Fenrir. He just settled back onto the balls of his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"I'm in line," Wanhan said, his voice completely flat.
The mercenary spat a mouthful of mud and scrambled up, his face purple with rage. He reached for the spiked mace at his belt. "I'll peel your skin off, you crippled little—"
CHUNK.
A heavy, jagged iron bolt suddenly buried itself into the wooden post not two inches from the mercenary's ear. The thick wood splintered violently.
Tiny stood three paces away, the massive scatter-crossbow leveled dead at the man's chest. Behind his soot-stained goggles, the dwarf’s eyes were completely devoid of humor.
"The boy said he's in line," Tiny growled, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm baritone. "If you touch my investment again, I will turn your ribcage into a wind chime."
The mercenary looked at the splintered post, then at the tri-barreled nightmare weapon in the dwarf's hands. He swallowed hard, backed up three paces, and didn't say another word.
An hour later, Wanhan finally reached the front of the line.
The registration official was a fat, bored-looking man sitting behind a heavy oak desk, completely surrounded by stacks of parchment. He didn't even look up as Wanhan approached.
"Name, weapon class, and proof of noble sponsorship," the official droned, dipping a quill into a pot of ink.
"Wanhan. Sword. I don't have a sponsor."
The official sighed, his multiple chins wobbling. "No sponsor means you pay the blood-fee. Five silver pieces to enter the meat grinder. Pay up or step aside."
Wanhan froze. Five silver. He didn't even have a copper.
The official finally looked up. His eyes dragged over Wanhan's muddy clothes, stopping at the empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder. The bored expression immediately vanished, replaced by a cruel, mocking smirk.
"Are you lost, boy?" the official chuckled, throwing his quill down. "The Tourney is for whole men. We don't take cripples. The crowd wants to see a fight, not an execution."
Wanhan’s vision swam. Five years of spite flared in his chest like an open furnace. He grabbed the heavy iron pommel of Fenrir, his knuckles turning white.
Before he could do something that would get him hanged, a small, heavily calloused hand slammed a leather pouch onto the oak desk.
"Five silver for the boy's blood-fee," Tiny snapped, glaring up at the fat official. "Register him, you over-inked paper-pusher, before I report you to the Master of Coin for refusing legal tender."
The official scowled, but he snatched the pouch, weighing the silver in his palm. He scribbled a name on a piece of rough parchment and shoved it across the desk.
"Fine. He's registered in the unseeded bracket. Arena Floor C," the official sneered. "He'll be dead in three minutes."
Wanhan took the parchment.
[System Notification: Debt Updated.]
[Current Debt: 10 Gold, 5 Silver (30% APR)]
[Quest Updated: Enter Arena Floor C.]
"Come on," Tiny muttered, grabbing Wanhan’s belt and dragging him toward the massive iron gates of the inner arena. "You better not die, kid. That was my last bag of silver."
The tunnels beneath the Arena did not smell of glory. They smelled of voided bowels, stale sweat, and cheap iron.
Wanhan sat on a splintered wooden bench in the holding pens of Arena Floor C. The air down here was thick and damp, vibrating with the muffled, thunderous roar of the crowd fifty feet above them. Every time a body hit the sand in the arena, dust drifted down from the stone ceiling like dirty snow.
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All around him, grown men were pacing like caged dogs. Some were vomiting quietly into wooden buckets. Others were fervently praying to gods that had no business in a slaughterhouse.
Wanhan wasn’t praying. He was staring at the heavy iron pommel of Fenrir resting against his thigh, his left hand tracing the cold, rough leather of the hilt.
"Stop rubbing it, you'll wear out the grip," Tiny grunted. The dwarf was standing on a stool to see over the iron bars of their pen, his goggles shoved up on his forehead. "And remember, aim for the joints. Cuirasses are designed to deflect sheer force. You don't have the leverage to punch through tempered steel. You have to slip the edge under the armpit or the back of the knee."
"I am not going to kill a man for sport," Wanhan said, his voice tight.
"Then they will kill you for free," Mata said.
The blind elf was leaning against the damp stone wall in the darkest corner of the pen. She had refused to let the guards take her bow, nearly taking off a man's hand before Tiny negotiated a bribe to let her keep it unstrung. She looked thoroughly disgusted by her surroundings.
"The men above are screaming for blood," Mata continued, her covered eyes turning toward the ceiling. "They do not care if it belongs to a veteran or a one-armed boy. Do not hold back, human. Or you will die in the dirt."
Before Wanhan could answer, a heavy iron portcullis on the far side of the room slammed open with an agonizing screech.
