Rotunda of Violence

The scent of smoked meat and spiced ale was as powerful as ever within the adventurer's guild. Despite Gria's poor state of affairs--or perhaps as a result of them, monster hunters and sellswords continued to flood the city in droves, eager to earn their coin filling out the manpower which had been lost during the previous week's Demon attack. With the countryside devoid of human life, few contracts for mundane monster exterminations made their way to the guild, which had pivoted to offering particularly experienced adventurers opportunities to scout and hunt individual Demons.

More tantalising than even the heaps of gold offered for such contracts, however, were the rumours abounding of a tournament that was to be held within the city's arena. Smaller duels were commonly held on a weekly basis, between guardsmen or sponsored adventurers, but this was the first time in years that an event of such scale was being organised. With gold and status offered to the victor, it seemed a lucrative opportunity for so many who had found themselves penniless following recent events.

In a lonely corner of the guild, where yellowish orb-weavers flooded the neglected ceiling with webbing, the sound of bone crashing against wood could be heard, accompanied by a frustrated sigh and the movement of coins.

"I believe that's my win." A man spoke, sounding pleased with himself.

"Silly game." Another muttered, "What's wrong with cards?"

"Nothing at all. But Tempana is a game of strategy, not luck." He replied, "I would much rather bet my gold on a game I'm sure I could win, as opposed to a round of cards."

"Just take the damn coins already."

"Why would you agree to bet on it if you didn't have a clue about how to play?" Beside the anguished man sat a hooded woman, who watched the proceedings with snide interest, "Playing Tempana against a Khazmani is like trying to outrow an Onda."

"You might've told me that before I put my gold on the table." He complained, "We're going to need just about every coin we can find if we plan on keeping ourselves fed…"

The Khazmani man clicked his tongue, "Why not involve yourself in the Anti-Demon Leagues if you're looking for a wage? A sellsword cannot complain about the state of his purse."

"Do you think for a second that I'm about to join up with those madmen?" He retaliated, "Cannon fodder--that's all they are. Perhaps you don't want to remember, but we've seen for ourselves what a single Demon is capable of. There isn't a man alive who could bring one of those beasts down."

"What about the Hero?"

The two men regarded the girl's words with little else but stares of exhausted disbelief.

"Old Granda's gone and lost his mind, claiming that he's got the Three Heroes bunking in that old castle." The large man waved off, "All that's just a legend for people to cling onto."

"Haven't you seen the poster on the board?" She asked, "Apparently they're all going to be taking part in this tournament. I wouldn't make a promise like that if I couldn't back it up, especially not with how the old king's reputation is at the moment."

"Well, we'll see in the evening, won't we?" The Khazmani wondered, "At the very least, Lady Dorma is going to be participating. She's quite easily the best sorcerer in the world, you know? I wouldn't want to go up against her."

"They might bring out a fine warrior, but don't think for a second that any display of strength is going to convince me that we've got the genuine Hero of Legend in our midst." The large man argued, "This whole world's going to shit--mark my words. It's nothing but a last-ditch effort from our kindly king to hold on to the crown for just a few more years."

"We'll see." The Khazmani smiled, "Yes, we'll certainly see."

.

..

…

The fabled arena of Gria was a relic from an age long past, not quite as large as it needed to be in order to accommodate the crowds its tournaments normally gathered, but a sizable audience of just under 60,000 people regularly bore witness to its bloody bouts. Such battles were often attended to in excess by members of the gentry, but as humanity's social culture evolved, violence came to be known as a barbarian's pastime, and the prices of attendance were slowly adjusted over the course of decades to appeal more to the common folk.

"Hm…" From atop the tiered rotunda, where the poorest of spectators would be seated, Shilahi overlooked the fighting pit with a flat expression, "Well, it cannot be compared to the Gara-Mul either in design or size, but it will do."

"I believe the Gara-Mul no longer hosts tournaments." Dorma replied.

"You jest." Shilahi hoped, sounding disappointed, "There was no greater event in the year than when 10,000 Onda were pitted against one-another in a battle to decide the God-King's champion. For what reason would such a tradition be abandoned?"

"It may have had something to do with most of the fighters perishing during the battle." She answered, "At first, its participants were limited to using blunted weapons, but even then, the death toll was astounding. It doesn't surprise me that His Excellency wasn't too fond of seeing his countrymen happily slaughtering one-another in a time of peace."

"You see, this is what I mean when I say the world has gone soft." Shilahi sighed, "...Well, never mind that. This arena will serve as an adequate stage for our performance."

"I suppose you're looking forward to facing Barion?"

"Naturally. I must thank you for tipping him over the edge." She expressed her gratitude, "-Or, perhaps I won't be facing him. I never intended to have him seeded in the tournament at all."

"However do you mean?"

"What sort of competition would it be if the Hero of Legend was treated the same as the rest of us?" She posed, "No--Barion will not compete. Rather, he will be the final blockade for the most worthy opponent. The main event of our wonderful dance."

"In that case, won't Manyu be the one to face him?"

