I walked back to the rest area designated for combatants; we earned more freedom after the monster fight; while the combatant matches were dangerous, they almost always ended with no deaths. They had guard towers all over the second floor in case we got any bright ideas of inciting a riot with our newly gifted weapons. In my five years as a spectator, I only saw it happen once; after you see an elven marksman explode a combatant's head with a plasma bolt, people tend to stay in line.

  There were hundreds of unfamiliar faces; I had hoped that I would be able to put my guilty conscience to bed to see if any of the others had chosen to test for a conscripted warrior spot. The chances were slim. Everyone knew how hard it was to beat a monster. I searched but didn't see anyone from my neighborhood. I couldn't help but feel lucky. The elves wouldn't have wasted the training on me if I had been a year older. I knew plenty of kids barely older than me who went to the proving grounds only to be met with a swift end at the jaws of a monster.

  …

  I looked up through the square-shaped hole of the old stadium. I could make out a cloud resembling the Shadow cat, just a dark grey smudge in the sea of perfect fluffy white ones on a canvas of light blue. The sun was beating down on my face. I had plenty of time to kill until the duels. My number was 605. I wasn't sure how many people were behind me, but I was prepared to lay there for the rest of the day.

  "Babysitter, I thought the system was a gift from the empire. How come you came to me before the affinity test?"

  "Dane, you are a *&^%*%^&[redacted][redacted]."

  The system glitched when it explained why I had the system early. I tried to push it and get as much information as possible, but the system ignored the prompts each time I approached the topic.

  "Can I call you Alfred?"

  "Sure thing, Master Dane."

  "Dane is fine."

  "Of course, Dane."

  "You know what, Master Dane works better. Is there any way you can throw in an English accent?"

  The silence when I asked that was palpable.

  "I see that I have a mana pool. Can you tell me what my magic affinity is?"

  "You have a time affinity with a minor affinity for space, Master Dane."

  I was ecstatic. The time and space affinity sounded great.

  …

  "Number 605, please report to the platform for your duel; I repeat, number 605, please report to the platform for your duel." The announcer said lazily, undoubtedly because he had been the only announcer in section 4 all day.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I returned to the stone circle in the ground, this time on the other side where they had placed the shadow cat. I saw a tall, skinny-looking person with fiery red hair and wiry muscles standing across from me. He had a tremendously large two-handed sword that he looked like he could barely lift. I would have an advantage over him in maneuverability. A feeling I couldn't shake was pestering my mind, however. My hair began to stand up everywhere. I looked at my feet, and the platform began to glow blue.

  I began to run at the lanky man. He was calm and collected. He stared at me like a mountain lion stocking its prey, but his eyes weren't focused on me. It was almost as if his trance-like eyes were staring through me. When I got within three feet of the skeletal man, my danger sense went crazy. With one smooth motion, barely lifting the massive blade from the ground, my opponent shifted his stance and swung low. His blade was a blur as it came barreling towards my lead left foot. I had to pivot to my right and jump backward for the blade's tip to only knick my shin. Even with his edge dulled, if that had landed, the match would have been over, as my leg would have folded in half. Before I could regain my composure, a downward strike reminiscent of a smash bros down b attack was coming for my head as the man jumped in the air like an owl swooping in for a mouse. I rolled to the left and felt the monstrous sword plunge into the ground, where I had been moments ago.

  "Trying to get the sword out of the stone. Are you sure your name is not Arthur?" I joked while the tall man tried to pull out his sword.

  I knew this was my opportunity, so I gripped the handle of my axe tight, and I swung as hard as I could with a lateral slash that wouldn't hit anything vital but would leave a nasty mark on his shoulder. Before my hit landed, my opponent grinned at me and pulled his sword hard to the right, blocking my ax head with his sword hilt while still stuck in the ground. The clang reverberated up my arm, and I lost hold of my weapon. The axe fell toward the ground. I lunged to grab it, but the red-haired man abandoned his sword to hit me square in the chest with a front kick. That would be fine with me if he wanted to make this a hand-to-hand match. I stumbled backward and got into a boxing stance. I danced on the balls of my feet, keeping my heels off the ground with my left leg as the lead leg; I turned slightly to the side to make my body a smaller target. The large man had a form more akin to a pugilist from the 1920s, which really gave off "why I outta" vibes. I circled to my left, trying to keep my left foot just outside his right. Then, he began to throw a jab. I ducked in a peekaboo fashion, leaning all my weight on the left leg, throwing my hard overhand left just over his shoulder. He had already committed too much of his momentum to the jab and could only watch as my fist plummeted into his cheek, just shy of hitting its target of the chin. He stumbled to the side as I fully pushed through, just as my father always taught me. I changed my level and hit a hard-nosed double-leg takedown that was basically a tackle. He landed on his back, and his head fell back into a large stone. I quickly went into a full mount and tried to rain down blows. He grabbed my fist with his hand as I attempted the first blow; he squeezed my fist in the palm of his hand.

  "Fuck you have that farm boy strength, don't you," I whispered to myself.

  I was in trouble. I looked at my hand, which looked like a beer can inside a frat boy's hand. The crazy son of a bitch started to headbutt my fist, turning it into hamburger meat. I gritted my teeth and drove my free fist straight into his throat, feeling the cracking and snapping as I tried to punch into the ground.

  "Fuck that was a good punch." That is what I imagined he said, with the only sound escaping his mouth being a gurgle.

  I watched as the tall man began to suffocate, his last breath a compliment to the chef, unable to breathe with his crushed windpipe. The medics rushed out to the field when he signaled for the surrender. I hoped he would live.

  I went to the medic tent myself, hoping that I wouldn't have to deal with Marjorie, but since I used the only health potion I had gotten from my time in the wilds. I knew that the chances were high.