A guard in red and gold livery stepped through, carrying a scroll. "Unseeded Bracket! Match Four! Kaelen the Boar versus... Wanhan!"
Wanhan stood up. His knees felt like water, but his left hand was a vice around his scabbard.
"That's you, kid," Tiny slapped him hard on the hip. "Remember the debt. Thirty percent interest. Do not die."
Wanhan walked toward the light at the end of the tunnel.
As he crossed the threshold, the noise hit him like a physical blow. It wasn't just loud; it was a physical weight. Tens of thousands of people screaming, stamping their feet on the stone bleachers, baying for action. The afternoon sun was blinding, reflecting off the blood-stained white sand of the fighting pit.
Across the arena stood Kaelen the Boar. He was a veteran mercenary draped in chainmail and a dented steel breastplate, holding a massive, two-handed broadsword. He looked like a man who chopped down trees for a warm-up.
Then, Kaelen looked at Wanhan. The veteran blinked. He lowered his sword a fraction of an inch, squinting through the sunlight at the scrawny, seventeen-year-old boy in a patched wool tunic.
And then, he saw the empty right sleeve pinned to Wanhan's shoulder.
Kaelen threw his head back and laughed. It was a deep, booming sound. The crowd nearest to the pit floor caught the joke. They pointed. The laughter spread like a plague, rolling up the stands.
"They threw a cripple in the pit!" "Did he leave half his body at home?" "Put him out of his misery, Boar!"
The jeers rained down, thick and heavy.
Wanhan didn't blush. He didn't shrink away. The laughter didn't hurt him—it was just the same noise the drunkards at the Boar’s Trough had been making for five years. It was white noise.
He stepped onto the sand, his boots sinking slightly. He took a breath, letting the icy air fill his lungs, and closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
I quit.
Wanhan opened his eyes and dropped into his stance.
He shifted his weight perfectly to the balls of his left foot, pulling his empty right shoulder back to anchor his spine. He drew Fenrir. The heavy iron pommel locked his balance into place. The lopsided, brutal blade caught the sunlight, gleaming with a dark, heavy menace.
[Skill Activated: Diner Dash - Level 20]
Kaelen stopped laughing. He saw the shift in the boy's footwork. He hefted his broadsword, letting out a guttural roar, and charged across the sand.
The veteran was fast for his size. He closed the gap in seconds, bringing his massive broadsword down in a devastating overhead cleave meant to split Wanhan from skull to groin.
The crowd screamed.
Wanhan didn't block. Blocking with one arm would have shattered his collarbone. Instead, he glided. Using the smooth, sliding steps of a waiter dodging a brawling drunk, Wanhan simply wasn't there when the blade fell. He slipped entirely to the left, pivoting on his heel.
Kaelen’s sword buried itself inches deep into the sand with a heavy THUD.
The crowd’s cheer caught in their throats. Gasps echoed around the lower bowl.
Kaelen snarled, trying to wrench his blade from the sand, but he had overcommitted to the swing. His flank was completely exposed.
Wanhan’s left arm coiled tight, the muscles corded and burning. Five years in an alleyway. A million swings. The heavy, unbalanced weight of Fenrir begged to be released.
A blue screen flickered in his peripheral vision.
[Skill Activated: Tree Cutter - Level 100 (MAX)]
Wanhan gripped the iron, twisted his hips, and brought the sword around.
Wanhan didn't swing at the man. He swung through the space the man occupied.
For five years, he had battered a heavy oak log until his hands bled. He didn't know how to feint. He didn't know how to parry. He only knew how to chop.
Fenrir tore through the air with a sound like ripping canvas. The heavy iron pommel drove the momentum perfectly into the blade.
Kaelen the Boar realized his mistake a fraction of a second too late. The veteran didn't try to block. Blocking that amount of sheer, unadulterated force would have shattered his forearms. Abandoning his stuck broadsword, Kaelen threw his entire massive body backward into the dirt.
The dark steel of Fenrir missed Kaelen’s chest by less than an inch, shearing the iron buckles clean off his breastplate.
But the blade didn't stop.
Wanhan drove the strike straight into the arena floor. The impact sounded like a cannon firing inside a cavern. Fenrir didn't just scatter the white sand; it bit deep into the solid granite foundation beneath it. A shockwave of pulverized stone and dust exploded outward, gouging a jagged trench ten feet long across the fighting pit.
The deafening roar of the crowd instantly died. Tens of thousands of people stared in absolute, stunned silence at the trench smoking in the dirt.
But the oak log in the alley had never dodged.
