Charlemagne and Phatagin reappeared together in a large, opulent hall that contained what appeared to be hundreds of other beings. They were surrounded by a faint susurrus of silk and murmuring consistent with the barely contained nervous energy that preceded the arrival of someone truly important.

  No one paid the pair any attention.

  Charlemagne! Phatagin shouted through the Party Chat, having instinctively realized that a verbal outburst would be considered a faux pas. What have you wrought?

  Bawk, the rooster explained.

  But I have no wish to participate in these ‘Elite’ games. I was quite content to ride your…errr to strive together with our companions for victory in the normal ones. They were sufficiently difficult, especially the Battle Simulations. Although I don’t suppose this place has anything like that, it appears rather…primitive.

  Bawwk, Charlemagne rebutted, dashing the pangolin’s hopes for a reprieve.

  Good heavens! Why would they be exactly the same?

  Bawk.

  I suppose that being able to skip the weaker waves is somewhat of a boon. Except that a particularly vile sadist would force their pupils to skip to the highest wave unlocked, thus ensuring they would die much faster in the quest for greater results…

  Bawk, the rooster affirmed.

  Please, send me home, Phatagin begged.

  Having nothing to say about that, the rooster turned his attention to his surroundings. Hundreds of humans stood in small groups, chirping excitedly in low voices like sparrows. But, unlike sparrows, the men and women were dressed in colorful and impractical garments that were as ridiculous as the plumage of a very remarkable bird that had attempted to invade his farm a few months back and managed to kill one of his servants in training. The farmers had referred to it as a “peacock”, despite it being a female. Whatever it was, it was delicious, and the rooster idly wondered whether humans or peacocks were tastier. Unfortunately, it had been a while since he had dined on any human flesh, so a comparison was difficult.

  Phatagin must have noticed that Charlemagne was examining the crowd, because he too began looking around. His expression was none too pleased.

  I believe that we are in some sort of anachronistic representation of Earth’s technology. Look at those humans wearing metal plating all over…modern weapons have rendered that useless. Likewise, the clothing does not appear to have any of the hallmarks of modern industry: there are no zippers or stretchy materials.

  Bawk? the rooster asked, confused.

  I’ll have you know that I spent much of the last several months in constant conversation with humans. I’ve learned much of their culture and history. Unfortunately, most of it is quite boring, but it’s not like we pangolins have done much either.

  Bawk, Charlemagne objected.

  How many farms did you find built by chickens? Phatagin rebutted. We must face the truth, humanity built our civilization. Wait, what’s going on with your suit?

  Charlemagne opened his mouth to ask what the pangolin meant, but then he felt the three items that made up his Fop’s Raiment begin to shift and squirm. The rooster had a sense of déjà vu as he suddenly looked toward the ceiling, half expecting a meteor to burst through at any moment. When that obviously didn’t happen, he held out a wing to see if he could figure out what was going on. He was just in time to see a thin silver film coat the entire appendage before hardening into a series of shiny, silvery metal plates.

  Upon attempting to move his wing, the rooster noticed that his range of motion was considerably impaired by the overlapping plates. When he made certain motions, the slabs of metal slid over each other to allow movement. However, there was a limit to how far he could rotate in certain directions. Looking down at his feet, Charlemagne noticed that his legs were covered in the same type of metal, with exaggerated scaled claw guards and spurs that looked like wickedly curved daggers. As he continued to gawk, his top hat morphed into a full helm with three vertical slits, greatly restricting the rooster’s field of vision and causing Charlemagne to feel a bit stifled by his own clothing. At least, until his magical monocle slid into place, contorting itself to cover the slits and somehow restoring his eyesight to normal, allowing him to see what appeared to be a black cape fluttering behind him.

  Oh my! exclaimed Phatagin, It appears that you have turned into some sort of medieval knight. Well, I suppose that does certainly fit with the theme of this particular simulation. I dearly hope this doesn’t mean that you will be required to engage in any sort of competition involving chivalry or courtly manners. That would be disastrous.

  Bawk? the rooster asked.

  Exactly my point, the pangolin chuckled.

  Bawk, bawwk, Charlemagne said, changing the subject.

  What do you mean, you like my outfit? I’m not wearing any…

  Phatagin spun in place as he tried to get a good look at his own outfit. Although he lacked the incredible field of view that the rooster possessed, the most notable portion of his new attire was showcased directly in the middle of his chest, where a tabard had suddenly appeared. The tabard itself was red, and it depicted a golden rooster triumphant over a green dragon.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Why must I be a walking advertisement for you?” the pangolin moaned, forgetting to use the Party chat.

  The rooster looked at the tabard with displeasure but wasn’t quite able to figure out why the image displeased him. He was so engrossed in studying the rooster that he failed to notice that one of the hall’s occupants had excused herself from her group and had joined his. Although she still had to hold up a portion of her impractically long, green dress, the woman’s attire seemed less ornate than most of the other humans mingling in the hall. Charlemagne neither noticed nor cared, but Phatagin immediately pegged the newcomer as lower in social standing than the other humans present.

  “Well hello there, sug,” she said, her heavily accented speech instantly setting her apart from the murmuring masses.

  “Oh, err, hello,” Phatagin responded, confused either by the creature’s strange way of talking or the fact that she had just called a bird with the blood of hundreds on its talons “sugar”.

