It turns out creating a portal into a moving target is either impossible or beyond my current abilities. Given that opening a portal typically requires a team of mages, there wasn’t much research on the subject. At first, the novelty of exploring uncharted territory was exciting—pioneering new magic, breaking boundaries—but the thrill didn’t last.

  Hours later, with nothing but a pounding headache to show for my efforts, I realized why the “cutting edge of research” is not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s a lot like gambling: sure, you might hit the jackpot once in a while, but most of the time, you’re left empty-handed. Even if I managed to make progress, the portal would need to be opened quickly and precisely when the caravan was near; otherwise, the increasing distance would render it useless and derail the entire plan.

  Then things got worse. Out of curiosity, I suggested we try moving the test wagon while the portal was active. Initially, it worked fine, but after about a minute, the portal destabilized and collapsed, no matter how much concentration and power I poured into maintaining it.

  This raised a whole new set of challenges. Not only would we need to stop the caravan, but we’d also have to keep it stationary long enough for the heist to succeed. Worse still, whoever went through the portal would face the very real risk of being stranded if something went wrong, an all-too-likely scenario given the ever-growing list of potential failures.

  And that list was long. Maintaining a portal required my full concentration, so I wouldn’t be able to intervene if anything went wrong on the other side. Add to that the delicate timing, the unknown defenses, and the unpredictable behavior of the artifact we were after, and the risk seemed astronomical.

  It wasn’t worth it, not even for a potential artifact. But Bendis was insistent, and Amra, surprisingly, backed her up.

  I could somewhat understand Amra’s position. The elves had been restless, and her team hadn’t had much to do recently. Isla had already mapped out the routes in and out of the palace. Amra herself had gathered plenty of intelligence from wounded soldiers, enough to form a clear picture of Tarsus’s army. As for the twins…well, their activities were as inscrutable as ever, but I was sure they’d been productive. With all the major groundwork done, the assassination mission was the only thing keeping Amra and her group tied to the cause. Any progress toward that goal—however risky—was progress she was eager to seize.

  Bendis’s persistence, though? That was harder to justify.

  Clearly, this mission was personal for Bendis, but it was also her organization on the line. As second-in-command, the stakes weighed heavily on her shoulders. I’d only known her for a week, so it wasn’t my place to press further.

  “How many people can we gather by tomorrow?” Amra asked, cutting to the point.

  After some back-and-forth between Bendis and Corvin, Bendis finally said, “We’re spending every last dinari we have. We’ve managed to hire a few more people who can’t be traced back to us, bringing us to almost eighty.”

  I tried to sound optimistic. “That’s not bad. How many are guarding the caravan?”

  Corvin gave a grim answer. “We don’t have an exact count, but at least a thousand.”

  I immediately took it back. “Okay…so, any plans yet?”

  Bendis sighed deeply, then unfurled a map onto the table. “Our only chance is to hit the caravan here,” she said, pointing to a narrow bridge marked on the route. “It’s the tightest bottleneck along the entire journey. Their forces will have to spread thin.”

  Corvin picked up the thread. “I’ll lead most of our fighters in a frontal assault. Isla’s been training some illusionists—well, as much as anyone can in a few days. They’ll create a fog or similar distractions to obscure our numbers and cause enough confusion to buy time.”

  “And the rest?” Amra asked.

  “The rest will monitor the baggage train’s pace,” Corvin replied. “If they’re on track to reach the bridge during daylight, they’ll set traps to slow them down. It’s critical they cross the bridge at night.”

  “What if the caravan just camps for the night?” I asked.

  “They’re already behind schedule,” Corvin said. “Camping would delay them further, and no competent commander would risk that so close to the capital. He’ll assume any interference is just resistance nuisances.”

  I nodded, and Corvin continued, “One of the twins—Onas—will go through the portal. He’s the smallest and quickest, so he’ll be able to handle any guards inside. The wagons should be tight quarters, no more than two people in each. Most should be empty.”

  Bendis picked up where he left off. “The bridge runs over a ravine with a few caves beneath it. Isla will conceal the entrance to one of the caves, and that’s where Tiberius will open a portal directly into the wagons. Hopefully, it’ll be while they’re stuck on the bridge.”

  “Wait, wait,” I interrupted. “How do we know which wagon has the artifact?”

  Corvin shrugged. “We don’t. Check them one by one. If you come across one with extra guards, that’s probably the one. Search it thoroughly. If you don’t find the artifact, at least we’ll leave with some gold.”

  “Do we even know what it looks like?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Corvin paused and turned to Bendis, who shrugged. “Not really,” she admitted. “But it’s supposed to be old, so it probably won’t match the usual gaudy jewelry you might also find. Look for accessories—bracers, belts, anything out of the ordinary.”

  Fantastic. We had no idea what we were looking for or where to find it. I could only hope Onas had a sharp eye, or this would be a complete waste of effort.

