He was not happy, of course. When someone kidnaps your baby, you’re not supposed to be happy.
Although—he had slept remarkably well.
Narro shook his head, trying to get rid of that thought.
The trail was getting older. He was losing them. No matter how fast he went, it wasn’t fast enough.
“I hope Mary got Reralt and is making more progress,” he said to his horse.
The horse agreed by nodding solemnly in rhythm with his chewing.
***
A short day earlier, Narro and Mary had argued.
“What?”
When Mary was angry, her eyes turned to polished obsidian, her skin took on a greenish hue, and her hair… moved.
“Devin. The Gnome Extinguisher. He took Syril,” Narro panted, still catching his breath.
“I’ll go get Reralt,” he added, already stuffing supplies into his bag.
“NO,” Mary said.
Her voice layered itself—like a thousand Marys speaking at once.
Narro froze in place.
“I’ll fetch Reralt. You chase the trail. We go in twos.”
Mary’s voice settled back into one person again.
Narro, unable to nod, blinked in agreement. Ever since Mary had revealed she was a gorgon, she’d gotten better at using her powers. Narro had, in turn, gotten better at surviving them.
Mary nodded.
Narro could move again. He grabbed what he needed and bolted.
“We’ll meet at the Druidic Oaks. Southmost park,” Mary shouted after him.
Narro, having no idea what that meant, gave her a thumbs-up while saddling Twilight Sparkle, his horse. Last thing he saw when he drove away was Mary saddling a Pearlwhite horse. Speaking softly to it.
***
That was almost a full day ago. Narro was following the cart trail since then.
He stared in the thick forest hoping he spotted some form of civilization.
Not much later, Narro’s least favourite thing materialised directly in his path: a sign.
There was a sign on the road.
Narro hated signs on the road.
They were in a medieval setting. Most of the realm should be illiterate.
He called it “lazy narrating.”
We call it a sign.
Its only purpose: to point at a nearby building.
A wizard’s tower.
“Well, it wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t meant to follow it,” Narro muttered, shaking his head.
“Still feels lazy, though.”
When he—very smartly—followed the sign out of the forest, a tower emerged.
It stood perched atop a cliff, looming above a raging sea.
Ivory plating covered its surface, reflecting the sunlight with calculated purpose.
A lavish, over-the-top structure—built for the elite, or more accurately, for those who could afford to play the game.
He had arrived at the Sorcerers of the Shore.
Once a beacon of intellect, where scholars, puzzlers, and philosophers played grand tournaments of strategy and wit.
Now, ever since the Hash Bros. had taken over, its halls echoed with the shrieks of spoiled heirs and pre-bought champions, flaunting decks stacked by their nannies.
“It still hurts you lost that one tournament,” Narro said with a grin. “Bit of a sour loser perhaps?”
They trotted forward.
His horse vanished suddenly. making Narro sitting in air which naturally is not a good place to sit, he fell a good man horse size distance downward. After he stood up again, making gesture that could not be properly described without losing a all ages rating. he walked to the tower.
***
A drawbridge stood between Narro and the tower.
Its wooden planks were painted in five colours.
Next to it stood a man in a wizard’s robe, enthusiastically explaining a riddle to a small crowd.
Narro approached with suspicion.
“What’s this all about, then?”
“Ah!” The man beamed with the kind of joy only money could buy.
“To enter the tower and battle you must,
Follow the code of masters bejust:
Growth, growth, ritual, bolt, growth, recall, salve, ritual.”
“…What?”
The man held out his hand.
With a sigh, Narro dropped a coin into it.
“You must step on the right colours,” the man said, helpfully vague.
Narro took out his purse. He knew how the Sorcerers of the Shore operated.
Another coin changed hands.
“The code refers to the single spells of old,” the man added, as if that clarified anything. Another coin vanished into his pocket.
“You know you’re really not helping,” Narro muttered, strongly considering Reralt’s usual solution: throwing the coins at more painful places.
“The door is open anyway,” the man said cheerfully. “The code is just for fun.”
Then he collapsed with a strangled wheeze, a heavy silver coin having struck him squarely in the groin.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
“Should’ve put up a sign,” Narro muttered, stepping onto the drawbridge—likely in the right order, but entirely by accident.
***
Inside, a woman in a skimpy black dress greeted him.
“Congratulations, Champion of Old,” she purred.
“You are now eligible to purchase one of our exclusive sets,” she continued, holding up a box of five shiny cards as if it were sacred.
Narro rubbed his temples.
He looked at the woman—clearly just hired to sell overpriced junk to rich, horny nerds who’d fall for anything wrapped in cleavage and limited-edition foil.
Without answering, he walked past her and into the main hall.
“Fetch me a prune juice and some mana sniff, will you?”
A snobbish-looking man in a gold-and-purple robe handed Narro three coins with the air of someone tipping a stable boy.
Narro pocketed the coins.