"I don't recall ever asking that you include him in the proceedings." Shilahi scoffed at the mention of his name, "-But no matter. In fact, I welcome the opportunity to challenge him."

"I do hope you emerge victorious. This arena isn't large enough to contain an unbridled bout between Barion and Manyu."

"Though it pains me to admit, that slug of a man has certainly simmered down a little." She conceded, "-But I know better than anyone else that the two of them desire for nothing more than the chance to leap at one-another's throats like frenzied mutts."

"I always thought it was rather strange…" Dorma muttered, "Back then, the fate of the world was at stake, but during the battle, Barion and Manyu almost seemed…"

"Happy? Or perhaps even joyful?" Shilahi finished, "When I was younger, nothing excited my blood more than facing down a worthy opponent. Most cower in fear when approaching the line between life and death, but for those of us who were born to fight… the closer we stray, the longer our smiles become. I think a good fight could place Barion's head in the right place, or at the very least knock him out of his barely-hidden torpor."

"Hm." Dorma smiled, "So you're doing this for his sake after all?"

"Better than coddling him like some overprotective mother, wouldn't you say?" Shilahi returned the gesture, "If you truly love that man, then you must push him towards strife. There is no other environment in which Barion thrives than one studded with the blood of his enemies. Yank his arm away from conflict, and you will only find yourself drifting away from his side."

"...I see." Dorma averted her gaze, "You speak as if you've lost a lover yourself, Shilahi."

"The only lover I have ever known is the sea." The Great Hermit remarked, "-And much like a lover, she has both embraced and rejected me, but altogether, my heart could never belong to another."

"How romantic." Dorma commented, "My lover is just a foolish man."

"A fool… yes. There can be no other word to describe Barion." She agreed, "But even so… a Hero can scarcely be anything else but a fool. And a man of any other persuasion couldn't have led us to this moment with any kind of certainty."

The girl paused for a moment, admiring the grandiose site of the arena, "...Well, despite your grace and intelligence, I would call you even more of a fool for not mustering up the courage to bed him after 500 years."

"But I have."

"Oh." Shilahi blinked, "...Well, congratulations. How was he?"

"Be quiet, Shilahi."

"Heh…" The girl's chuckle was drier than sand, "It is good to speak with you again, Dorma."

.

..

…

Citizens arrived by the hundreds to be seated within the arena's stands as the evening sky turned a warm amber, and contestants of all sizes and shapes were introduced to the structure's subterranean barracks, where the legendary combatants of old once trained. The event was shaping up to be the largest in Gria's history, with organisers scrambling to test the mettle of those involved in order to ensure a competent seeding.

What had grasped the attention of the public, however, was more than sheer scope. Rumours of the legendary Three Heroes participating in an isolated brawl of their very own spread across the city like wildfire. Many had arrived only to see whether His Majesty would deliver on such a lofty promise.

The rules of the tournament were simple: incapacitate one's opponent by any means, whether mundane or magical. Priests and healers of other persuasions were contracted by the city to mend any and all injuries sustained during combat--even resurrect the victims of particularly deadly matches, if necessary. The lure of such a dangerous spectacle was precisely the kind of violence adored by the common folk, and the arena's warriors had arrived more than willing to risk their lives for gold and glory.

"People of Gria!" With his voice amplified by magic, King Granda took to the arena floor as the last of the spectators took their seats, "I will not mince words. We have suffered much this past month. With the threat of Demonkind lingering at our doorstep, I have failed to protect the warriors of this fine city as I have always pledged to do!"

The chattering of the masses fell as the monarch continued his speech, "-But as King, I am sworn to never repeat the same mistake twice. From the ashes of the fallen, I will see to it that new defenders rise to protect Gria. And these defenders will be led not by generals, or nobles, but by the selfsame trio once responsible for vanquishing the Demon King from this world!"

The crowd's reaction was mixed. Both cheers and boos erupted from the stands as Granda continued.

"Perhaps you do not believe me." He began, "But rest assured, the final spectacle of tonight's performance shall set in stone humanity's true power. For whosoever proceeds to this tournament's final gauntlet shall face off against none other than Barion--Hero of Legend and father to the Elven queen!"

"By the Goddess, he's really pulling out all the stops, isn't he?" From behind the gates leading out onto the discoloured soil, Dorma stood with her arms crossed, "I suppose this has just as much to do with his approval as it does with violence."

"He's gone and placed a lot of responsibility on my shoulders…" Barion muttered back.

"You wouldn't be afraid of losing, would you?"

"Not losing, no." He answered, "What I'm really worried about is who I'm going to be facing."

"Oh my. You wouldn't happen to be talking about me, would you?"

Overhearing the conversation, Manyu paced over to the duo. He walked with an unusual bounce to his step, as if pleased about something, "Personally, I wouldn't mind facing Barion once more."

"How assured can we be that the two of you won't destroy the entire arena?" Dorma asked.

"Not to worry. We'll be using weapons." The former Demon King answered, "Won't we, Barion?"

"I suppose so." He agreed, "When was the last time I held a sword…?"