  “Get some rest,” Corvin ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “We meet tomorrow morning at sunrise at the southern gate. Our cover is a few merchant wagons.”

  The group began to disperse, but I doubted anyone would actually get much sleep tonight. The city was alive with energy, the streets already packed with people heading toward the arena. After two days of downtime, the matches were resuming, and the restless crowd was starving for entertainment.

  Given the limited number of matches, they were scheduled after sunset, and I couldn’t help but wonder how they planned to illuminate the arena.

  The sheer number of people heading toward the arena made it clear not everyone would find a seat, no matter how far from the action. It wasn’t hard to imagine tempers flaring—riots had started over less, especially with the frustrations simmering in this city.

  In the grand scheme of things, my place in the tournament felt irrelevant. If the plan succeeded, the resistance would have all the funds they needed, and then some. If it failed, there might not be a resistance left to support.

  That left me fighting tonight for one of two reasons: fame or personal gain. Fame was worthless this far from home, but gold? That had its uses. A new house was practically a certainty by this point. I still had to get through tonight, but after facing the opponents I had so far, I wasn’t worried.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  What did concern me, though, was when my match would take place. Popular matches were usually saved for the very end. With only sixteen matches in total, it didn’t seem like much, but the additional events they had planned could drag things well into the night. I just hoped to squeeze in at least six hours of sleep afterward—tomorrow was going to take every ounce of energy I could muster.

  As expected, the largest crowds were clustered around the posters displaying the matchups. What I wouldn’t give for internet access. Finding out the schedule hours ahead of time would have saved me the hassle. Maybe then I could have squeezed in a quick nap. Instead, I had to jostle and elbow my way through the crowds until I got close enough to read the fixtures.

  At least I wasn’t in the last match, so there was a chance I could beat the swarm of people out of the arena. My opponent was yet another warrior. This promised to be another straightforward fight. Although it reminded me of a joke I’d heard recently about class balance.

  In this world, duels supposedly mirrored rock-paper-scissors. Rogues were scissors, warriors were rocks, and the rest of the classes were paper.

  Paper always beats rock. Scissors beat paper and somehow also beat rock. The only exception is the duelist, a rare warrior subtype, perfectly crafted for one-on-one combat. In that case, rock beats paper, and would beat scissors, but it can’t find scissors because they’re too clever and probably invisible.

  So scissors beat paper, avoid rock, and call it balance. Of course, this kind of logic mostly applied in the real world. As the old man pointed out a few days ago, the arena was far from an ideal battleground for rogues.

  Still, if this warrior had advanced this far, they were most likely a gladiator. That made them more dangerous, but that was compared to a warrior, so it wasn’t saying much. I remembered Alira’s brother—a gladiator himself. He’d only lost to her because her skills so thoroughly outclassed his.

  The primary threat from gladiators was their battle trance, a state of heightened awareness granting them a form of basic precognition. Fortunately for me, I doubted it would work. If I was immune to future sight, which was basically precognition with extra steps—I should be unaffected by the simpler form as well.

  With no hope of finding a seat in the packed stands, I reluctantly made my way to the combatants’ chambers. These underground rooms had small, barred windows near the ceiling, offering a limited view at ground level into the arena. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do until my match.

  At least this gave me a chance to size up the competition. Most were skilled, but none seemed capable of threatening me—except for one. A monk.

  He carried no weapons but moved with a speed that rivaled my own while using the Slow Time spell. His movements were almost a blur. Curious, I activated my spell a few times during his fight just to observe him clearly. With my spell active, he moved at about a normal speed, maybe a bit slower.

  If he could sustain that speed longer than I could keep Slow Time active, he might actually have a chance to beat me. Thankfully, his strength seemed to lie solely in his speed. If someone could counter or even briefly match it, he’d be vulnerable.

  A surprising contender was a “colleague” from the Ashford mission. Recognizing him, I approached, happy to see a familiar face—no matter how slight the connection. But the moment he saw me, his expression darkened, and he looked at me with murder in his eyes. Before I could even say a word, he turned and walked away. Maybe he didn’t recognize me. Or maybe he did.

  As the matches unfolded, only two fighters remained unknown: the pair scheduled to fight after my match. One of them looked terrified, practically shaking in his boots. Naturally, that piqued my curiosity about his opponent. .

  The other fighter seemed entirely unremarkable at first glance. Medium height, average build—not particularly muscular but not frail either. What stood out was his casual demeanor. He didn’t look worried in the slightest. Honestly, he kind of reminded me of me, and by that I meant his attitude. It was like he already knew he was going to win

  Maybe I’d stick around after my fight just to see how their match played out.

  Then I remembered I didn’t really care anymore since I wasn’t planning to make it to the final. I was even rude enough to skip the pre-game banter. I just wanted to get this over with. All that portal testing earlier had left me a little drained—not enough to affect my performance, but enough that I was already yawning as I made my way to the arena.

