The morning sun cast long shadows across the tournament grounds. Tavalor leaned on a wooden railing, observing the bustling arena with mild interest.

  The thing they didn't tell you about tournaments is how boring they were. Hours of waiting punctuated by minutes of action.

  Little Shadow perched on his shoulder, occasionally chirping with excitement when a particularly flashy technique appeared. The shadow creature had grown so large that he could no longer shrink to chick size. He now was roughly the size of a large raven, its form shifting and flowing like liquid darkness.

  'Enjoying the show?' Emberfist appeared beside him. Excitement glowing in her eyes.

  'It has its moments,' Tavalor replied, his eyes following a contestant who had been launched out of the arena. 'You're up next, aren't you?'

  Emberfist nodded, stretching her arms above her head. 'Against someone called Jin Longwei. Supposedly from one of those Southern mountain clans.'

  The announcer's voice boomed across the grounds: 'Our next match! Kela Emberfist versus Jin Longwei!'

  Emberfist cracked her knuckles, a grin spreading across her face. 'This shouldn't take long.'

  As she walked toward the arena, Tavalor settled in for what promised to be an entertaining, if brief, display.

  Little Shadow chirped in amusement at the thought.

  ***

  Jin Longwei was a mountain of a man, his muscly frame easily twice Emberfist’s size. His face bore the marks of countless battles—a crooked nose, a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and a permanent sneer that suggested contempt for his opponents.

  'A woman?' he scoffed as Emberfist took her position opposite him. 'I expected better from the tournament organisers.'

  The referee, a thin man with nervous eyes, glanced between them. 'The rules are simple. No killing blows, no permanent maiming. Victory by knockout, surrender, or referee decision.' He stepped back quickly. 'Begin!'

  Jin didn't waste time with strategy. He charged forward like a bull, meaty fists raised to deliver what he clearly expected to be a decisive blow.

  Emberfist sidestepped with casual grace, her own fist connecting with his ribs as he passed. The impact was like a thunderclap, the sound echoing across the suddenly silent arena. Jin stumbled, his momentum carrying him forward before he regained his balance and turned, eyes wide with surprise.

  'Lucky hit,' he growled, circling more cautiously now.

  Emberfist didn't respond verbally. Her stance shifted, feet planted firmly, hands raised in a traditional boxing guard. When Jin attacked again, she met him head-on, trading blows with methodical precision.

  What followed was less a fight and more a demonstration. Every punch Jin threw was either deflected or absorbed, while Emberfist's strikes landed with devastating accuracy. His initial contempt gave way to frustration, then to visible fear as he realised the predicament he was in.

  After a particularly vicious combination that left Jin staggering, he raised a hand. 'I surrender!'

  But Emberfist, caught in the rhythm of combat, delivered one final blow that sent him crashing to the ground, unconscious.

  The referee hurried forward, checking Jin's vitals before raising a hand toward Emberfist. 'Victory by knockout! Kela Emberfist advances!'

  As Jin was carried from the arena by medics, his brother—a taller, leaner version with the same permanent sneer—approached Emberfist, fury evident in his stride.

  'He surrendered!' the man shouted, pointing accusingly. 'You heard him!'

  Emberfist shrugged, already turning to leave. 'I didn't hear anything over the sound of my fist connecting with his face.'

  'This isn't over,' the brother warned, his hand moving to a hidden dagger before arena guards stepped between them.

  Tavalor watched the exchange with amusement. Emberfist certainly knew how to make an impression.

  ***

  The tournament continued through the afternoon, a parade of fighters displaying varying degrees of skill. Many were clearly [C-Class], their techniques basic but effective. A few showed glimpses of [B-Class] potential, their movements enhanced by disciplined training and natural talent.

  One fighter in particular caught Tavalor's attention—a follow up from yesterday - a lean plain man with a perpetual half-smile 'Pip the Unremarkable.'

  His fighting style was unlike anything Tavalor had seen in Vallenport, relying on minimal movement and devastating precision.

  Pip's opponent was a woman named Mei Lin, known for her arrogance and her beauty. Always dismissing 'lesser' fighters. Their match began with Mei Lin launching into an elaborate series of attacks, her movements fluid and graceful.

  Pip just watched, a strange half-smile never leaving his face. With a simple perfectly timed punch, he ended the match. No need to draw the plain sword at his waist.

  Mei Lin crumbled, unconscious before she hit the ground.

