Algraves woke the next morning feeling rested. Fully rested. He was still amazed at how a little meditation combined with a little sleep left him feeling hale and hearty. The soreness from his last few days of training was simply gone. That made him wonder about wounds. If he were injured, would he heal faster. He suspected that might be the case, although he had no proof. Something to ask someone about later.

  He dressed in another clean set of clothes from the Cai merchants. He still was not entirely used to the robe and pant combination the people here favored, but he had to admit it was growing on him. The fabric was soft and breathable, almost like cotton and silk had been woven together. If that were a real fabric, he decided, it would probably feel just like this.

  Making his way to the courtyard, he built a small fire and cooked a light breakfast of eggs with vegetables and a little sautéed meat. The meat had a faint bacon flavor, though he still had no idea what animal it came from. He had picked it up a few days earlier. He ate quickly, then cleaned up after himself because it was the polite thing to do. After all, this was not his home.

  When he stepped through the pavilion entrance, he noticed immediately that the central square had grown in size. The entire area looked reshaped. Bamboo scaffolding was being taken down, new bleachers were already standing, and a large central arena had been set off with thick boundary ropes. Inside that oversized ring were three additional rings set equidistant from one another.

  He suspected that meant a large group battle followed by individual bouts. Not a terrible way to run a tournament. It would depend on how many people showed up.

  He was not sure what the normal turnout was supposed to be for a town this size. Salt Peak was not large. It was more of a trade hub for the smaller towns away from the Road. Still, as he approached the entrance to the tournament grounds, he overheard Guard Jian talking about placing bets on fighters he thought would be the most hilarious to watch. Odd logic for betting, he thought. Algraves, of course, had no idea that to Jian, he was one of the people he was referring to.

  Another guard, the woman he never caught the name of, mentioned that the turnout was bigger than expected. Usually it took months for people to travel to these events, but this one had only been posted three months earlier. He guessed that meant three months was a short time in this world considering the distances involved.

  He found a shady spot near the entrance, about ten to twenty feet away, and watched as participants arrived. They either signed in or confirmed their participation. There were more people than he expected. For this type of contest, it seemed like a lot. Sixty or more by his rough count.

  He still had no idea how to tell cultivators or sects apart. He simply watched.

  A few stood out.

  A massive ogre blooded woman with an axe the size of his torso. The blade had chips but was well cared for.

  A slim man in desert attire. Vest, loose trousers, something like a turban on his head. A weapon shaped like a scimitar hung at his waist. Algraves caught himself thinking Arabian Nights and sighed at himself, then shrugged. Sometimes stereotypes existed for a reason.

  A tall orc blooded man followed. Not as big as the ogre blooded woman but still impressive. The man looked like a barbarian or steppe raider, not like any Chinese style cultivator from the movies he remembered. Then again, this was a massive continent. Possibly an entire world. It seemed the farther he traveled toward the edge of the Tarkas Rail region, the more variation he saw in people. Almost like someone had taken familiar Earth cultures and planted them around the borders of the Great Green.

  After roughly an hour and a half, the final contestant entered. The guard scanned the crowd, then called out, last chance. We have sixty four individuals. Last chance.

  Algraves had gone back and forth for hours about entering. He sat still another moment, then finally stood.

  He muttered, fine, screw it. I can only learn so much from shadowboxing. Even if I take hits, I can just bow out.

  He walked to the gate.

  He told the guard he would enter. The guard looked him over, a faint flicker of recognition forming for reasons Algraves did not know. Algraves gave his name. The guard pointed him to the benches on the outer edge of the arena.

  As Algraves walked away, he heard the guard mutter under his breath, something tells me I need to bet on this ugly fighter. Just for a laugh.

  Rumors of Algraves strange training regimen had already spread among the guards and anyone else who had taken the time to watch him trip, spin, sway and occasionally perform something that almost resembled a real technique.

  He ignored it and found a quiet place on one of the benches.

  .

  Algraves sat on the bench for maybe five minutes before he realized sitting was only making him more nervous. His stomach had that low, simmering weight that reminded him of waiting outside a dentist office mixed with the anticipation of a junior high dodgeball tournament. Except these people could probably break bones. Or at least bruise him badly. Although he still was not sure how fast he healed now. Something to figure out later.

