The entrance to the arena was surprisingly similar to the Grand Lodge’s lobby, but it had a much higher ceiling. Blake passed through the front doors amidst a crowd of mana cultivators, then walked up to the bustling front desk. Clerks and workers stood behind it, accepting last-minute ticket purchases and directing the crowds, or helping people place last-minute bets on the contestants.

  Since it was the first night of the tournament, it was technically the qualifying round. There were lists of all the contestants posted on the wall behind the desk, and there had to be a thousand of them.

  If Blake wanted to make a name for himself, he was really going to have to stand out tonight.

  He approached the front desk, walking up to a tired-looking worker. The woman droned, “To place a bet, head three lines over to the right and wait your turn. If you have a ticket, follow the promenade around the outside. The first number indicates the level, and the letter indicates your row…”

  “Where do contestants go?” Blake asked.

  The woman looked up. “You’re almost late.”

  “I know. Sorry. Where—”

  “Head to the left. Take the door down the hallway, and find yourself a locker for your equipment, then gather in the ready room with your selected batch.”

  “What batch am I in?”

  “Name?”

  “Blake. Uh, Blake Ekkson—”

  “Ah, here.” She mumbled for a few seconds, then said, “Batch three.”

  Blake thanked her, then followed her instructions. He raced off down the hall she’d indicated, and sure enough, there was a locker room. Most of the lockers were tiny, but he found an open one big enough to fit his bag into.

  He pulled it open and whispered, “River, if you go invisible, you can watch. But hop out now before I lock you in. And make sure to be back here once the fight’s done so I don’t leave you behind.”

  With a ripple, River disappeared from sight—and at the same time, completely dropped out of Blake’s senses. Like the spider, she had a way of veiling herself?

  He didn’t worry about it at the moment. Instead, he tightened his coat, fixed his shirt, and grabbed his staff, then ran to the door on the other side of the changeroom. There was a hallway beyond with a number of ‘ready rooms,’ which were just waiting rooms for the contestants to prepare themselves in.

  Today, they were packed to the brim with people. Blake squished into a room marked with a three above its door. There were all sorts of contestants in different outfits, bearing different sect sigils and livery.

  At the front of the room, a man stood on a podium, addressing the crowd. “...not eliminated in five minutes, you’ll move on to the next round. Only ten of the people gathered here will qualify for the official tournament. If there are more than ten of you after the five minutes are up, then we will take more unique measures to quell your numbers.”

  Blake raised his eyebrows. They weren’t going to be killing people, were they?

  He couldn’t be too careful. He didn’t want to kill anyone if he didn’t have to, but he also didn’t want to get himself killed.

  “Our group is third,” the man on the podium said. “When you make it out into the arena, take your position on a starting mark.”

  Blake was pretty sure they were going to have to fight an initial free-for-all qualifying match, just like Mingel had to in the lower tournament, based on what he’d gathered. It wasn’t ideal, but he could survive the chaos.

  The waiting was the worst part, though. A few people stared back at him, eyes narrow, and a man muttered something about not wanting to deal with a fiend-blend here.

  Lots of people, however, seemed to recognize him, or had at least heard about him. The worst he got was a skeptic, cautious glance, though. Maybe most people who knew who he was were scared of him.

  That wasn’t good. He needed more allies, people who would actually side with him willingly. He couldn’t take over a manaship on his own, let alone fly it, and if everyone was scared of him, this wasn’t going to work.

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  Tonight was his chance to show them that he was as strong as they thought, but that he was merciful and truly honourable.

  He shifted his weight side to side. He tapped his toes in his boot. He drummed his fingertips on his staff. Outside the door, people shouted, techniques screeched, and metal clashed.

  Finally, the front wall of the ready room slid up into the roof like a garage door, revealing the arena. They stepped out into the harsh, unnatural light of the mana-fuelled runes, and at first, Blake shielded his eyes.

  The packed sand floor was scuffed. Workers dragged away limp bodies and repainted tiny Xs on the ground, which he assumed he was meant to find and stand on.

  When he found a starting place that no one else had taken, he readied his staff, preparing to attack. There were probably a hundred of them on the arena floor, and it was going to be chaos when it began.

