49th of Season of Air, 80th year of the 32nd cycle

  One against two, Newt had no intention of being a gentleman. Jets of flame burst behind him, and he rushed the closer swordsman. Magmin Scales and Granite Crust enveloped his body as he swung. The two royals scattered, their moment of confusion lasting less than a blink before their training kicked in.

  Newt’s target, a red-haired, stocky youth, assumed a firm defensive stance, and slashed his sword to swat away the incoming glaive. His arm shook as if he had struck stone, and in his shock, he watched the glaive pierce his chest. The young man’s eyes went wide, and he disappeared in one last burst of retaliatory flames.

  One against one, Newt ignored his opponent’s fiery techniques, the evolved Magmin Scales searing the heat as they struck. The fire-attributed mageknight was quick, his attacks decisive, but he was nowhere near Sal, the Swordpeak youth. Swift, experienced, and nimble opponents were Newt’s bane. Too quick to corner, yet able to deliver lethal blows with terrifying ease.

  The Firesahun team didn’t belong in that category. They had traded speed and agility for their element’s offensive power and devastating wide-area attacks, both of which faltered before Magmin Scales.

  Newt broke the other man’s defense in five moves and speared his neck with the final jab. Newt’s opponent vanished, and Newt collected the flags, his total reaching one hundred and fourteen.

  Looking at the number of points and his rooted flags, he was faced with a choice. Bow out or keep going? Their team average was at least eleven flags per person, probably enough for top thirty. Possibly top twenty. That was an amazing result, one that probably would have been beyond Explorer’s Gate’s reach prior to Newt joining.

  But Newt still had well over half his mana remaining. And with enough stamina for at least another fight, it felt a shame to just give up. But if royals had started grouping up, he would lose against a team of two or three Swordpeaks.

  They would exhaust his mana, and then it was only a matter of time before their techniques pierced his skin, mid-fifth realm or not. He would also lose against the Diamondsouls. The seal scribe team had had enough time to set up a good number of traps, some probably able to deceive Newt’s mindcore.

  With all those in mind, Newt raised his hands to surrender, and nothing happened. He swept the surrounding forest with his gaze, yet spotted no one.

  We can’t quit if there’s someone within a hundred yards of us, but they don’t need to be aware of our position. Newt smirked. For all I know, it’s a poor soul with a rooted flag trying to get out.

  Newt crouched and skulked through the nearby greenery, searching for his opponent. Finally, after walking almost a full circle, he spotted the flags. Sixteen points total, their owner nowhere in sight.

  Are sixteen points worth the risk? Newt wondered, but the only response he had was that someone formidable would have had more points. Then he noticed that the main flag’s colors matched the other two he had fought and concluded they moved around as a team of three.

  Newt closed his eyes and once more focused on what his mindcore could tell him. He searched for strange swirls of mana or unnatural flows, but found none. Suddenly, his back flared with phantom pain, and he threw himself to the side.

  A sword pierced right above his head, then swept down, flaring with fiery mana. Defenses covered Newt’s skin, and he grabbed his attacker’s wrist and twisted. A young woman screamed, and if not for the Blood Cult’s attack, Newt would have let go. But in that battle, he had lost all qualms about striking the fairer sex.

  A bolt of fire smashed into his face, dealing no damage. Newt pulled out his backup short-sword and plunged it in the woman’s chest. Flames struck him one final time before disappearing along with the female mageknight.

  Newt stood, dusted his robe, and went to collect the flags. His total had risen to one hundred and thirty. Thirteen on average, and he once more considered whether he should surrender. Just a scant few minutes ago he had reached a decision, and yet with a handful more points, greed tugged Newt at pushing his luck further.

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  One hundred and fifty. That’s fifteen flags per person, Even the last-placed of the royals would need at least three hundred to match that result. Ten royals, three thousand flags, and the realm spirit said there were around seven thousand in total. If I assume the ducal teams also won fifteen, that’s another two thousand two hundred and fifty.