Wanhan had poured every ounce of his weight into the strike. When the blade hit empty air before burying itself in the stone, there was nothing to absorb the momentum. The heavy iron dragged him violently forward. His boots slipped on the shattered granite. Without a right arm to pull his balance back, Wanhan stumbled badly, completely breaking his stance.
He was left wide, hopelessly open. His sword was stuck in the floor, and his back was exposed.
Kaelen was a veteran of a hundred bloody mercenary campaigns. He didn't gawk at the crater. As soon as his back hit the sand, he drew a sleek, wicked arming sword from his hip and lunged forward like a coiled snake.
Wanhan tried to twist away, but his feet were tangled.
A sudden, freezing pressure punched through the left side of Wanhan’s ribcage.
It didn't hurt at first. It just felt tight. Wanhan looked down. A foot of bloody steel was protruding from his flank.
Kaelen ripped the blade out with a brutal twist.
[WARNING: Critical Damage Sustained.]
[Status: Hemorrhaging.]
The pain hit him like a falling anvil. The blinding sunlight of the arena tilted sideways, and Wanhan collapsed into the white sand. The last thing he heard before the world went black was the crowd finally erupting into a frenzy.
He woke up to the sharp, bitter smell of crushed blood-clover.
Wanhan groaned, his eyes fluttering open. He was staring at a damp stone ceiling. He was lying on a stiff canvas cot, his torso tightly bound in thick, crimson-stained bandages. The dull roar of the arena crowd was still audible, muffled through thick stone walls.
"Ten gold and five silver," a grating voice muttered from the corner. "I am ruined. I backed a one-armed horse in a footrace. I'll be melting down horseshoes for copper pennies by winter."
Wanhan turned his head. Tiny was pacing furiously at the foot of the cot, wringing his calloused hands.
Mata was leaning against the infirmary door, her arms crossed over her chest, the bone-white bow slung over her shoulder. The blindfold was turned toward him.
"You fight like a falling rock," the elf said coldly. "Devastating. But entirely predictable. A single missed strike, and you offered him your liver."
Wanhan slowly sat up, his teeth gritting against the white-hot flare of agony in his side. He looked down at his bandages. He thought about the laughter in the arena. He thought about the fat official at the desk. He thought about Kaelen's blade piercing his ribs.
He had failed. Five years of swinging a stick in the freezing mud, all for a three-minute match that ended with his face in the dirt.
Tiny stopped pacing, waiting for the boy to break down. Mata stood perfectly still, listening for the inevitable sound of human tears.
Wanhan swung his legs over the side of the cot. He gripped the iron bedframe with his lone hand and hauled himself to his feet. He looked at the dwarf and the blind archer.
A wild, manic grin broke across Wanhan's pale face.
"Let's go!" Wanhan shouted, his voice echoing loudly in the cramped infirmary. "I'll just join again next year!"
Tiny flinched, his goggles nearly falling off his bald head. "Are you brain-damaged? You just got skewered like a tavern pig!"
"I missed," Wanhan said, his eyes burning with a terrifying, unyielding fire. "Next time, I won't miss. But I can't pay you your gold sitting in this bed, Tiny. And Mata still has lumberers to hunt." Wanhan reached for Fenrir, which was leaning against the stone wall, and strapped the heavy scabbard to his hip. "Let's go find some mercenary work. We have a world to explore, and I need to learn how to fight."
Mata stood absolutely dumbfounded, her sharp ears twitching. Tiny just stared at the boy's grinning face, completely speechless.
Finally, the dwarf let out a long, exhausted sigh and rubbed his temples. "Thirty percent interest, boy. If you die on a contract, I'm reanimating your corpse to work the forge."
Mata didn't say a word. She just pushed off the wooden door, opening it to the streets of the Iron Capital.
The three outcasts stepped out of the infirmary, leaving the roaring arena behind. They had no money, a mountain of debt, and a massive, dangerous world waiting to chew them up.
Wanhan walked into the sunlight, a blue screen flickering quietly in the corner of his vision.
[Name: Wanhan]
[Class: One-Hand Swordsman]
[Current Status: Injured, In Debt]
[Skills:]
Tree Cutter: Level 100 (MAX)
Diner Dash: Level 20
Forward Thrust: Level 5
Wanhan smiled. It was a start.
The Debt Update: Wanhan is now in the hole for 10 Gold and 5 Silver at 30% APR. Tiny is definitely not running a charity here!
Next Update: Another chapter dropping in one hour! We’re heading into Chapter 4: Blood and Copper, where the trio takes on their first official mercenary contract to pay off those mounting interest fees.