  Blake could help but wish he had a Forging technique, something to help him create a shield and protect himself.

  Instead, he settled into a low stance, ready to dodge any incoming attacks.

  All around him, the risers were packed to the brim with people. Some cheered and chattered with each other, and a few of their gazes fell on his back. They were too far away to make out faces, to see if anyone he knew was in the crowd. Maybe some Silk Fans were watching.

  “Tonight is a special gathering,” came a voice from the opposite end of the arena. A man stood on a hovering longboat, looking over the prow as it floated above the gathered contestants. “And our third batch of contestants…well, I shan’t repeat myself! They know what they’re in for, and so do you!”

  The crowd roared with excitement.

  Blake stared up at the man on the longboat, relying on his enhanced sight to make out a few features. Was that…? That was the Steerman! Nothing seemed to be enhancing his voice—no speakers, no microphones, nothing.

  “But, for our contestants, let me be absolutely clear: if you touch the outer wall, you are eliminated. If you go unconscious, you are eliminated, and if you yield to your opponent, you are eliminated. Likewise, in the unfortunate and slightly rarer case of your death, you will also be eliminated.”

  At that, a wave of laughter swept over the crowd. Blake couldn’t help chuckle a little himself, but he restrained it. The Steerman was his enemy, so he had better start acting like it.

  “Now, without further ado, you may begin!”

  Blake triggered the Serpent’s Cloak right away and darted to the side. His advantage was his immense supply of ‘mana.’ Everyone else here could run out, but Blake kept gathering more Honour.

  Although Mingel wasn’t here, loyalty and the power she’d granted him earlier still remained, although slightly diminished. He wasn’t sure about Bravery, but most of the contestants were high Foundation stages or Core Formation stage one.

  They were all stronger than him, so bravery still counted. Worth was the biggest one in this environment. All the people in the crowd flooded him with a wave of their own recognition of him—especially since some of them had heard stories about him.

  A few Smite techniques crashed into the wall where he’d been standing, and as it was, a poorly-placed flame-based technique raced past the side of his head. He whirled his staff to intercept a flying sword, then swept it sideways to break a surge of dirt rushing toward him. A beam of magenta light crashed toward him, which he whirled aside to avoid. It turned the sand where he’d been standing into glass.

  That was when he registered a presence looking down on him. The Steerman still floated above the arena on his longboat, standing at the prow, but his gaze was fixed firmly on Blake.

  Was he suspicious? What did the man want?

  Was Blake painting a massive crosshair on his back just by being here?

  But at the moment, he was more interested in survival. They may have joked about the killing part, but it was only a thinly veiled truth. His life was in danger.

  A cultivator with a massive war hammer charged at him, and he ducked to the side, avoiding the weapon’s head. A jet of pure, aspectless mana vented out the hammer’s back end, acting like a longboat’s thruster and slamming the hammer down with enormous speed. When it hit the ground, it created a shockwave that made Blake stumble.

  He considered running, staying light on his feet, because individual fights didn’t matter here. But that wouldn’t make him look good in the eyes of the audience.

  Whipping his staff around, he channeled a Black Palm into the side of the hammer, sending the man staggering to the side. A Blended woman attacked from behind, wielding a short sword, and stabbed at Blake’s spine. She didn’t have any flashy techniques, but a ripple of mana slid down the sword’s blade, enhancing it. It let off a shhhhing sound, and it glinted even brighter in the artificial light, like it had just gotten sharper.

  Blake whirled around, spinning his staff behind him, and used a Black Palm aftershock to deflect the blade to the side. The hammer-wielding cultivator attacked her next, giving Blake enough of a break to examine them.

  He was about to look at their rank seals to cheat, but he forced himself to extend his senses and weigh their spirits. He had to practice whenever he could. The rank seals were probably just another Nord shortcut that left everyone weaker in the end.

  The man with the hammer was at Foundation seven, and the woman with the sword at Foundation six.

  Blake raised his eyebrows, then rushed at them, holding his staff to the side. To fight them honourably, however, was a different question altogether.

  Most importantly, how could he do this in the most crowd-pleasing way?