  The crowd erupted in shocked applause, Pip bowed politely and exited the arena without any fanfare.

  'That's not normal,' Emberfist murmured, having returned to Tavalor's side after her victory. 'One punch shouldn't be able to take down a [C-Class] fighter that cleanly unless...'

  'Unless he's hiding his true strength,' Tavalor finished for her. Interesting. Tavalor thought to himself. He's sandbagging? So he has some type of goldfinger? I wonder what kind of goldfinger it could be?

  As the tournament picked up speed, the field narrowed rapidly. Emberfist's aggressive relentless style made her a crowd favorite, while Pip's simple but technically efficient style earned him grudging respect from the more technically-minded spectators.

  By the end of the second day. Only twenty competitors remained, including Emberfist and Pip.

  ***

  The third day was also another bright clear day. The tournament grounds were more crowded than ever. Word had spread.

  'The top ten will receive significant rewards,' Emberfist explained, answering his question as they made their way through the throng. 'Training resources, recruitment offers from major guilds and nobles. It's why most people enter.'

  Tavalor nodded absently, his attention draw by the arrival of several ornate gondolas, bearing the crests of Vallenport's most prestigious houses. 'They seem very interested this year.'

  'Of course they are,' Emberfist replied. After what happened to Miragos, everyone's scrambling to strengthen their position now. Vallenport has a reputation now.'

  Oh. I never thought about that. Tavalor thought. That was true, since the destruction of Miragos, Vallenport had gotten busier. An influx of wealth and talented people had started to arrive. The presence of an [S-Class] entity—though nobody knew Tavalor's true identity—had transformed the city overnight from a respectable port to a major power.

  As the saying went: 'Where dragons rest, kingdoms rise; where [S-Class] dwell, empires flourish.'

  The first match was Emberfist versus a tall, slender, elegantly dressed man. A nobleman, though he wore no family crest.

  He was introduced as Lord Valen Cypress, recently relocated from Miragos to Vallenport following 'unfortunate circumstances.'

  When Emberfist and Lord Cypress stood in the ring. Their postures were a bit strange.

  Emberfist stood in a ready position. Ready to attack or defend.

  Lord Cypress stood in a very elegant and relaxed posture. Like a tourist just casually watching everything pass by. He fanned himself casually.

  When the referee signaled the start of the match, Lord Cypress folded his fan and bowed deeply at Emberfist. He then raised his hand. 'I surrender.'

  A murmur of confusion spread through the crowd.

  'What?!' Emberfist exclaimed, he stance faltering. 'We haven’t' even started!'

  Lord Cypress smiled, his fan snapping open to hide his lower face: 'I entered this tournament for the sole purpose of admiring your beauty up close.' His eyes twinkled in mischief. 'Having achieved my goal, I see no reason to suffer unnecessary bruising.'

  Emberfist's expression darkened dangerously, but the referee had already declared her the victor.

  As Lord Cypress sauntered away, throwing flirtatious glances over his shoulder, Tavalor couldn't help but chuckle at Emberfist's obvious frustration.

  'Not every victory needs to be earned through combat,' he observed when she rejoined him, scowling.

  'That wasn't a victory,' she muttered. 'That was a waste of time.'

  Pip's match followed shortly after. His opponent, a burly man renowned for his endurance, attempted to wear Pip down with sustained pressure. The strategy failed spectacularly.

  With surgical precision, Pip targeted pressure points and joint locks, systematically dismantling his opponent's defenses until the man surrendered, clutching a temporarily paralyzed arm.

  As the remaining matches played out, the audience's discussions grew increasingly animated.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  'It's clearly between Emberfist and Pip,' a merchant declared loudly to his companions. 'Raw power versus technical mastery.'

  'Don't discount Serac the Swift,' another countered. 'He's been [B-Class] for years.'

  'Or Master Vora,' added a third. 'Or Harrick the Hammer. They've all reached the same tier.'

  The debate continued as the remaining ten fighters drew lots to determine the next round of matchups. Fortune favoured Emberfist once again—she drew a portly, sweating man whose reputation for endurance was matched only by his apparent fear of her.

  When they took their positions in the arena, he immediately raised his hands. 'I forfeit! I'm not facing that—that female Draven! She's too much for any sane man!'

  The audience roared with laughter as Emberfist stormed off the arena floor, her expression thunderous.

  ***

  The following two matches did little to improve Emberfist's mood. Opponents who had dismissed her earlier victories as flukes or luck found themselves brutally disabused of such notions.