  The morning sun finally cleared the ridge above Salt Peak, bathing the arena in pale gold light. It spread across the sanded ground, ropes, bleachers, and the crowd beginning to gather. Dozens of voices layered over each other. The clang of metal. The dull thud of crates being set down. Snatches of conversation. Laughter. The rustle of banners. The distant hiss of merchants setting up food stalls.

  The city was waking fully and with expectation.

  Algraves watched quietly from his seat. The air smelled faintly of dust, wood shavings, and frying dough. People came and went in waves, the crowd thickening every few minutes as more locals, traders, and visiting clans arrived.

  Not too far away, Guard Jian and the woman he worked with were already positioned at the entrance, directing late arrivals. Jian was excited in the way young men get excited when they are too sure of their own cleverness. Loud enough for anyone in a thirty foot radius to hear him.

  “I am telling you,” Jian said to his partner, “the funniest ones always make it past the first cut. They are unpredictable. Chaos in human form.”

  His partner just rolled her eyes and continued checking the next person’s papers.

  He breathed out slowly and looked around. The participants were spread out along all four sides of the arena, some sitting, some stretching, some hopping in place to warm their legs. A few looked deeply focused. A few looked half asleep. A few looked like they had already decided they were going to win and everyone else might as well go home.

  Then there was the ogre blooded woman.

  Her presence was impossible to miss. Seven feet tall, built like the front end of a truck, with dark bluish gray skin, thick braids wrapped tight around her shoulders, and that axe. She sharpened it with slow, almost gentle movements. Each drag of the whetstone hissed like she was preparing to shave a mountain.

  Near her, the desert man stood with a lazy grace. Arms folded. Barefoot on the sand. His scimitar rested sheathed at his waist. His posture reminded Algraves of a cat that had found a warm sun patch and decided problems were for other people.

  Not far from him stood the orc blooded man. His arms were thicker than most people’s legs, and he paced with an impatience that radiated in every movement. No weapon. Just fists that looked like they had opinions about things.

  As Algraves watched, more and more fighters as they sat or milled about. Tall, short, human, human blooded, scarred, calm, jittery, armored, half dressed, everything in between. Sixty-four people in total. And him.

  So Sixty-five people about to try and brain each other for the promise of spirt herbs and more danger… reminded him of his deployments.

  He rubbed his palms lightly on his pants. His heart beat steady. Not fast. Not panicked. Just aware.

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  People were watching him too, though not many. A few glances. A few whispers. A few chuckles that were not unkind, but definitely amused.

  He ignored them. Or tried to. He was not here to impress anyone. He was here to test himself. He was here to see if all of his training made sense outside of a quiet courtyard. He was here because trying and failing was still better than sitting on a bench for the next four hours wondering what could have been.

  Time passed quietly. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Hard to tell.

  Then the atmosphere shifted.

  Voices rose as a group of city officials walked toward the arena from the direction of the mayor’s house. People parted for them with murmured greetings. The envoys were easy to spot. They wore deep forest green robes with embroidered symbols representing Salt Peak. Following them was a group of Steppe clan representatives, all dressed in rugged leather armor trimmed with dyed fur. They moved with an unspoken confidence that made space around them.

  Finally, Mayor Chen himself approached. A short man with a round stomach and a well groomed beard. Despite his cheerful face, his eyes were sharp.

  Guard Captain Hall met them near the central circle, where the thick rope lay on the sand in a wide ring. Hall stood straight backed with a sense of seasoned authority that came from years of shouting at people who ignored good advice. His armor looked functional rather than ceremonial. A scar along one cheek gave him a perpetual scowl, though his tone was not unfriendly with those he respected.

  Hall raised one hand and, somehow, without shouting, made himself heard.

  “Contestants. Inside the ring.”

  Algraves stood with the rest and filed over the boundary rope into the large circle. The ground felt firm beneath his feet, the sand lightly packed from the earlier leveling. People spread out in a loose cluster near the center, leaving space between themselves and the rope.

  Captain Hall waited until every participant was inside. He let the quiet settle for a long moment.

  Then he spoke.

