I went to bed early the night before, figuring I shouldn’t risk being groggy when the big day finally arrived. I slept surprisingly well, considering all my nerves about the upcoming fights. When I woke, the first gray light of dawn was filtering through the window, and Grok was still snoring away.


    I decided to let him sleep. He’d find his own way down for breakfast eventually. Besides, I wasn’t in the mood for a heavy meal, so I just grabbed some fruit and juice from the cafeteria to keep things light—didn’t want to be sluggish once I stepped into the arena.


    That’s when I spotted Kora, the black-feathered harpy girl, perched at one of the tables. She was picking at a plate of berries and looked up with a small, polite smile as I approached.


    “Morning,” I said, sliding into the seat across from her. “How are you?”


    “Pretty good,” she replied. She eyed me curiously. “You going to the fight today?”


    “Yeah,” I answered. “I signed up for the melee bracket. How about you?”


    “I’m going to do the magic duel,” she said, fluffing her feathers a bit. “I can’t exactly brawl with a sword, but I’ve been practicing my elemental spells.”


    “Mind if I walk with you?” I asked, biting into a crisp apple. “I don’t actually know where the arena is.”


    She laughed lightly. “Sure. It’s not too far from the main quad, but the hallways around here can get confusing. I scoped it out yesterday after dinner.”


    I nodded, finishing off the apple and wiping my mouth. “Perfect. Let me just drop this off, then I’ll tag along. Any chance you have a map or…?”


    “Map? Nah, I just remember the way,” Kora said, tapping her temple. “Follow me. We can check in for our events, and maybe you’ll get a chance to warm up a bit before your match.”


    My stomach did a little nervous flip at the thought of facing off against strangers with who-knows-what kind of training, but I forced a confident grin. “Sounds good. Let’s do this.”


    We got up from the table, and I quickly bused my dishes. The morning sun was brighter now, streaming through tall windows as we headed out of the dining hall. Somewhere inside me, excitement warred with nerves, but the promise of a good fight—and some new friends—kept me moving forward. Kora led the way, and I did my best to keep up, ready to see just what this tournament had in store for both of us.


    We reached the arena, and I nearly stopped in my tracks to take in the sheer scale of the place. Rows upon rows of stone benches rose high above a massive dirt-floored pit, and people were already filling the stands, chatting excitedly. Off to one side, I saw a sign directing participants to different areas—one for melee, one for magic duels, and another for ranged combat. Kora gave me a little wave and headed off toward the magic section, wishing me luck before she disappeared into the crowd.


    I glanced around, half expecting to see Master Borduk looming somewhere with that trademark scowl of his, but he was nowhere in sight. Probably off in the stands, I thought, where he could quietly judge my performance without having to listen to my back talk. Shrugging, I headed to the melee line.


    There must have been two dozen people in line ahead of me, each waiting to get checked in. An older human man sat behind a rickety table, looking like he’d been asking the same set of questions all morning. He barely glanced up as each combatant stepped forward.


    “Name?” he asked mechanically.


    “Gromli,” I answered.


    “Weapon?”


    “Hammer.”


    He thumbed through a stack of parchment, pulled out a small slip, and handed it over. “That hallway,” he said, pointing without much enthusiasm. “Here’s your number. When it’s called, go and fight. Try not to die.”


    “Right,” I said, tucking the slip into my belt. “Thanks.”


    The man just shrugged, already turning to the next fighter in line. I headed down the long hallway he’d indicated, the distant roar of the crowd echoing off the walls. I found an area where a handful of other contestants were checking their weapons or stretching out, and I decided to do the same. My number was scrawled across the slip: 37.


    I fidgeted with my hammer, trying a couple of practice swings to get my blood moving. I wasn’t sure what to expect—maybe an organized bracket, or maybe just one-on-one bouts until only one fighter remained. Either way, I felt that familiar buzz of anticipation creeping into my chest. Kora’s words about practicing spells came back to me, and I couldn’t help but think about the differences between a spell duel and a good, old-fashioned melee fight. No runes to rely on here (well, unless I wanted to risk the wrath of the judges by enchanting my hammer mid-brawl). Probably not worth the trouble.


    I took a slow breath, in and out, settling my nerves. No matter who I faced, I had my hammer and enough grit to make Master Borduk proud—or at least not embarrass him too badly. So I waited, listening for my number, while the crowd’s cheers rumbled through the stone walls. It wouldn’t be long before I got my chance to show what a dwarf with a hammer could do.


    I stepped inside and took in the sight of the waiting area. It was a large stone chamber, with walls that seemed to hum with the roar of the crowd outside. A few torches flickered along the walls, but the main light came from narrow windows set high up near the ceiling.


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    There was an old man near the center of the room, head shaved clean except for a patch of wispy white hair at the back. He was absolutely ripped—like a Master Roshi type from one of those old-school martial arts shows. Something about him screamed “Don’t underestimate me.” I made a mental note to keep an eye on him, just in case he ended up as an opponent or referee.


    The other kids milling around looked as nervous as I felt. Some were practicing stances, others were fiddling with their gear, clearly trying to keep calm. I spotted Grok off to one side, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed in a meditative pose. I waved, but he didn’t see—too focused, I guess. On the opposite side of the room, that cat-eared boy from the cafeteria was chatting with a small group. He caught my glance but seemed too engrossed in conversation to acknowledge me. I shrugged and decided to leave him be.


    Just then, the Master Roshi lookalike stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Alright, listen up,” he called out. “We’ve got a lot of fights to get through today, so here’s how it works. These numbers you got? They’re random. Don’t read anything into ’em. Right now, I want numbers one through ten to line up at the door. One fights two first. If anybody doesn’t show, that’s a forfeit and an automatic advance for the other side.”