  Unfortunately, I hate it when I’m right. As the match started, my opponent just stood there, I guess waiting for an offensive spell, probably hoping to impress me with his supposed precognition. So, I obliged and hurled one at him. And wouldn’t you know it? He couldn’t dodge it in time. Now, I hadn’t put much power into the spell. I didn’t want to end the fight in one move, so it merely rattled his bones a bit before he got back up.

  But from the wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look on his face, he must have realized his skill wasn’t working. Relying on a skill for so long that it becomes part of you? Yeah, that’s a tough habit to break. He moved like an absolute beginner after that. Honestly, I think I had more grace when I first started fighting. Even the crowd began booing, probably suspecting a fixed match. And, honestly, maybe they weren’t entirely wrong.

  He tried some other skills, but luck just wasn’t on his side tonight. The boos were growing louder, and I wasn’t about to let my match turn into a public jeer-fest. One more lightning bolt, and it was over.

  The booing stopped when he hit the dirt, but the cheers were conspicuously absent. For a moment, I considered skipping my usual signature ending. But then I thought about the crowd. They were here for a show, and their lives were already miserable enough without a dull match to top it off.

  So, I sent four lightning bolts shooting into the sky, one after the other. Slowly, the crowd stirred from its stupor, and some faint cheers finally broke through. It wasn’t the roaring applause of my earlier matches, though. Maybe I was losing my touch.

  ─── ????? ───

  Without a clock, it was hard to tell when I’d finally dragged myself to my room last night, but judging by the innkeeper knocking for what he claimed were “a few minutes” to wake me, I definitely hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Skipping breakfast wasn’t ideal, but it was either that or show up late. Probably already was.

  Jogging through the city, the sun’s rays were just peeking through the gaps between buildings by the time I reached the gate. I picked up the pace, heading out into the countryside, and soon spotted the five wagons parked by the roadside. The lack of scowls told me I wasn’t the last to arrive.

  “Please tell me I’m not the last one,” I said to Isla as I climbed into the last wagon, one of the few spots left.

  “We’re still waiting on a few more people, so no,” she replied.

  Relieved, I rested my head against the wagon’s interior. That jog had drained what little energy I’d managed to scrape together, and I let myself drift off—until the wagon jerked forward, startling me awake. The half-paved road out of the city didn’t do any favors either, its rhythmic jolts making rest impossible.

  By evening, I silently thanked the nonexistent gods when we reached the bridge. It was an impressive structure: weathered stone blocks formed a wide, slightly arched span, strong enough to support heavily laden wagons. Massive support pillars were anchored deep into the ravine’s rocky sides, reinforced with extra stones to withstand centuries of erosion. Low parapets lined the edges, worn smooth by time and countless travelers, offering a sense of safety above the rushing water far below.

  We wasted no time hiding the wagons in the nearby woods and began preparations. Isla and Onas rappelled down the ravine, ropes coiled around their arms, scouting caves that offered both a clear line of sight to the bridge and enough cover to keep them hidden.

  By nightfall, everything was in place, and the waiting game began. The initial hours were tense, adrenaline keeping us alert. Every random traveler crossing the bridge jolted our nerves, each one raising our hopes before dashing them again. As the night stretched on, however, it became clear the caravan wasn’t coming. Only the occasional merchant, desperate or foolish enough to travel at night in these dangerous times, dared to cross the bridge.

  Morning arrived with no sign of the caravan. By noon, I was starting to worry. We’d all managed to grab bits of rest, but the growing tension was hard to ignore. Daylight brought more travelers crossing the bridge, each one adding to the unease in our group. Or maybe it was just the gnawing hunger. By the time night fell again, I caved and conjured myself a loaf of bread. Wasting energy wasn’t ideal, but neither was battling hunger when I needed my strength.

  The next bit of news came courtesy of Onas, who climbed back up the ravine to scout. A storm had delayed the caravan, and they were now expected to arrive the following evening. Of course, we all knew better than to take that estimate as gospel—it could easily mean much later. For me, the delay posed a new problem: my match was scheduled for the next evening, and I had to be there.

  We settled in for another day of waiting, though the tension was less sharp this time. We even managed to get some proper sleep, though it was hardly comfortable—my days of being used to sleeping outdoors were long behind me.

  The following morning brought a flicker of excitement. A few soldiers crossed the bridge early, likely scouts sent ahead to survey the area. As the hours passed, more soldiers came and went, systematically checking for traps or signs of ambush.

  By late afternoon, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the ravine, when the main force finally arrived. Soldiers began crossing the bridge in waves, their armor glinting in the fading light. Soon after, the baggage train appeared, the wagons creaking ominously as they started their slow journey across the span.

  At last, the moment had come. All we needed was for the main attack to begin, and then it would be time to make our move.