  “This is the first round. A group battle. Free for all. Last twenty standing advance.”

  Murmurs rippled through the gathered contestants.

  Hall continued.

  “To defeat an opponent, you must either knock them unconscious, force them to surrender, or force them outside the boundary rope. Step over the rope and you are out. Intentional killing or maiming is prohibited. Violations will result in immediate disqualification and removal from Salt Peak for the remainder of the year.”

  He let that sink in.

  “Accidents will happen. We understand this. That is why we have judges. But do not test their patience.”

  A few fighters laughed nervously.

  Hall pointed at the chalk marks spaced along the rope.

  “Take your positions on the boundary. One fighter to each mark. When the countdown ends, you may begin.”

  Algraves stepped carefully back over the rope, then followed the others as they spread outward and found their spots. He ended up about ten feet from the desert fighter. About fifteen feet from the ogre blooded woman. Thirty feet from the orc blooded man. Close enough to be a target, but with a little room to move.

  Hall raised his hand again.

  “Five.”

  The air thickened. Dust motes drifted slowly in the golden light.

  “Four.”

  Bodies tensed around the circle. Feet shifted. Hands curled.

  “Three.”

  Algraves let out a slow breath.

  “Two.”

  He tightened his stance, weight firm but ready to move.

  “One.”

  Someone to Algraves left whispered a prayer.

  “Begin.”

  The arena exploded.

  Algraves moved sideways on instinct, shifting left just as someone lunged where he had been standing. A young cultivator swung wide, missing him by inches. The swing turned into a stumble as the fighter’s ankle twisted in the sand.

  Algraves used that moment to step past him, giving the fighter a gentle shove to help him fall away from any incoming blows. He knew kindness was not required here, but there was no sense in letting someone get trampled at the first second.

  On his right, two fighters clashed immediately. A thick armed woman with braided hair caught the wrist of a spear wielder, twisted, and slammed him into the ground. The spear clattered out of his hand as he groaned.

  A roar drew Algraves attention. The orc blooded man barreled through three opponents like someone plowing through tall grass. He slammed into a heavyset cultivator with full force, knocking the man backward. The man’s heel caught the rope, and he toppled over it with a curse, landing hard in the dust outside.

  The ogre blooded woman was calm in comparison. She did not rush. She simply moved. A single step. A single swing. A single impact that sent a fighter crashing backward, rolling across the rope line and out.

  Algraves kept moving.

  He called on the scaffold born footwork he had been drilling these past nights, the odd angles and improvised balance work from that old movie lodged in his memory. Low center of gravity. Shifting weight. Never in the same place twice.

  He mixed it with the chaotic, improvisational style he had pieced together from memories of drunk fighters, trickster fighters, and anything that used misdirection and strange timing. He ducked under a punch and snatched up a fallen wooden bucket, tossing it high enough to make his opponent flinch and look up for half a heartbeat.

  The more direct, intercepting approach he had tried to fold into everything else guided his counter. Do not meet force head on. Cut in at the opening. Make his strike the shortest path.

  The blunt, straightforward power of the old action styles from his world showed when he planted his heel and delivered a simple, no-nonsense kick that sent a man skidding backward across the sand. Not enough to injure badly. Just enough to convince the man to focus on someone else.

  It was messy. Chaotic. Loud. Dust rose around them in a thick haze. The sound of punches, grunts, impacts, and shouts blended together.

  He dodged a high kick. He blocked a jab. He backed away from a flurry of punches. He sidestepped a sweep aimed at his ankles and almost lost his own footing on the shifting ground.

  Once, a fighter grabbed his sleeve. Algraves twisted, stepped in, and redirected the man's weight with a clumsy version of a throw he remembered from some half forgotten scene. The fighter pitched forward, stumbled, and went straight over the rope line, arms windmilling as he fell out of the ring.

  Out.

  Another came at him with more coordination. A serious looking woman with bright green eyes. She tested him with fast, probing strikes. Algraves blocked two, avoided the third, and countered with a short elbow that tapped her sternum. Just enough force to knock her breath out. She stepped back, nodded once, and pivoted away to find a different opponent.

  Then the desert fighter appeared.

