The boys exchange a look. Zara’s arms fold over her thorax in an intricate pattern. No one answers. I sigh.

  “Okay… well. After what Zara said, I think it is time that we make the move to Haven.” I glance around at the ever-present forest, feeling in my bones how featureless it has become. “She’s right. We’re in the dark. Zara, I know it’s been a minute, but how strong were the reported leaders when you left?”

  “Most were in the high teens in terms of this arbitrary leveling system,” she answers. “Though there were… outliers.”

  “I’m sure. Even a few day-night cycles ago, we encountered a dude who was in his 20’s. We have information on Assless that people will probably want, so we can trade it for some other intel. I even have a line on that super hot vampire lady, too.”

  “Assless?” Burl asks, snorting.

  “An Ekinor warrior named Irda Kazoo, or something like that,” I say, trying to remember.

  “The Deathlord Zelnar is one of the strongest Competitors in this entire arena,” Zara says, going rigid. “You crossed paths with him and survived?”

  “Yeah, me and Threenut are kind of a good team,” I say, winking at the Otachai. “We fought him first hand. I bet that’s some juicy gossip for the murder-rumor-mill.”

  “Very,” she says.

  “I know it’ll be risky,” I continue, pacing a bit. And relishing the feeling of the skirt swaying around my legs. “Exposing ourselves is a roll of the dice. But we need to know more. We just have to make it to the end, right? What if we’re close? What if all these murder-happy psychopaths have done most of the work for us already? We’re totally ignorant of the current state of affairs, and that could get us killed.”

  “Hey, uh,” Burl says, glancing between us. “I know we’re all buddy buddy, sure, but I’m still gonna get to go back to Mr. Grent, yeah?”

  “Oh, shit,” I say, rubbing my eyes. The question feels like a betrayal, though I don’t know why I didn’t expect it. “I totally forgot. Yeah, Burl. If he’s there, you can resume your, uh, employment. Or not. Up to you.”

  “There will be others,” Zara says quietly. “Of all our species. Including yours.”

  Other humans. That idea hits me square in the gut. I’m not entirely sure how long it’s been, but I’ve weirdly gotten used to the idea of the strange aliens around me. For some reason, the thought of seeing another human makes me nervous.

  “It should do the opposite. Others of your kind, especially in a stage such as this, offer security and safety. Far more than sleeping among your enemies.”

  I know. I know.

  “This course of action is wise. Let us go to this Haven and learn what we can. Let us find allies, not of convenience, but of blood and soul.”

  On the surface, her words make so much sense. I should be trying to find other humans as fast as I can. I should be helping other humans grow strong and complete Challenges, not these people who will, by our own collective agreement, be my enemies one day. There is more at stake here than merely my life. This is a battle of survival.

  So why, as I lead my little group back onto the path, do I feel so sick at the thought?

  ***

  Stone, fire, and asymmetrical curves: the entrance to the Haven is jarring and absurd after the endless lilac forest. Perhaps two hour’s journey, and two right turns, were all it took to bring us to the open archway leading in. It is, for lack of a better word, industrial, the first metal and unnatural lighting I’ve seen outside of the Aethid’s maw trap. At the entrance, a pair of armored suits, almost miniature versions of the Warbreaker, stand silent guard. Not really sure why guards would be necessary in a true haven, but I guess maybe the ‘safety’ this place offers is more illusion than reality. I can’t even spare them the time it would take for Identification to activate, though.

  Not with the crowd moving about behind them like a damn medieval marketplace.

  Dozens, maybe hundreds, of exotic individuals from as many species weave in and among each other, walking, crawling, slithering… floating?

  “Now?” a deep voice whispers from off to my right.

  “Would be the time, brethren,” another answers, equally soft yet even deeper. “Though I find myself hesitating.”

  “Why’s that, Bryke?” A third voice rumbles from farther down the path.

  I fight the urge to turn and look for the source, though I ready Gravity Shift to fling whoever it is back into the trees, should they make a move.

  “Look at them, Mace. There’s four different species, standing together like they don’t care no way is which. Makes me think: what’s going on here, yeah?”

  “Thinking ain’t for you, Bryke.” The third voice is understanding, not sarcastic, like he didn’t mean it as an insult. “You always get a headache.”

