Chapter 44

"I suppose I'll go next," the sorceress said as she rose smoothly to her feet. There was an effortless grace to her movements, refined and deliberate, as though she had never known struggle.

Judging by her physique, she hadn't done an ounce of physical labor in her entire life. She wasn't frail, nor was she overweight—just soft. It wasn't a weakness exactly, but she certainly didn't look like someone accustomed to battle.

"I am Annabel Lamia," she said, dipping into a slight, elegant bow. "A sorceress who has traveled all across Aetheria."

*That's… an interesting last name,* Ercale muttered inside Xain's mind.

*Don't tell me she's another descendant of someone from Winter's party,* Xain groaned.

*Relax, it's not that,* Ercale assured him. *Her last name just happens to be the name of a daemon. A child-devouring monster and a night-haunting daemon, to be exact.*

That did not make Xain feel any better. If anything, his stress levels spiked further.

*I don't like the sound of that,* he thought. *You think she's one of those daemon things?*

*Considering she doesn't have the lower half of a serpent, probably not.*

Xain wasn't comforted by the probably, but he supposed it was better than nothing.

Meanwhile, Annabel continued, completely unaware of the silent exchange. "My reason for joining the tournament isn't the event itself or even the prize," she admitted, her lips curving into a smirk. "Rather, I'm more interested in the people attending and participating. I want to make influential friends." She glanced around, the smirk deepening. "And, given the company I'm keeping today, I'd say my goal is already being achieved."

With that, she sat back down, her movements just as smooth as when she had stood.

Quincy let out a hum, nodding in approval. "Hmm, hmm. Thank you for your introduction, Annabel. Everyone appreciates someone who's honest about their ambitions." She swept her gaze around the room before continuing, seamlessly taking over the role Calvinel had started. "Now then—who would like to go next?"

For her, guiding conversations like this came naturally. After all, she'd been doing it for nearly three centuries.

"I'll go next," a deep, rumbling voice announced.

A massive man pushed himself up from the bench, his broad hand pressing firmly against the table as he rose. He was big—so big that one might mistake him for a giant at first glance. And, given his sheer size, he likely was at least part giant. Towering at just under ten feet, his presence alone commanded attention.

His armor was built for someone of his stature—crafted not only for protection but for endurance in prolonged combat. A reinforced linen and leather cuirass wrapped around his chest, reinforced with bands of metal in strategic places to provide ample defense without sacrificing flexibility. His shoulders were guarded by layered pauldrons, broad and overlapping to shield him from overhead strikes. A thick, segmented belt encircled his waist, its overlapping plates designed to absorb impact while allowing for full mobility. A wide, padded loincloth draped beneath it, offering additional protection without restricting movement. His lower legs were encased in sturdy greaves, strapped securely around his shins, and his arms bore segmented vambraces, leaving his massive hands free—unarmed, yet clearly not defenseless.

But what stood out most was the helmet. Forged from burnished steel, it wrapped around his head completely, leaving only two narrow eye slits and a series of curved, slotted openings near the mouth to allow for breathability. The rounded dome of the helmet bore a crest along the top, though unlike many warrior helms, it lacked a visor—just an imposing, seamless faceplate that gave him an almost inhuman presence.

"I am Hittag Olbos," he declared, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. "A man trying to carve out his own legend. I have fought in tournaments all across Aetheria—smaller ones, lesser ones—and I have won them all." His gaze swept across the gathered fighters before settling on Calvinel, his first opponent in the tournament. "And I will win this one as well, no matter who stands in my way."

Calvinel, unshaken, leaned back slightly, his usual easy charm returning. "Don't worry," he said smoothly, "I'll be cheering for you to beat me."

Hittag huffed, unimpressed, and carefully lowered himself back onto the bench, mindful not to crack it under his weight.

Quincy chuckled. "You might just be the second half-giant in the tournament's history. Let's see if you can match—or even surpass—his legacy." She cast her gaze around the room again, her lips parting as if to speak, but before she could, someone shot up from their seat.

"Me, me! I want to go next!"

The voice was high-spirited, brimming with excitement. The speaker—was the woman dressed in a riot of colors that practically demanded attention—bounced on the balls of her feet. Her outfit was vibrant, layered in hues of blue, green, and gold, with an almost theatrical flair, reminiscent of a peacock in full display.

"I'm Lexy!" she declared, hands on her hips. "And I'm an assassin!"

A ripple of reactions spread through the room, a mixture of shock and unease. A few fighters tensed slightly, others exchanged wary glances, and the murmur of conversation briefly died down.

"Aren't assassins supposed to keep their identities secret?" Zeva asked dryly, raising an eyebrow.

Lexy only smirked. Then, in the blink of an eye, her entire form shifted.