  Silently. Like a shadow peeled from a wall.

  His posture was relaxed, but every movement felt deliberate. He flowed like someone used to fighting in heat and sandstorms. His scimitar remained sheathed. He did not need it.

  His eyes met Algraves.

  He gave a small approving nod.

  Then he moved past Algraves and collided with three fighters at once, weaving between them with a speed that bordered on unreal. He used open handed strikes and short, snapping kicks. One fighter went over the rope almost before he understood what had hit him.

  Algraves kept awareness of him only long enough to avoid being accidentally clipped by a stray elbow.

  Minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Time became a blur.

  Bodies began dropping out of the ring. Some unconscious. Some groaning. Some just stumbling over the rope before they were forced. The judges called each exit clearly.

  “Forty left.”

  “Thirty three left.”

  “Twenty eight left.”

  “Twenty three left.”

  The crowd roared louder with each announcement.

  Algraves was breathing hard now. His shirt clung to him with sweat. His arms ached. His legs trembled. But he felt alive.

  He faced a tall man with long hair tied back. The man had quick hands and a good sense of timing. He caught Algraves with a glancing strike to the ribs. It hurt. Not badly. But enough to make him sharpen his guard.

  Algraves responded with a feint, then a roundhouse that came from old muscle memory. The man dodged, but not fully. The heel clipped his shoulder. He staggered.

  Algraves pressed forward with a short, intercepting punch. Nothing fancy. Just direct timing and commitment. It landed square on the man’s chest.

  The man stumbled backward. His foot came down half on the rope, half off. His balance betrayed him. He toppled over the line, catching himself on his hands outside the ring.

  One of the judges pointed.

  “Out. Twenty left.”

  A hush fell over the arena. Only for a moment.

  Then Captain Hall raised his arm.

  “Enough. Round one has ended. All remaining contestants stay where you are.”

  Algraves straightened and tried not to look like he wanted to fall over.

  The survivors formed a rough ring inside the boundary without being told. Some bruised. Some lightly bleeding. Some barely standing. But all conscious.

  He recognized too many faces.

  The orc blooded brute, still grinning, chest heaving.

  The ogre blooded woman, breathing evenly, axe resting on her shoulder.

  The desert fighter, serene as if he had taken a short walk instead of a beating.

  The green eyed woman, battered but calm, one sleeve torn.

  Two people he had not noticed earlier. A pair of siblings from the sound of their low, quick voices, both carrying simple wooden staves and leaning against one another for support.

  A very old man who had spent most of the fight sitting cross legged near the rope, letting everyone else eliminate each other unless they got too close. Hall stared at him suspiciously but allowed it.

  And of course, Algraves himself. Tired. Sweaty. Still standing.

  Hall nodded once.

  “These twenty advance. You have one hour to rest, meditate, and restore yourselves. Food and water have been provided.”

  Algraves exhaled. His shoulders loosened. His heartbeat slowly returned to something like normal.

  He stepped carefully over the rope and followed the others toward a shaded rest area set up near the side of the arena. Simple wooden boards formed narrow resting spaces for sitting. Containers of water and fruit had been arranged neatly along the ground.

  He lowered himself slowly onto one of the boards. His legs felt like someone had replaced them with slightly overcooked noodles.

  He took a long drink from the water jug. Cool, clean, sharp.

  Then he blinked.

  Cai Yue stood in front of him.

  She held a small tray with a bowl of food. Something warm that smelled faintly of rice, herbs, and broth. She set it beside him without meeting his eyes.

  She did not say a word.

  Then she turned and walked away.

  No explanation. No expression. No hesitation.

  Algraves stared after her for a long moment.

  He had absolutely no idea what to do with that feeling in his stomach. It was not unpleasant. It was not comforting. It was not even confusing.

  It was all of those at once.

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “This world is going to kill me. And not even in the way I expected.”

  He picked up the bowl.

  The sounds of Salt Peak rolled around him. Cheers. Arguments about bets. Merchants shouting about skewers and drinks. Quiet curses from those who had lost. Low conversations from those still in the running.

  He ate in steady, thoughtful silence while the city buzzed with rumors, victory celebrations, and the rising anticipation of the rounds yet to come.