  “No doubt, Cheeks, but I can’t help it. Think we should ask them?”

  “Ask them? We’re hiding here to ambush them. Asking them would kind of defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe we ask them, then we kill them,” the second voice cuts in.

  “Sensible, Mace. Sensible. But who should ask?”

  I finally turn to look at the treeline. My unnatural perception picks out three large forms in the darkness under the canopy leaning around trees to study our party. I give them a little wave. They immediately duck back behind their trees.

  “Now you’ve done it, Bryke. We should have just killed them.”

  “But now we can ask them, right?”

  I fill my lungs to shout over to them when Zara grabs me in four places and shoves me forward through the open arch. I turn, ready to snap at her, but the words die on my lips. Outside the gate, from the other side of the trail a pair of tall, muscular figures with skin in shades of pink stare after us, frustrated, sharp weapons in hand.

  Identification: Formrak, Gorinar Scalpmaster

  Level: 12

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Strengths: Strength, Toughness

  Weaknesses: Intelligence, Charisma, Math

  The Gorinar are the Competitor species of the Eighth. A species bred for strength and stupidity, the Gorinar’s tribal society was encouraged, then eventually mandated, by their Ekinor overlords. The Ekinor and the Gorinar are the only species to share an ecosystem prior to the advent of the Tournament.

  “The gate is the most dangerous part of Haven,” Zara whispers. “There are ever those hoping to make others their prey.”

  “Thanks,” I say, shuddering at the thought of the massive ax burying itself in the back of my head. “Did you hear the others?”

  “What others?”

  “Three… uh… hm. I didn’t catch their species. There were three others waiting to ambush us, and…”

  I trail off. The silent pair of would-be ambushers lie prone on the path, three equally large Gorinar standing over them, bloody weapons in hand. They look at us with eyes that are anything but dull.

  Identification: Bryke, Gorinar Doomspeaker

  Level: 15

  Strengths: Agility, Intelligence (relative)

  Weaknesses: Optimism, Female Gorinar

  Identification: Cheeks, Gorinar Wordbreaker

  Level: 15

  Strengths: Strength, Intelligence (relative)

  Weaknesses: Introspection, Impulsivity

  Identification: Mace, Gorinar Tonguestealer

  Level: 15

  Strengths: Will, Intelligence (relative)

  Weaknesses: Self-Control

  “Hey, human,” the largest, Cheeks, calls out. “Why are you traveling with that group? How did that happen?”

  “Good question!” I call back. “Why did you just kill two people of your own species?”

  “Did we?” He glances down, his face turning thoughtful, tusks drooping. “So we did. Should we feel… something, brethren?”

  “They were in the way,” Bryke says matter-of-factly.

  “And too dumb to live,” Mace says, clapping Cheeks on the shoulder. “If not us, then someone else would have—”

  The rest of what he was going to say cuts off as a pack of Otachai burst from the trees, ten strong at least, shouting war cries. Flashes of powers the color of warm sunlight and the silver of cold starlight rip into the trio, and they fall back, shouting to one another. The fight disappears into the trees, where roars and explosions echo over the path. Threenut fingers his stick at my side, but doesn’t move to follow.

  One voice lifts about the others, clear as a ringing bell.

  “Stop! I just wanted to hear what the human had to—” A grunt. “Ow, you little shit, stop—”

  Explosions drown out the rest.

  I take a breath. What the hell.

  “I told you,” Zara says softly. “The entrance is not safe.” She turns me around to face the crowd again. “Now, you may gawk.”

  A piece of me wants to argue, but the better part of me is more than happy to follow her advice. The crowd is staggering in size after the long days spent wandering the forest. The paths had felt empty, the arena’s size beyond reckoning, but that feeling had been an illusion. Threenut and I merely went the wrong direction. Thousands of Competitors must have made a beeline for the Haven, leaving the paths through the trees empty save for those brave enough to risk their lives in search of power.

  Screens made of the crystal blue light of the Seventh’s communications hover in the air, displaying numbers and lists that I can’t quite make out. Each is surrounded by a small crowd of various species, their faces gently limned in sapphire. Identifications stream across my consciousness too rapidly to process, but I gather enough to get a general idea of several of the species that I haven’t encountered yet. I feel Threenut’s hand on my knee as he leans on me for support, his eyes no less wide and searching than mine.