    He started handing out medallions—small, dull metal disks hanging from simple leather cords—to the kids who lined up. “These medallions will protect against one fatal blow. When they shatter, the fight is over. Clear?”


    Some of the fighters gulped, others just nodded grimly. One skinny kid with wide eyes raised his hand. “Uh, what about non-fatal wounds?”


    The old man folded his arms. “We’ve got healers on standby. They can fix anything—even death, if by some chance the medallion fails. But trust me, it won’t fail. So don’t worry about that.”


    A strange hush fell over the room. The old man’s words weren’t exactly comforting. I wasn’t the only one suddenly wondering if I was stepping into something more dangerous than I’d realized. Sure, the medallion would protect me from a ‘fatal’ blow, but what if I got my arm half cut off? The old man said they could fix “anything,” but that wasn’t exactly reassuring when you’re about to face an opponent who might not hold back.


    I glanced down at my slip—37—and let out a slow exhale. At least I had some time before my turn. If the fights were going in groups of ten, I’d be waiting a while. Watching those first matches might give me a sense of what to expect… or it might just raise my anxiety when I see someone get knocked silly.


    Either way, the tournament was real now. The stands above us were roaring, the old man was assigning medallions, and soon enough, I’d be on that dirt floor, hammer in hand, facing some stranger who wanted to knock me out of the bracket. I swallowed hard.


    Yeah. Definitely something new to worry about.


    I waited in silence, fiddling absentmindedly with my hammer. There was no view of the battlefield from the waiting area, so I had to rely on the distant roar of the crowd to get a sense of how the matches were progressing. It felt like an eternity before the old man’s voice finally called out again.


    “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight. You’re up!”


    I startled and realized I’d been zoning out. I hurried over to the old man, who handed me a medallion just like the others. My opponent was a blond boy with piercing blue eyes and an arrogant tilt to his chin. He glanced at me like I was little more than dirt under his boot.


    I offered a wave, trying to seem friendly as we walked up the ramp toward the arena. He didn’t wave back.


    We emerged into blinding sunlight. I squinted, momentarily disoriented by the brightness and the noise. The stands were absolutely packed, and the thunderous cheers crashed over me like a wave. It was the first time I’d felt the full force of the crowd, and my heart pounded against my ribs.


    They were chanting a name I didn’t recognize, but it clearly wasn’t mine. I glanced at the blond boy and realized the crowd was cheering for him—he was apparently the son of someone important, maybe a renowned knight or a famous mage. That would explain the smug look on his face.


    I took a deep breath, trying not to let the noise get to me. There, across the ring, stood my opponent: someone used to the spotlight, clearly expecting an easy win. I twirled my hammer once, reminding myself that I had every right to be here too. My ears buzzed with the crowd’s chanting, but I tried to block it out and focus on the fight ahead.


    A referee—a tall elf dressed in ceremonial robes—raised both hands for silence. The audience quieted to a low rumble.


    “This is match number nineteen,” the elf announced, voice echoing around the arena. “Each combatant has a medallion. One fatal blow will be negated; if the medallion is destroyed, the match ends. Fighters, are you ready?”


    I nodded, hammer gripped tight. The blond boy gave a curt, confident nod, barely sparing me a glance.


    The referee brought one arm down in a swift motion. “Begin!”


    And just like that, the crowd erupted again, and the match was on.


    The kid tried to say something to me, but I was too hyped up on adrenaline to catch his words. I clutched my usual smithing hammer in my right hand, small but sturdy, and held a small shield in my left. If I could break rocks with this thing, I figured I could break an overconfident brat too.


    He wielded a longsword with both hands, and he wasted no time rushing forward, swinging it down in an overhand smash. I sidestepped, using my hammer to angle his blade into the ground. My magic pulsed through my veins, making me feel almost untouchable. For a split second, I could see the shimmering of his medallion’s barrier clinging to him like a second skin.


    I jumped back, wanting to see how he’d react now that his opening move had failed. The kid looked furious, as though he’d fully expected a single blow to do the job. He yelled something again—probably an insult or threat—but all I heard was the roar of blood in my ears.


    My heart thumped in my chest, and my grip tightened on my hammer’s handle. Part of me wanted to throw back some witty remark, but words weren’t coming through. Instead, I focused on the rhythm of combat, on the feel of mana buzzing just beneath my skin, ready to be channeled if I needed it.


    He tugged his sword free of the ground, and I readied myself for whatever he tried next.


    He shifted into a rapid series of horizontal slashes, but they all came in a bit high for someone my height. By staying crouched and letting my small shield do most of the work, I was able to bat away each blow. Every time our weapons clashed, I got a clearer feel for the magical shield surrounding him, as well as the enhancement on his sword—something subtle but definitely there.


    Then he overextended on one swing, and I seized my chance. I surged forward, hammer in both hands, and unleashed a flurry of strikes. Bam, bam, bam, bam. Each blow rattled him, and finally, with a sharp crack, his sword snapped right below the hilt. A shocked look crossed his face as he dropped the broken handle to the sand, fumbling to bring his shield up in both hands.


    With his sword gone, I kept hammering away. My strikes rained down, pounding on his shield again and again. I heard a sickening crack—probably a bone in his arm—yet adrenaline pushed me to finish the fight. One last blow shattered the shield barrier around him, sending a flash of brilliant blue light arcing outward.


    In that moment, the medallion he wore flared and crumbled, signaling the match’s end. The crowd’s roar washed over me, but all I could focus on was the dazed look on my opponent’s face. He clutched his broken arm, stumbling backward as the referee rushed in, and I stood there panting, hammer still in hand, victorious in my very first match.