  One left the arena unconscious; the other with a dislocated shoulder.

  Her final match of the preliminary rounds pitted her against Harrick the Hammer, a veteran fighter whose reputation for overwhelming force matched her own.

  'Finally,' she muttered, 'someone who won't surrender before we've exchanged a single blow.'

  The match began cautiously, both fighters testing each other's defences. Harrick wielded his namesake weapon—a massive war hammer that seemed impossibly light in his hands.

  Emberfist, restricted herself only to punches and kicks, not a lot of techniques. Only focusing on her exceptional speed and the raw power of her strikes. Something she had picked up from Tavalor.

  For several minutes, they circled and clashed, neither gaining a decisive advantage. Then Harrick overextended, committing too fully to a sweeping blow that Emberfist easily sidestepped.

  Her counterpunch was devastating. The air itself seemed to distort around her fist, the impact creating a visible shockwave that lifted Harrick off his feet and deposited him unceremoniously on his backside several metres away.

  The arena went silent. Harrick sat where he had landed, his expression a mixture of pain and disbelief. After a moment, he raised a hand.

  'I surrender,' he said, his voice barely audible.

  With that, the preliminary rounds ended. Six fighters remained: Emberfist, Pip, a sleek, charming man named Dorian Thorne whom Pip clearly despised, a muscular fighter wielding what appeared to be a wooden bat, and two others whose unremarkable performances had somehow carried them through.

  As lots were drawn for the quarter-finals, Tavalor found himself increasingly intrigued by the bat-wielding fighter. Something about his stance and the peculiar design of his weapon suggested origins far beyond the current world.

  A baseball bat? Is they guy another transmigrator from Earth? Tavalor wondered. It seems I wasn't the first to arrive in this world.

  The matchups were announced: Pip versus Dorian Thorne, the bat-wielder against Emberfist, and the two remaining fighters against each other.

  ***

  'Ladies and gentlemen!' the tournament announcer's voice boomed across the arena. 'Our first quarter-final match: Pip versus Dorian Thorne!'

  The crowd roared as the two men took their positions. Pip's expression remained neutral, but there was a tension in his stance that hadn't been present in his earlier fights. Dorian, by contrast, appeared utterly relaxed, his handsome features arranged in a pleasant smile that didn't reach his cold eyes.

  'Been a while, Pip,' Dorian called, loud enough for the front rows to hear. 'How's life treating you since Siana chose me?'

  Pip didn't respond verbally, but his eyes narrowed.

  The referee, sensing the unusual hostility, moved quickly to start the match before tensions escalated further.

  What followed was unlike Pip's previous fights. Where before he had dispatched opponents with minimal effort, now he seemed unable to land a clean hit.

  Dorian moved with uncanny grace, every attack just missing its mark, every counter slightly miscalculated.

  The crowd grew restless as the match stretched on, nearly twice as long as any of Pip's previous encounters. Whispers spread through the audience—was Pip losing his edge? Had his earlier victories been flukes?

  Then, in a moment of apparent frustration, Pip abandoned his precise style. His movements became unpredictable, almost feral. His eyes took on a reddish gleam, and his strikes gained visible speed.

  Dorian's smile faltered as he found himself suddenly on the defensive. One blow connected with his shoulder, spinning him halfway around. Another caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs.

  'Enough playing around,' Pip growled, his voice rougher than before. With blinding speed, he closed the distance between them, delivering a palm strike to Dorian's chest that sent him flying backward into the arena wall.

  Dorian slid to the ground, momentarily stunned. The crowd held its collective breath as Pip approached his fallen opponent.

  For a tense moment, it seemed Pip might break the tournament rules with an excessive attack. Then, visibly controlling himself, he stepped back.

  'I surrender,' Dorian gasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. 'The victory is yours.'

  The referee declared Pip the winner, and the arena erupted in cheers. As Pip walked away, his eyes gradually returning to their normal hue, Tavalor made a mental note.

  Are there barbarians? Berserkers?

  That hadn't been a standard combat technique—it had been something else entirely. A berserker method, perhaps, trading control for explosive power and enhanced senses.

  Another non-circle technique. Where did he come from? Pip was more and more interesting to Tavalor.

  ***

  Little Shadow sat on Tavalor's shoulder, munching on some snacks. He also had gotten bored of watching as well and had switched his primary activity to eating.

