After I finished putting them on, my escort shouted for me to keep walking. Their voices were clipped and harsh as they pushed me again with their long man-catchers. I could feel the hard stone floor through the thin soles of my sandals.

  The market outside my prison cell was a cacophony of colors and sounds, a lively dispy of human commerce and interaction. Merchants of all kinds vied for attention, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony of salesmanship. Some spoke in hushed tones, conspiring with potential customers, while others bellowed out their wares with all the fervor of street preachers.

  A magician caught my eye during this swirl of activity. He drew a silken blue cloth from the ear of a blushing young woman, eliciting gasps and appuse from the crowd gathered around him. I watched with curious detachment, wondering if the magic was real or merely an illusion created by sleight of hand.

  As I made my way through the throngs, moving beyond the market and onto the main street, a young girl caught sight of me. Her cherubic face turned towards her mother, and she pointed in my direction, her eyes wide with wonder. “Is that the outnder?” she asked, her voice ringing out above the din.

  Her mother quickly hushed her, casting a furtive gnce in my direction before hurrying away. But the girl lingered for a moment, pulling at her mother’s hand and stealing one st look at me before disappearing into the crowd.

  The people we passed who were milling about on the main thoroughfare paid us little heed, their gazes sliding off us like water off a smooth stone. It was clear that our presence here was nothing new to them—they had seen it all before.

  A small brown mongrel dog caught our attention as it began to bark, its single white eye-spot contrasting sharply against its matted fur. The dog’s yapping drew a disheveled man out of a nearby tent, stumbling and lurching like a drunken sailor. He was followed by screams and hurled objects, much to the amusement of his neighbors.

  Despite the strangeness of our situation, it was clear that humanity was still humanity in this new world. The petty squabbles and crude humor of these people were no different from those of the world I had left behind.

  We strode past a multitude of round tents made from hides and oilcloth, their shapes reminiscent of the yurts of the Mongolian steppes. Some boasted intricate patterns, with threads of green and red intertwining like waves on the open sea. But for the most part, they were dull, squat things.

  I would have liked to have had a better look at some of them, but my eyes were drawn instead to a building made of clean-cut white stone. A symbol of a crossed sword over a wooden torch hung above the iron-banded entrance, marking it as some kind of armory or weapons shop.

  Just as we passed, the door burst open and a hulking giant of a man stumbled out, his massive form filling the doorway. A greatsword was strapped to his back, nearly as long as he was tall, and he drew it with a mocking roar of rage. His ham-sized hands gripped the leather-bound hilt under a cross guard just over the width of the bde, the weapon’s shallow fuller running about three-quarters up its length. As he waved the sword back at the people inside the building, shouting unknown curses, I could not help but marvel at its craftsmanship. The double-edged bde gleamed in the sunlight, and I could sense the power and weight of the weapon, even from a distance.

  Following the giant of a man was a thin figure draped in loose dark blue robes, with golden esoteric patterns sewn into the fabric around the sleeves and hem. He wore a wide-brimmed conical hat with the tip slightly folded, looking every bit like a wizard out of a role-pying fantasy game as he joined in his friend’s ughter.

  As they exited the building, a ptinum-blonde woman stormed out behind them, shaking with fury and fists clenched at her sides. Cd from neck to toe in pte and mail armor, a white tabard with a golden chalice hung loosely over her armored chest. A fnged mace, with sharp spikes protruding from its head, was slung from a belt made of thick iron rings. She delivered a powerful punch to the bare shoulder of the barbarian man, but the force of her own blow unbanced her, nearly causing her to stumble. The giant of a man only ughed harder at her momentary loss of composure.

  A typical adventuring party, I thought, before my escort shouted at me to pick up the pace. For a long while, I could still hear the woman berating the man in what sounded like a form of Latin until we passed another market square and the sounds of their argument were drowned out by the hubbub of the city.

  We took a left turn from the main avenue and continued through the byrinth of tents. As we progressed, the object of our journey came into sharp focus: a colossal circur structure crafted entirely from massive wooden logs, fashioned in the style of a primitive Roman arena. A small market had formed around the periphery of the building, and the air was thick with a sense of festivity as the din of commerce grew louder with each step.

  The throng of people surrounding us began to part as we made our way through a myriad of colorful stalls. In our wake, I could hear the murmurs and whispers of the popuce as they debated my fate.

