Chapter 148: Number 099

*Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Parthanon* - one week ago

The tournament registration opened at dawn.

Aris had spent the past three days recovering. Eating whatever food he could afford. Sleeping whenever his body demanded it. And slowly, painfully, putting himself back together.

His arm had healed. The mending potion and his body's natural resilience had done their work. The bruises were fading to yellow. The hollow look in his eyes remained, but there was something else there now too.

Steel.

He shook off the fear. Shook off the weakness. Let the resentment and the anger settle into his bones like cold fire. He had been kidnapped. Tortured. Beaten. Drained of blood by a madman.

He would not be weak again.

---

The Coliseum was impossible to miss.

It rose from the heart of Parthanon like a mountain of stone and magic, taller than any building in the city. Its walls were carved with images of ancient battles, heroes and monsters locked in eternal combat. Banners flew from every tower, and the artificial sun seemed to shine brighter when it touched its gleaming surface.

But what caught Aris's attention was not the Coliseum itself. It was the carnival that had grown around it.

Merchants had set up shop outside the arena, transforming the surrounding plaza into a sprawling fair. Tents and stalls and portable shops selling everything from weapons to food to good luck charms. The smell of roasting meat mixed with the sounds of barkers shouting their wares.

And in the middle of it all, a familiar face.

Gront.

The Orc caravan master stood beside his wagon, haggling with a customer. His dark green scales caught the morning light, and his cultured voice carried across the crowd.

Aris pushed through the people, his heart pounding.

"Gront!"

The Orc turned. His eyes widened when he saw Aris.

"You. The healer boy." Gront's massive hands dropped to his sides. "I thought you stayed in Thornbrook."

"Where is Vorn?" Aris's voice was tight with barely controlled rage. "He kidnapped my fox. Where is he?"

Gront's expression shifted. Something like guilt flickered across his features. "Vorn departed as soon as we entered the city. I don't know where he went."

"The fox. He had my fox. You must have seen—"

"Vorn told us you sold the animal to him." Gront's voice was careful. "That you decided to stay in Thornbrook. We had no reason to doubt him."

"SOLD HIM?" Aris's voice rose to a scream. "HE KIDNAPPED MY FRIEND! HE—"

He lunged at Gront. It was stupid. The Orc was twice his size and surrounded by guards. But rage had burned away all reason.

Gront caught his wrists easily. "Calm yourself, boy."

"Let me go! Tell me where he is! Tell me—"

A heavy hand landed on Aris's shoulder, pulling him back. He spun, fist raised, and found himself face to face with a giant.

The man was huge. Easily seven feet tall, with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his ear to his chin. His arms were thick as tree trunks, and his eyes were surprisingly gentle.

"Easy, kid." The giant's voice was deep but soft. "Fighting in the plaza will get you thrown in a cell."

"He—they—my friend—"

"I heard." The giant looked at Gront. "What's this about?"

Gront straightened his robes. "A misunderstanding. One of my travelers apparently took something that didn't belong to him."

"Not something," Aris snarled. "Someone."

The giant nodded slowly. "I see." He turned to Gront. "You want to press charges?"

Gront hesitated. Then he sighed. "No. I don't want things to go further." He reached into his belt and produced a small pouch. "Here. Ten silver. For your troubles. And I truly am sorry about Vorn. I didn't know."

Aris wanted to throw the money in his face. Wanted to keep fighting. But the giant's hand was still on his shoulder, and the rage was fading into something colder.

He took the money.

"My name is Turbo. Turbo Brock" The giant steered him away from Gront's wagon. "I run security for the tournament. And you look like you could use a friend."

"I don't need friends."

"Everyone needs friends." Turbo's eyes were kind. "Especially people who are alone and powerless in a city that doesn't care about them."

The words hit harder than Aris expected. He looked away.

"Come on," Turbo said. "Let's get you registered."

---

The registration line was long. Hundreds of fighters, all waiting for their chance at glory. Or money. Or whatever else drove them to risk their lives in the arena.

Turbo walked Aris past the line to a private booth manned by a bored-looking official.

"Tournament registration," Turbo said. "New contestant."

The official glanced at Aris and sighed. "Name?"

"Aris Orvellis."

"Age?"

"Seventeen."

"Bracket?"

"Below fifty."

The official pulled out a cord attached to a device similar to Lyra's relic. "Temple."

Aris pressed the cold metal to his forehead.

The official's eyes went wide.

"Kid, you're level one."

Aris said nothing.

"Level ONE." The official looked at Turbo, then back at Aris. "Are you sure about this? In the below-fifty bracket, we've never had a death, but you're so weak..."

"Just register my name."

"I mean, are you absolutely sure? The other contestants—"

"Register. My. Name."

The official shook his head. "Okay, kiddo. Your funeral." He scribbled on a form, then paused. "Wow. You have a lot of titles though. Good job."

He handed Aris a small metal plate with a number engraved on it.

099.

---

Turbo walked him out of the registration area. "My protégé is in the tournament too," he said conversationally. "Below-fifty bracket. He's a blacksmith, makes all our weapons." He patted the sword at his belt. "See this? He made it. Hard-headed kid, but good."

Aris barely heard him. His mind was already racing ahead. Potions. Equipment. Strategy.

He had ten silver. The money Gront had given him. Plus a handful of copper coins from his travels.

It wasn't much. But it would have to be enough.

---

He found a shop selling alchemical ingredients and bought what he could afford. Moonpetal. Silverroot. Bitter ember. Basic herbs, but enough for tier-two potions.

He found an inn willing to let him use their old, rusted cauldron for a few copper coins. The innkeeper was a grumpy old man who watched Aris work with suspicious eyes, but he didn't interfere.

Aris spent the night cooking. His hands moved from memory, grinding and measuring and channeling magic. By dawn, he had six vials. Two healing potions. Two stamina tonics. Two enhancement draughts.

Not enough. But it would have to do.

---

His first match was in the afternoon.

Aris entered the arena without potions or the witness stone. He was saving them for later rounds. For when the opponents would be stronger.

The crowd roared around him, thousands of voices blending into a wall of sound. The artificial sun blazed overhead, and the sand of the arena floor was warm beneath his feet.

His opponent was a swordsman. Older than Aris by at least ten years, with muscles and scars that spoke of experience. He smiled when he saw Aris.

"They're sending me children now?"

Aris didn't respond.

The gong sounded.

The swordsman raised his blade, settling into a practiced stance. "Don't worry, kid. I'll make it quick—"

Aris lunged.

He didn't wait for his opponent to move. Didn't wait for an opening. He threw everything he had into a single, devastating assault.

His radiant mark flared. His radiant orb materialized, launching missiles of golden light. His voice rose in the beginning of a chant.

The swordsman's smile vanished. He raised his blade to block, but Aris was already moving, circling, attacking from every angle.

"What the—"

Aris hit him with a blast of light that sent him staggering. Then another. Then another.

The crowd fell silent. This wasn't what they expected from a level-one contestant.

The swordsman recovered, lunging forward with a desperate swing. But Aris was already chanting. Already channeling.

"Die!"

Light exploded from his hands. The swordsman went flying, crashing into the arena wall and sliding to the ground.

He didn't get up.

Aris stood alone in the center of the arena, chest heaving, fists clenched.

The crowd erupted.