  He had even forced Tavalor to walk around and buy one of everything and carry them all in the system space for him.

  Right now Little Shadow was enthusiastically eating candied dragonberries, their crystallised surfaces crackling with magical energy that disappeared into its dark form with a satisfied sizzle.

  The second quarter-final between the two unremarkable fighters proved to be anything but. For four gruelling hours, they battled across the arena in a showcase of Vallenport's traditional fighting styles.

  The Flowing Water offensive setup versus the Iron Mountain defensive setup—a classic matchup that had the crowd enthralled despite its length.

  Between enthusiastic chirps, the Little Shadow would occasionally pause its feast to watch the tournament proceedings, only to return to the snacks with renewed vigour whenever the crowd's roars signalled an exciting development in the arena below.

  Eventually, the Iron Mountain practitioner prevailed, his superior endurance outlasting his opponent's greater mobility.

  Emberfist's match against the bat-wielder—introduced as Master Jong of the 'Baseball Clan'—was the day's true spectacle.

  So there are transmigrators. I wonder who they are? How strong are they?

  Tavalor sat up in excitement after that four hour snooze-fest.

  Jong opened by tossing a small white sphere into the air, then striking it with his bat with incredible precision. The ball whistled through the air directly at Emberfist's face, only to be caught inches from impact.

  Interesting toy,' she said, crushing the ball in her fist. 'Got any more?'

  Jong grinned, producing another ball from a pouch at his belt. 'I've got plenty, little lady. The question is whether you can catch them all.'

  What followed was a bizarre dance of projectiles and counter-attacks. Jong launched ball after ball, each following an impossible trajectory that curved, dipped, or accelerated mid-flight.

  They were hidden weapons. Some were explosive. Some were smoke bombs. Some were water bombs. Muddy. Grassy. Strange poisons as well.

  Emberfist, relying on her exceptional reflexes, evaded most while catching or deflecting others. Occasionally burning the unexpected ones to ash.

  When Jong finally ran out of ammunition, he gripped his bat with both hands, the weapon humming with subtle energy.

  'Time for the home run,' he declared, charging forward.

  Emberfist met his charge head-on, her fist connecting with the bat's sweet spot. The resulting impact created a shockwave that rippled through the arena, sending dust and debris flying.

  When visibility returned, Jong lay unconscious in a small crater, his prized bat snapped cleanly in two beside him.

  'Victory to Emberfist!' the referee declared, his voice slightly shaky.

  As medics tended to the fallen Baseball Clan member, Tavalor thought about the implications.

  If Jong was indeed from Earth, it suggested others might have arrived before him. How many, he wondered, and what impact had they had on this world's development?

  ***

  The semi-final match between Pip and the Iron Mountain practitioner began immediately after the arena was repaired from Emberfist's devastating victory. The contrast in styles couldn't have been more pronounced—Pip's economy of movement versus his opponent's statuesque stability.

  For the first time, the audience witnessed Pip's true capabilities. His unusual fighting style, which observers had begun to recognise as something entirely unorthodox, allowed him to penetrate the Iron Mountain's legendary defence with swift, precise strikes.

  'His technique,' Tavalor remarked to Emberfist, who had joined him in the spectator stands, 'it increases his perception and attack speed tenfold, but at the cost of energy and longevity.'

  Emberfist nodded, her eyes tracking Pip's movements. 'A berserker style. Uncommon in these parts. If he's not careful, it'll burn him out before the finals.'

  Pip seemed aware of this limitation. After landing several decisive blows, he backed off, allowing his opponent to surrender honourably rather than forcing a knockout. The Iron Mountain fighter, recognising both his defeat and Pip's restraint, bowed deeply before exiting the arena.

  With this victory, Pip advanced to the finals. Only Emberfist's match remained to determine his opponent.

  However, with an odd number of semi-finalists due to earlier withdrawals, Emberfist had received a bye directly to the finals. This fact clearly irritated her as she paced the competitors' area, her expression stormy.

  'All this way,' she muttered, 'and I don't even get to fight a proper semi-final.'

  Tavalor noticed several finely dressed spectators paying particular attention to Emberfist. Their silver-trimmed robes and red hair marked them as members of her estranged family—the Emberfist Clan, renowned for their fiery temperaments and equally fiery fighting styles.

  'Her prowess has grown considerably,' one older man remarked to his companion. 'Perhaps leaving the clan compound was beneficial after all.'

