The Price of a Punchline
"Now for the second trial!" the elder boomed, his voice echoing across the square.
"A test of combat! Of resourcefulness! Of will!
You will be transported to the Celestial Chessboard to engage in two rounds of duels.
Victory means you continue.
Defeat means you go home with nothing but shame and a story to bore your grandchildren with.
Killing is forbidden, but humiliation is highly encouraged.
Prepare yourselves!".
"Welcome to the Celestial Chessboard!" the elder announced.
Find an empty tile. Your opponent will be assigned shortly."
"Here, you will face two rounds of duels.
Michael ambled over to a black tile and waited, hands in his pockets, affecting an air of casual boredom.
On his shoulder, Umbra was having a telepathic fit.
So, what's the grand strategy, oh-mighty-hider-of-power? the cat complained.
Are you going to impress them with your stunning mediocrity?
Bore them into submission?
Or are you going to accidentally punch a hole in reality and get us both disqualified?
I'm on the edge of my seat.
"Neither," Michael muttered under his breath, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.
"I'm going to cheat."
Finally, you're speaking my language.
This might be entertaining after all.
A hulking figure materialized on the white tile opposite Michael.
The man was built like a stone golem, with arms thicker than Michael's waist and a scowl that could curdle milk. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like a rockslide.
"Well, look what we have here," the big man sneered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"A skinny little twig. You must be one of those rich kids, huh?
Papa bought your way this far with a sack of stones?
Don't worry, I'll make this quick.
It'll be less painful for both of us.
Especially for you."
Michael just shrugged, a picture of nonchalance. "You first."
The man roared, a sound of pure, uncomplicated fury, and charged.
His fists glowed with raw, unrefined energy.
He was a freight train of muscle and bad intentions, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
Michael, for his part, executed a perfect impression of a panicked novice.
He stumbled backward, feigning a clumsy panic, his arms flailing wildly.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, big fella!" he yelped, tripping over his own feet.
"Let's not be hasty!"
The man's sneer widened into a triumphant, slobbering grin.
He was just about to connect with a punch that would have turned Michael into a red mist when Michael's hands came up from his robes. They weren't empty.
They were full of paper.
Stacks and stacks of neatly folded, bright red paper talismans.
"Two hundred," Michael said calmly, his voice cutting through the man's battle cry.
The man's eyes widened in confusion. "Two hundred what?"
BOOM!
An earth-shattering, apocalyptic explosion of fire, heat, and concussive force erupted from Michael's position.
A roiling mushroom cloud of searing flame engulfed the burly man entirely, lifting him off his feet and blasting him clear off the Celestial Chessboard.
He sailed through the air like a ragdoll, landing in a smoking, twitching, and thoroughly unconscious heap a hundred yards away.
A profound silence fell over the arena.
Michael calmly brushed a bit of ash from his sleeve.
On the viewing platforms, the disciples who had been placing bets stared, their mouths agape.
"Did… did he just throw an entire year's salary at that guy?" one whispered in disbelief.
"What a waste! He could have bought a decent spirit-grade sword with that many stones!" another complained loudly.
"This is an insult to the art of combat!"
High above, on the guest platform, Lady Thalassa let out a soft, musical laugh that tinkled like wind chimes.
Her young disciple, Chloe Virelle, simply stared, her perfectly sculpted face a mask of utter, uncomprehending confusion.
"That's… unconventional," Chloe murmured, her brow furrowed.
"Unconventional is often effective, my dear," Lady Thalassa replied, her eyes twinkling with pure amusement.
"And far more entertaining."
Michael's second opponent materialized with a soft pop.
This one was a stark contrast to the first: a plump young man in garish silken robes, clutching a fan made of peacock feathers.
He fanned himself delicately, a greasy, self-satisfied smile plastered on his face.
"My, my, that was quite the display," the plump man said, his voice slick with false courtesy.
"A bit… extravagant, wouldn't you say?
Look, I can see you're a man of means.
I am, too.
Why should we waste our energy and, more importantly, our precious resources fighting?
Tell you what. I'll give you a thousand lower-grade Primordial Stones to take a dive.
Think of it as a business transaction, nothing more.
A sound investment in your future."
Michael's eye twitched. "I'm not interested."
The man sighed dramatically, a theatrical display of disappointment.
"A shame. I was truly hoping to pass this round.
Oh well. If I fail here, I can always try my luck with the Blood Divine Sect.
I hear they're always hiring, and they appreciate raw ambition. No stuffy rules, you know?"
The world went silent. The jeers of the crowd, the grumbling of the elders, the whisper of the cosmic wind, it all vanished.
In Michael's mind, a single, agonizing image flared to life: a woman's smiling face, her eyes so much like his own, dissolving into motes of light as a man with a wild, cruel beard snarled in triumph.
His mother.
The rage that boiled up wasn't hot. It was glacial.
A cold, killing fury that locked his jaw and turned his knuckles bone-white.
"What did you say?"
Michael's voice was dangerously quiet, a razor's edge in the sudden stillness.
"The Blood Divine Sect?" the plump man repeated, completely oblivious to the storm he had just summoned.
"Yes, a fine organization, from what I hear.
A bit messy, perhaps, with all the blood magic, but they certainly get results…"
He never finished the sentence.
"Three hundred," Michael snarled, the sound ripped from his throat.
And the world turned to fire once more.
The explosion was even bigger this time, a chaotic, uncontrolled detonation that cracked the very tile beneath Michael's feet.
The plump man shrieked, a high-pitched sound of pure terror as the inferno consumed him.
Just before the blast hit, a flash of brilliant green light erupted from his chest, a high-grade defensive treasure, his last resort.
It saved his life, but only just. He was launched from the arena, his silken robes shredded and smoldering, his body limp and unconscious.
Michael stood panting, his chest heaving not from exertion, but from the sheer force of his own suppressed rage.
You absolute idiot! Umbra's voice screeched in his mind, sharp with panic.
You almost lost it! You nearly unleashed your real power over some fat moron's careless words!
That anger is a chain, and it's going to drag you down to hell if you don't learn to control it!
They would have disqualified you and dissected you for research!
Michael ignored him, his eyes still burning with a cold fire.
He had won. He had passed.
But as he walked toward the waiting area with the other victors, the victory felt hollow, tasting of ash and old, bitter grief that would never fade.