  Charlemagne merely glanced at the woman in order to size her up. Her mana reserves seemed to be low, but her control over it was excellent. Her Attributes were also probably lower than his, based on the way that her muscle fibers twitched as she walked. After this assessment, the rooster relaxed, confident that he could kill this woman if need be. As if on cue, Charlemagne’s Monocle of Refinement decided to do its job for once and showed the rooster its assessment of the human.

  Happy that his instincts had been correct, Charlemagne attempted to puff up his feathers in pride, forgetting that he was covered in metal plating. Having failed to accomplish that, he looked once more at the golden rooster that dominated Phatagin’s tabard.

  “Bawk,” he complained to no one in particular.

  “Well, that’s no way to greet your Attendant, now is it, sweetie?” the human woman responded. “And here I thought that you’d just love your new heraldry. I designed it myself: Gules, a rooster Or preying upon a dragon Vert.”

  Phatagin looked at Charlemagne for a moment, and then back at his tabard.

  “I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid I did not catch that. What is a ‘gules’?”

  “Huh, that’s strange. I thought that your orientation was supposed to draw from the cultural era of your planet that you’re most familiar with,” Josephine said. “Is this not all familiar to you?”

  “It appears that I may have overindulged in pre-System human legends,” Phatagin said with a heavy sigh. Charlemagne looked around, unconcerned at the unfamiliar pageantry on display. The colors were quite interesting, and some of the females’ plumage somewhat reminded him of his flock. It was, as human things went, not entirely incomprehensible.

  “At any rate,” the Attendant continued, “as a Knight, Ser Charlemagne of course has his own coat of arms. Since I was unable to find anything in his files indicating his preferences, I had to take the liberty of designing it on my own. And I do think that I did a pretty good job, don’t you?”

  “Bawk,” Charlemagne answered.

  “Sug, what do you mean, ‘the rooster doesn’t look right’? Josephine demanded. “It is as fine a rooster as I’ve ever seen, and it looks just like you.”

  “I think,” Phatagin broke in, “I think that the problem is not the rooster’s shape, but its color.”

  “Bawk!” Charlemagne agreed excitedly.

  “What’s wrong with the color,” Josephine asked. “The red background signifies power and martial spirit. The golden rooster signifies nobility and glory, while the green dragon contrasts nicely with the other two colors.”

  “Bawk,” the rooster said.

  “But, if we changed the color, that would violate the Rule of Tincture. And we wouldn’t want that, no we wouldn’t,” the Attendant argued.

  “Bawk.”

  The Attendant sighed. After a moment, the rooster on Phatagin’s tabard shimmered a moment before changing from gold to black.

  “Well, it’s still pretty, even if it violates the rules of heraldric design. All those simulated classes down the drain,” Josephine griped.

  The Attendant might have continued complaining, but at that moment the mood within the hall suddenly changed. The whispered conversations among what appeared to be System-generated humans suddenly stopped, and the entire audience turned as one to face one end of the hall. As they turned, those who were standing in what must have been the hall’s middle aisle shifted to the sides, leaving a clear line of sight all the way to both ends of the massive chamber. At one end of the hall stood a pair of enormous wooden doors. Thick bands of metal reinforced the timbers, while stout slats of wood stood at attention, ready to bar the entrance at a moment’s notice. At the other end of the hall stood an enormous dais, which was devoid of furnishings save for an enormous golden throne set with plush red fabric. Two smaller doors flanked the dais, and, as Charlemagne watched, more simulated humans appeared from them in bursts of incredibly powerful and complex mana, making it appear as if they had merely stepped through the door from a chamber beyond the great hall.

  The new humans all carried strange metal instruments, which they held vertically until they had all lined up in front of the dais, facing the crowd. There was a brief moment of consternation as the metal tubes were brought up and pointed toward the crowd. Charlemagne, remembering the soldiers with guns, feared that he was under attack. His mana surged, almost of its own volition, creating a force field that shielded him. With a quick correction, he ensured that Phatagin and their new servant were covered as well.

  “Charlemagne, my good friend, whatever are you doing?” Phatagin demanded. “Those are not weapons!”

  The rooster, unconvinced, kept the shield up.

  Then there was an enormous blast. Charlemagne felt proud of himself until he realized that he had been entirely incorrect. The only thing coming from the metal tubes was a rather pleasant noise, even if it was louder than he would have preferred. He dropped the shield.

  The entire audience now turned to face the door, which opened ponderously and with much groaning and creaking of the heavy timbers. As soon as there was enough space, heavily armored men, or creatures in the shape of men, for they were at least twice the height and eight times the weight of an ordinary human, began marching into the chamber one by one. They wore matching silver armor, and their identical kite shields had been polished until they shone in the steady light that suffused the hall. Their longswords were sharp and heavy, with a single jewel that radiated potent mana set into each pommel.

  The rooster idly wondered if there were any rules against attacking them, so he thoughtfully asked his servant.

  “Bawk?”

  “Well, no, I guess there’s no rule against trying to skip directly to the first event by killing the king. While I cannot endorse suicide, those who have earned the right to compete in the Elite Systemic Games ultimately have free will. And, remember, dying in anything but a Combat Simulation or an event means that you are dead dead, sug.”

  “Charlemagne, perhaps you should analyze one of those knights,” Phatagin suggested, his voice shaking.

  The rooster obliged.

  Charlemagne found himself faced with a difficult choice. Either he could die a gruesome death, or he could continue waiting.

  “Bawwwwk,” he groaned.