  'Or perhaps,' his companion replied, 'she's found a better backer.'

  Their gazes drifted briefly toward Tavalor before turning back to the arena, where preparations for the final match were underway.

  While waiting, Tavalor overheard more fragments of conversation about Pip and his rivalry with Dorian Thorne. According to local gossip, Pip and a girl named Siana had grown up together as orphans in Vallenport's poorer districts. They had been inseparable until Dorian, the scion of a minor noble house, had entered the picture.

  Siana had broken her unofficial betrothal to Pip, choosing instead the security and status Dorian offered. The betrayal had left Pip alone and embittered, dedicating himself to martial prowess while Dorian solidified his position in Vallenport society.

  A classic tale, Tavalor thought with amusement. The dumpedMC, the privileged rival, the shallow love interest. The world always seems arranged to favour the hero.

  Yet reality rarely followed such neat patterns. Dorian, despite his role as the 'villain' in this particular story, had displayed impeccable manners throughout the tournament.

  He hadn't boasted or threatened—merely competed to the best of his abilities. And in Tavalor's experience, women rarely chose wealthy suitors solely for their material advantages; there were usually more complex factors at play.

  Such reflections were interrupted as Pip and Emberfist took their positions for the final match. The atmosphere in the arena had changed, charged with anticipation. These were Vallenport's finest non-guild combatants, about to determine the tournament champion.

  'May the best fighter win,' Pip said with a respectful nod.

  Emberfist responded with a fierce grin. 'Don't worry. I will.'

  The referee raised his hand, then brought it down sharply. 'Begin!'

  Instead of attacking immediately, the two fighters circled each other, each assessing the other's stance and potential weaknesses.

  Pip's eyes began to take on that familiar reddish gleam, his berserker technique engaging gradually rather than all at once.

  Emberfist remained patient, her guard high, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  Pip struck first, a blindingly fast combination that would have felled a lesser opponent.

  Emberfist blocked the initial strikes and countered with a powerful hook that Pip barely avoided.

  The exchange set the pattern for what followed: Pip's superior speed allowing him to land more hits, while Emberfist's greater power meant each of her successful strikes did significantly more damage.

  Neither could maintain a clear advantage for long.

  As the match progressed, Pip's berserker technique began to show its limitations. His breathing grew laboured, his movements fractionally slower.

  Emberfist, recognising the shift, pressed her advantage with increased aggression.

  A particularly vicious uppercut caught Pip under the chin, lifting him momentarily off his feet. He staggered but remained standing, his eyes now blazing like hot coals.

  With a roar that didn't sound entirely human, Pip charged, abandoning all pretence of technique in favour of raw fury.

  Emberfist met the charge head-on, their collision creating a shockwave that rippled through the arena.

  When the dust settled, both fighters were still standing, though Pip swayed dangerously. Blood trickled from a cut above his eye, partially obscuring his vision.

  Emberfist's knuckles were raw and bleeding, but her stance remained solid.

  'Surrender,' she advised, raising her fists once more. 'You've fought well, but this ends now.'

  Pip's response was a snarled obscenity. He lunged forward, his movements desperate and uncoordinated.

  Emberfist sidestepped easily, delivering a precise strike to the base of his skull as he passed. Pip collapsed face-first onto the arena floor, unconscious.

  The referee rushed forward, checking Pip's vitals before raising Emberfist's hand. 'Victory by knockout! The tournament champion: Kela Emberfist!'

  The crowd erupted in cheers, nobles and commoners alike united in their appreciation of the spectacular display. Guild representatives were already making their way toward the arena floor, eager to extend offers to the top finishers.

  Tavalor allowed himself a small smile.

  Emberfist had proven herself decisively, not just to the audience but to the family members watching from the stands.

  Her victory would elevate her standing in Vallenport society, providing additional opportunities and connections.

  More importantly, he reflected, she had clearly enjoyed herself. For someone who valued direct action and clear outcomes, a tournament victory represented perfect satisfaction.

  As Emberfist accepted her prize—a substantial purse of gold and a certificate entitling her to special training at any guild of her choice—Tavalor's attention was drawn to Pip, who was being helped from the arena by medics.

  The man's eyes had returned to normal, but there was a darkness in them that suggested his defeat might not be accepted gracefully.

  Something to keep an eye on, though hardly a serious concern given Tavalor's own capabilities.

  For now, it was enough to enjoy Emberfist's moment.