  I scan the crowd, going through a mental catalog of the species I’ve encountered.

  The Laranya of the First. Other than Zara, I can’t see a single arachnid in evidence. Weird.

  The Ekinor of the Second. Their glowing eyes mark them for what they are, though many have appearances that could feasibly be traced to a human or Drelni adjacent species. Several are dressed like classic wizards and others like undead knights, but they are easily differentiated by the brightness of their eyes and the state of their decay.

  The Drelni of the Third. The vampires stand out for their beauty and grace and arrogance, though I am disappointed to note that Vesyla isn’t in evidence. Taller than all but the Gorinar, they look down their noses at the other species with a supercilious disdain.

  The Aethid of the Fourth. The slender elves, many in similarly styled jumpsuits to the two we encountered in the wild, walk together, heads often bent in close conversation. It remains jarring that the elegant elf-looking species seem to be techheads.

  The Qellis of the Fifth. The fairy-like species flits about above our heads, voices tinkling, careless laughs like bells chiming. Only a bit larger than the Otachai, but slender and graceful, it is easily apparent how the delicate magical slippers I’m wearing came from their royalty.

  I discover for the first time the Urnza of the Sixth. Standing out as truly alien, the Competitors of the Sixth seem to be made of varied colors of slime. Mouths form when they want to speak and appendages when they need to manipulate the physical world. The other species give them a wide berth.

  The Otachai of the Seventh. I catch glimpses of the little plant people scurrying about at knee level, the shape and color and texture of their leaves allowing them to stand out, small as they are. Even at first glance, I can tell that Threenut was not merely boasting when I first met him; he really is big for his kind.

  The Gorinar of the Eighth. The powerful warriors push through the crowd with their broad shoulders and roided-up physiques, each so tall as to be islands among the sea of other species. Most are alone, though there is one group led by a female bearing a staff decorated with the bones of species familiar and exotic.

  The Cobalds of the Eleventh. They move in great numbers, walking together in lock step, their leaders obvious and evident by their strength and confidence. The ‘Corps’ that rule Burl’s world. Many ‘employees’ look proud to be wearing the symbol of their leaders.

  There is no sign of the Ninth or the Tenth, no matter how long I look. Who, or what, they are remains a mystery, but there are others. Strange species, odd species, things that might once have been one of the base twelve, but do not register to my Identification as anything that fits. Something that was once Gorinar, but now bears spikes along its back like a fucked up porcupine. Another that might have been a slime, but now shifts and moves into semblances of flesh. A dozen, a hundred more that are too intricate or subtle or strange for me to comprehend in the brief flashes I get of them. It reminds me of the Insect God class that I was offered at the beginning of the Tournament, or the Stone Lion claws and legs. ‘Species evolution’ boons. Clearly, many of the Competitors chose, as I did, to remain in their original form, but as many didn’t.

  Above all, there is no sign of humanity. The longer I look, the more my heart clenches. Where are my people? Surely I’m not… it?

  A cold weight settles in my stomach. Kora did a pretty shit job of picking her champion. What if all of the Mentors did equally terribly? God, they should have been choosing warriors, special forces bros or whatever. Military professionals might have had a chance, even if we had no idea the Tournament was coming.

  Surely some of us would have survived, even if they chose poorly. Right? I’m alive, though I guess I have no business to be. I can’t be the only lucky one among the million humans chosen to fight.

  Yet the truth of the present speaks loudly in its silence. If any other humans remain among the living, they are well hidden.

  Another truth comes to me the longer I scan the crowd. What at first appears to be a clean mix of people large and small begins to resolve itself into groups. Members of the various species move together, talk together. They do not rub shoulders without a purpose. I see at least a dozen surreptitious movements, things being slipped from hand to hand or out of pockets or into pockets. Without my bullshit Perception, I imagine I’d miss all of it, but now it is laid out for me with shocking clarity.

  A shout rings in the square, startling me out of my reverie. The crowd shifts away from a pair of individuals. One is a Gorinar, taller than most of his brethren, his club large enough to cave in my entire chest. He hefts it with the casual ease I might a golf club, flipping it over his shoulder with a flourish. He shouts loudly enough that the words register and translate even where we’re standing half the square away.

  “I challenge! For evil, for murder. Answer!”