Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

The day of the competition finally arrived, and with it, an air of anticipation so thick that it felt like a second layer of the town's usual humidity.

The first match's opponents were set, and stakes were high—losers of this round would be eliminated, while winners would advance to the next stage.

Ivaim leaned against the wooden railing overlooking the preparation grounds, his arms crossed and his posture relaxed, though his mind was anything but.

'Hm. I wonder what kind of skills my opponents have...' he mused, his sharp gaze scanning the bustle of competitors below.

The competition organizers were careful not to reveal the matchups until the day of the fight.

This tradition wasn't born from fairness but practicality so that no blacksmith could create personalized, opponent-specific equipment in advance.

However, it wasn't considered cheating to gather intel on the competitors beforehand.

Across from him sat the town's public official consulter, Jarran—a plump, middle-aged man with a scholarly air about him.

His round face bore the marks of too many late nights spent poring over ledgers, his deep-set eyes framed by perpetually furrowed brows.

Next to Jarran stood Tharos, the local blacksmith, his soot-streaked arms crossed as he listened intently.

"Listen carefully, Ivaim," Jarran began, pushing up the glasses perched precariously on his nose.

His tone carried the kind of authority reserved for people who didn't want to repeat themselves.

"You've got to study your opponents, alright? I've seen the champions introduced, and I've already gathered information on them."

Ivaim tilted his head slightly, feigning disinterest, though he was paying close attention.

'I wonder if the tradition of hiding the local champions' faces until the match day is exactly for this reason. Stops towns from gathering intel early... Not that it's foolproof.'

He gave Jarran a small nod, signaling that he was listening.

Jarran adjusted his glasses again and leaned forward, his tone growing serious.

"Alright, let's start with the champions you might face. I hope you're paying attention, Ivaim."

Ivaim gave a small shrug, leaning back in his chair.

"Of course, I'm listening. I wouldn't miss the chance to hear about my future punching bags."

Jarran frowned but ignored the comment.

He flipped open his notebook and cleared his throat.

"First up, from Windhollow, we've got the Iron Wraith—Veta. Her ability allows her to transform her body into solid iron, making her nearly indestructible. But she can also shift into an untouchable wraith form, which makes landing a hit on her almost impossible. That's why they call her the Iron Wraith."

Ivaim raised an eyebrow, his tone light but laced with self-deprecation.

"Great. She's like a walking contradiction."

Tharos, the blacksmith, chuckled under his breath.

"She's more than just a contradiction, lad. You'd better hope she doesn't figure out your weak points."

Ivaim smiled mischeviously.

"Weak points? What are those?"

But inwardly, he was already calculating.

'If she's iron, maybe speed is the key. And if she's a wraith, I'll need to figure out her limits. No one's untouchable forever.'

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Jarran continued without pause.

"Next is Galdren's champion, Thunderstriker—Orik. He's a dangerous one. He can discharge massive amounts of electricity from his body. On top of that, he can travel between electrical nodes, which makes him incredibly hard to pin down."

Ivaim whistled.

"So, he's got the power of lightning and the convenience of teleportation? Sounds fair. Let me guess, I should bring rubber boots to the fight?"

Jarran gave him a flat look.

"You'll need more than boots. If there's any kind of metal in the arena—armor, weapons, even stray coins—he'll use it against you. Stay alert."

'Note to self: don't leave any loose change lying around.'

Ivaim thought, though he nodded as if he wasn't imagining himself getting fried by an electrified spear.

Jarran flipped the page.

"From Eldveil, we've got the Savage Maiden—Seren. Her ability is a tricky one. She can hide herself in reflections. Mirrors, glass, still water—you name it. She can disappear into them and strike when you least expect it."

Ivaim frowned.

"Hiding in reflections? That's... unsettling. What happens if I smash the mirror? Does she get stuck in there?"

"No," Jarran replied, shaking his head.

"She'd just reappear somewhere else. The best way to deal with her is to keep her from slipping into a reflection in the first place."