  Newt made an ugly face. In theory, Explorer’s Gate might not even be in the top twenty.

  Two hundred would all but guarantee us a top twenty, possibly top ten.

  Newt could feel the points calling to him, but a tiny voice in the back of his head told him he might lose it all if he pushed his luck too far. He once more considered the rules, and realized he had missed something.

  Saurians can also gather points, but can’t surrender. When the final human raises their hand, the trial will end, the remaining points will be wasted. But will that happen?

  Newt had a gut feeling that a group of spell scribes allowed enough time to entrench themselves would eventually wipe out all the saurians, thus claiming all the points. The Diamondsouls would be the cultivated winners of the event.

  What if I fall into the Diamondsouls’ trap? Newt thought while returning to his flag.

  A jolt of phantom pain flashed in his temple as he reached the flag, and Newt ducked. A matte black bolt infused with air mana whistled above his head and slammed into a tree, exploding its trunk into pieces. The tree groaned and fell as Newt readied his glaive, scanning the forest for threats, but found no one.

  Shadow Valley, he knew immediately. The order focused on stealth and assassination. They struck from the shadows, used matte weapons, and its members would never reveal themselves unless they critically wounded their victims. The odds of an assassin confronting Newt in a straight fight were less than zero.

  Newt closed his eyes, focusing on his mindcore and sense of danger, but neither picked up a thing. Unless they attacked, the assassin was harmless, and they had either left, or knew how to conceal their presence, quite possibly both.

  No, he didn’t leave. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t abandon a massive windfall of points without giving it a couple of tries.

  Newt raised his hands again, more to test his theory than because he wanted to quit the event. He was stranded, just as he had suspected.

  Well, at least I don’t have to contemplate leaving anytime soon.

  With no better ideas, Newt searched the forest for any hint of the flag the assassin was carrying, but they almost certainly hid it somewhere safe. Newt smirked. It would be funny if someone scooped up the flags once they became mobile and removed the assassin that way.

  What would happen if someone killed them and their flags remained hidden? Do they become wasted, or would the realm handle it? The problem seemed too obvious for a ninth realm grandmaster not to have thought of, but Newt dared not make any guesses. Who knew what went on in the high realm mageknights’’ heads.

  Even with his attention visibly slipping, the assassin made no moves. Newt guessed they would wait until he was locked in combat with someone else, too distracted to consider sneak-attacks.

  With nothing better to do, Newt remained close to his flag, waiting for his forced inactivity to end.

  I can lose the assassin once they are rooted—Newt realized how silly the thought was a moment later. The assassin was a master of stealth; they must have stashed away their flag somewhere.

  Half an hour passed, the assassin proving themselves patient, and Newt sprinted through the jungle, then stopped abruptly twenty paces later. He spun around, noticing no sign of pursuit.

  Resigned to his fate, Newt moved in a random direction. Ten minutes later, a man wearing a green robe and wielding a pair of short-swords lunged at him from the bushes.

  Newt blocked the attack, and instead of following with a deadly riposte, he feigned weakness, letting the green-robed man press his assault. A sudden burst of phantom pain in Newt’s back announced the assassin, and Newt threw himself to the ground. A matte black bolt whistled and slammed into the green-robed man’s shoulder.

  Newt finished off his surprised opponent and rushed into the bushes from which he had ambushed him. He scooped up another thirteen points.

  One hundred and sixty-three. Newt raised his hands, but nothing happened. He was still in the trial.

  “Fine, have it your way.” Newt muttered, his voice loud enough for the assassin to hear him. “But once someone finds your flags, you are out, and don’t plan on seeing them again yourself, because I will drag you far away from wherever you left them.”

  No answer.

  Newt regretted, not for the first time, that he had not developed his mana sense to the point of being useful. He lacked the time to experiment with his refined mana, but even if he had enough time, his mana sense would extend several dozen feet at most.

  It would probably waste a lot of mana, too.

  Part resigned, part happy, Newt continued into the jungle. He would keep playing the game until the assassin gave up.