Her vibrant, youthful features melted away, her frame stretching and shifting, transforming from a lively, petite woman into a tall, sharp-featured man. She—he?—was still wearing the same colorful outfit, but now, with a completely different presence.

"I'm a changeling!" Lexy announced, voice now distinctly masculine, yet still carrying the same energetic lilt. "I don't have to worry about that."

Gasps echoed throughout the room.

"Wow... a changeling," Roland muttered, staring in fascination. "Didn't think I'd meet another one in this lifetime..."

Quincy, unfazed as ever, leaned forward slightly. "You're certainly the first changeling to participate in the tournament," she said. "And what exactly is your reason for joining?"

Lexy grinned and, just as swiftly as before, shifted back into her original form—bouncy, bright-eyed, and beaming. "To have fun!" she said, throwing her arms out. "It gets so boring sneaking around, killing people from the shadows all the time. I want to see how well I can do in a fight where everyone sees me coming!"

Despite the initial unease, the reaction to her presence wasn't nearly as intense as when Mae and Zee had revealed their elven heritage—or when Edluar's half-elf nature had come to light. While many still weren't exactly comfortable with the idea of facing an assassin in the tournament, they at least weren't treating her like a walking disaster.

Quincy gave a light clap. "Thank you for your... bubbly introduction, Lexy." She scanned the room once more. Only two people remained. "Now, who wants to go next?"

"I'll go next, I guess," a voice muttered, drained and listless.

A man pushed himself up from the bench with the sluggishness of someone who had long since given up on the concept of rest. He was gaunt, standing at about five foot six, his skin pale, almost sickly. Dark circles sank deep beneath his pitch-black eyes—eyes that looked like they hadn't seen a proper night's sleep in decades. His jet-black hair was unkempt, hanging limply over his face, and his frame was swallowed by a long, tattered cloak of muted, dreary colors. He leaned heavily on the gnarled oak staff at his side, its height matching his own, topped with a black gemstone that seemed to drink in the dim light of the tavern.

"I'm Vilak Sanguis," he said with a slow, deliberate bow, gripping his staff tightly for support. "I'm a necromancer."

A beat of silence followed.

Gurion groaned, rubbing his face. "Sure. Might as well have one of those in the tournament too." The odds felt increasingly stacked against him.

Ordinarily, a declaration like Vilak's might have sent a stir through the room—maybe even a few uneasy glances or hushed whispers. But at this point, after elves, half-elves, half-giants, assassins, and changelings, the revelation of a necromancer barely seemed to register as shocking anymore.

"I've been alive for... about a hundred years, give or take," Vilak continued, voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. "I figured... I should do something I'd never do. Something ridiculous. And well..." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Here we are. I'm fighting in the Tournament of Greatness, in front of thousands of people." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I hate myself sometimes."

"Oh~ a fellow undead!" Quincy said, grinning. "I welcome you with open arms!"

Vilak turned his dull, tired gaze toward her, staring blankly for a long moment before muttering under his breath, "We're not really the same..." He dropped back into his seat with a near boneless slump, as if the act of standing had drained what little energy he had left.

Quincy, unfazed, let her gaze slide to the last remaining participant. "Okay, now it's your turn~" she said, almost playfully.

A groan of irritation followed. "Ugh, why do I have to go last..."

The final fighter stood up, though it was clear he wasn't thrilled about it. He was a man in his early thirties, painfully average in appearance—brown hair, brown eyes, a forgettable face. His outfit was practical, standard military-issue gear, something an infantryman might wear into battle. No elaborate armor, no mystical robes, no vibrant colors—just plain, sturdy clothing meant for function over form.

"I'm Callum Duncan," he said awkwardly. "I, uh... I serve the local military. I, uh..." He scratched his cheek, looking visibly uncomfortable under the weight of everyone's stares. "I have a sword and a gun."

Ulrich leaned forward. "Well, go on."

Callum grimaced slightly, glancing around like a man trapped. "...I joined the tournament to get coin?"

The room waited, expecting him to elaborate.

"...Um. That's about it."

Silence. Then, feeling the weight of everyone's gazes, Callum dropped back into his seat quickly, clearly regretting everything about this moment.

Quincy clapped her hands lightly, smiling. "Well, that's everyone introduced to one another. So, let's get back to enjoying ourselves and relaxing, shall we?" Her gaze flicked toward Bryanard, Amos, Calvinel, and Hittag. "You four especially—since you'll be the ones fighting tomorrow."

"Can't wait," Amos muttered, though his eyes lingered on Bryanard with barely concealed apprehension.

"I hope you'll be able to accomplish your dream," Calvinel said, taking a slow sip of his drink as his gaze met Hittag's.

Tomorrow's matches were bound to be very interesting.