"That's easier said than done," Tharos muttered.

"There are reflections everywhere. Even the blade of your sword could be enough for her."

Ivaim tapped his chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

"So what you're saying is I should avoid polished surfaces. Got it. Maybe I'll just bring a stick and call it a day."

'But seriously... how do you fight someone you can't see?'

He wondered, keeping his expression relaxed despite the concern creeping into his mind.

Jarran paused, his expression darkening as he leaned back in his chair. He tapped his pen against the notebook, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

"There are two you really need to be careful of," he said, his tone heavier now.

"In fact, if you're lucky, you won't face them at all. The Iron Warden Nathan and the Man of Crimson Eris."

Ivaim tilted his head, the faintest smile curling at the edge of his lips.

"Big names. They sound like the end bosses of some old legend. What's the deal with them?"

Jarran adjusted his glasses, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead betraying how serious he was.

'This kid really does talk a lot...'

"Nathan, the Iron Warden, comes from Elthram. His ability allows him to control metal. Not just wield it—he can conjure it out of thin air, shape it however he pleases, and manipulate it with terrifying precision. Fighting him is suicide if you're wearing armor or using metallic weapons. He'll turn your own equipment into your coffin."

Ivaim snorted, leaning back in his chair.

"Conjuring metal? Manipulating it? Sounds like a blacksmith's worst nightmare." His tone was light, but the flicker of unease in his eyes didn't go unnoticed.

'Hopefully he doesn't forget that we're still allies and not "accidentally" kill me...'

Tharos, who had been silently polishing a set of tools, glanced up.

"It's no joke, lad. Imagine every weapon in the arena suddenly turning against you. You'd be dead before you knew what hit you."

Ivaim sighed theatrically. "Great. So the strategy is still to fight him naked with a wooden stick, huh? Really inspiring."

"That might work—if you're fast enough," Jarran replied, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile before he grew serious again.

"But Nathan isn't just strong. He's precise. Every move he makes is calculated. However, from an inside information I got, you're not facing him this round, so you're safe...."@@novelbin@@

Ivaim raised a brow, his smirk returning.

"Safe huh..."

"For now at the very least," Jarran muttered, flipping the page in his notebook.

He hesitated for a moment, then let out a slow breath.

"Now for the real nightmare—Eris, the Man of Crimson from Darrowmere."

Tharos stopped polishing and frowned, his jaw tightening at the name.

Ivaim noticed the shift in atmosphere and sat up slightly.

"Man of Crimson? Sounds like someone who takes their nickname way too seriously."

Jarran didn't laugh.

"You won't be joking if you face him. Eris can manipulate flesh and blood—his own and his opponents'. Get too close to him, and he can tear you apart without lifting a finger. He doesn't even need weapons. Your own body becomes his tool."

The smirk faded from Ivaim's face. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.

"Flesh and blood, huh? That's... gross. And you're saying he just rips people apart? What about distance? Can he do it from far away?"

Jarran shook his head.

"No, his power works best up close. But don't think keeping your distance will save you. He's fast, and once he gets even a drop of your blood—well, let's just say you won't be able to stop him. And to make things worse, his regeneration is almost instantaneous. No matter what you throw at him, he'll bounce back like nothing happened."

"Unkillable and disgusting," Ivaim muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "So what's the strategy there? Don't bleed? Don't exist?"

Tharos grunted. "The strategy is to pray you don't face him, boy. Eris doesn't fight fair. Even if you manage to avoid his power, you'll be worn down long before he is."

Jarran closed his notebook, looking at Ivaim with a grim expression.

"Eris isn't just dangerous because of his abilities. He's cruel. He toys with his opponents, drawing out their suffering before he finishes them off. That's why he's called the Man of Crimson. By the time he's done, the arena's usually painted red."

Ivaim leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. His usual cocky demeanor softened just slightly, a glint of unease flickering in his eyes.

"Sounds like a fun guy. Maybe I'll invite him for tea after the competition." He paused, then muttered under his breath, "If I'm still alive."