  Finally, we arrived at the arena’s entrance. Its colossal iron portcullis, resembling the jaws of some beast that had devoured a multitude of humans, loomed before us. Guards draped themselves zily around the entrance, leaning against great gives of banded wood and bded steel. As I stepped through the threshold, a chill crept into my bones, and I felt the gnawing sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach that I had been marked for sacrifice to this pce.

  I was shoved roughly into a wooden cell, and again I was left alone with my thoughts.

  ***

  “Yet another cell,” I grumbled. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room, and when they did, I realized I was very much in deep trouble. A small st in the door allowed a sliver of sunlight to penetrate the gloom, illuminating the sandy floor of the cell. Above, a series of cables, winches, and pulleys were attached to the door, no doubt designed to lift it when it was my turn to fight.

  I could hear the murmurs of a crowd through the opening and quickly made my way over to see what was causing the commotion. Looking through the open st, I could see a roughly circur arena with a white sand floor. Above the sands rose a fenced wooden stand area made of rough-hewn logs. The audience was a mix of unarmed citizens and armored martial types, all shouting and cheering as an armored Warrior entered with a swagger that exuded confidence and skill.

  I was surprised by a sudden grinding noise as the wooden reinforced door to the cell on my right was raised. Quickly looking back through my window to the arena, I observed a ceremony official with a colorful plumed helmet and a bronze breastpte throwing a gray weapon into the arena’s center. A scrawny figure, cd in rags, abruptly darted from the cell to the center of the sand, scooping up the weapon with thin, weak arms as if it were the most precious thing in the world before adopting his best fighting stance. The crowd roared their approval.

  The shape on closer inspection was a pitifully poor specimen of a man. His beard and hair were a long and unkempt brown, and his eyes were wild with panic. He was holding a straight steel or iron short sword with both hands in front of him, arms locked and stiff.

  Across from him, the armored Warrior closed his helm, and hefted a rge shield in his left arm. Holding a curved backsword in his right hand, he executed a few simple flourishes before walking nguidly up to his opponent. The crowd’s cheers and jeers faded into a distant hum as the Warrior closed in on his prey. For every step forwards he took, the wild man took a step back.

  The armored Warrior reached the center of the arena and gave a wild, uluting battle cry, which was met by a great roar from the crowd as he charged. The rag-cd man broke and panicked. He threw his sword down and tried to cmber up the stanchions. After his second failed attempt, he gave up and retrieved his short sword with shaking hands, his eyes now filled with the look of a cornered animal.

  Cd in heavy armor, the Warrior moved closer with fast but sure steps. Sprinting, he aimed a cool, methodical cut at the poor soul in rags, who threw up his sword to block the blow. His effort was in vain as the Warrior’s long curved bde cut a crescent through the air, leaving a red line across the man’s chest.

  Screaming in pain and shock, the thin man crumpled to his knees, lifeblood pouring through his hands. Like a gardener plucking weeds, the armored man put an end to his misery with a simple flick of the wrist, cutting across his throat to sever the thread of his life. Turning to the crowd, he raised one closed fist in salute, and an approving roar erupted. Another of the Children of the Tides had been blooded this day.

  Despite the violently surreal scene pying out in front of me, I could not help but wonder how many experience points the victorious Warrior had gained from killing his opponent. It was a callous thought, but one that revealed the brutal nature of this pce.

  As soon as the man fell to the ground, the victor picked up the defeated man’s short sword in his other hand and turned back to his corner, walking through the gates at the far end to riotous appuse. On the sands, a group of young boys between the ages of ten and fifteen hurriedly dragged the corpse away in preparation for the next bout.

  This scene would repeat itself ten more times as the doors to my left and right were opened one by one. Blood was spilled on the sand, and a bitter harvest was reaped. Some prisoners surrendered without a struggle, huddling in their cells, and were butchered like livestock. Others fought with all their might and were cut down in a gruesome dispy of force.

  One desperate soul even tried to outrun his fate, but the spectators’ jeers were little comfort as he met his end like an animal. It was a stark reminder that in this world, as in any other, power was the only currency that truly mattered. The unfairness of it all made my blood boil.

  As the door to my cell slowly rose with the grinding of gears, an official from above threw a weapon into the sands. It traced a graceful arc, glittering as it reached its zenith before falling to signal the start of the Blooding. It was a kill-or-be-killed scenario, and it seemed the universe agreed, as a new quest notification fshed across my inner vision.

  New Quest: Kill Jongshoi and survive the Blooding.