“No,” he said, and kept walking.
He felt better immediately.
***
There was a reception desk of sorts. It was a desk. And it did say Reception.
The only difference was that, before anyone would help you, you had to put a coin into a slot.
Three options: Silver, Gold, Extra VIP.
Narro figured his question was simple enough, so he chose the silver option.
A goat emerged from behind the desk.
Narro was startled—but remained hopeful.
“I’m in search of Devin. Old man. Beard. Purple robes?”
“Beeheehee!” the goat screamed, and pointed to the gold coin desk.
“…Where are the restrooms?”
“Beeheehee!” Again, the goat pointed to the gold coin desk.
Narro felt a migraine coming on.
He silently wished Reralt were here.
At least then he’d get some kind of answer. Probably by roasting the goat.
He went to the gold desk.
A woman appeared as the coin dropped.
“Have you heard about our Extra VIP plan?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes. I’ve heard all about it. I’d just like the part where Devin went—you know, the guy with the beard and purple robes? Maybe repeat just that bit. Then I’ll seriously consider it.”
Narro was a smart man. He knew exactly how to counterspell sales talk.
“Devin?” the woman echoed. “Haven’t seen him in hours. Perhaps ask the GOAT?”
Narro looked at the goat. Then at the woman.
“No,” she said, pointing across the hall.
“The GOAT.”
She meant the snobbish man in the gold and purple robes.
Narro sighed.
“My luck.”
He turned around, already fishing out coins.
“Time to get some mana sniff and prune juice. Here goes nothing.”
***
The man was, of course, on-brand unhelpful.
“I don’t like Devin,” he said, sipping prune juice while stuffing mana sniff into one nostril. “So I would love to tell you exactly where he is.
But I like you even less.”
He wore a gold chain around his neck. It read: GOAT.
Narro stared at it, puzzled.
“Greatest Of All Time,” the man said with a smirk, as if the term required explanation.
“Goat?” Narro repeated, eyeing the man—his eyes were unusually high on his head, and he did have a goatee.
Narro whispered to himself that he needed this man.
That helped suppress the urge to laugh.
“How can I persuade you, oh… GOAT?” Narro asked, barely keeping his voice steady.
“Pff. Like we settle all disputes in the tower—by game,” the man sniffed.
Without looking at Narro, he gestured for a stool to be brought to him.
He stepped up, cleared his throat, and proclaimed:
“This man dared to ask me to rat out one of our own—one of the Protourders!”
He flung an arm dramatically toward the crowd.
“Well, I did say please,” Narro muttered.
“Therefore!” the GOAT boomed, placing his hand dramatically just before Narro’s face. “Before the Final tonight, I will play this man.
And I shall set him in his place.”
The crowd fell silent. A few cast Narro apologetic glances.
Narro couldn’t care less about losing a game he didn’t know.
Or worse: one that required a second mortgage to be competitive in.
“If he wins,” the GOAT said, with a pause so pregnant it gestated disdain, “I will squeal the location.”
He turned with a theatrical smirk.
“If he loses, he has to wear… the Sign.”
A chorus of oohs and aahs swept through the room like an overpriced promotional breeze.
“The Sign?” Narro asked, turning to the saleswoman in the skimpy outfit, who did not seem particularly fond of the GOAT.
“It’s a tattoo,” she said. “Means you’re banned from playing forever.”
Narro raised an eyebrow.
“A blessing?”
The woman chuckled. “Certainly better for your dating life.”
“I accept,” Narro said. Then added, turning to the crowd,
“So how do you play this game?”
There were a few fainting sounds in the back of the hall.
***
The room was dark.
On Narro’s side stood a rickety wooden table, a single candle, and an even more rickety wooden chair.
On the GOAT’s side: five candles, a chandelier, and a plush, gold-embroidered lounge sofa that looked like it came with climate control and scented mist.
Narro had, of course, refused to pay the “Exclusive Tier Upgrade Fee.”
“Shall I begin, or are you scared?” Narro asked, dryly. He grinned at the man across the table.
“We throw the 20-sided die,” boomed a voice.
Its owner was clad head-to-toe in armour adorned with eagles. His visor appeared to be a pair of opaque sunglasses.
His voice echoed like it was trying too hard.
“I am Judge Dread. I will be your judge.”
Narro opened his mouth to comment, but the judge raised a finger.
“I may have misinterpreted ‘magic tournament’ a bit,” he said solemnly.
“…Fair,” Narro said.
“Let him start,” the GOAT waved dismissively.
A full tribune of spectators leaned in with anticipation.
Narro shook his head.
How far have we fallen?
He drew his hand. Sighed.
The GOAT looked smug. Smirk growing like mould on a sandwich.
“This’ll be two, three turns tops,” the GOAT said, soaking in the pre-applause.
It’s Reralt, Narro thought, if you removed the muscles, charm, and human decency.
Narro went first.
“I play a Swamp, Dark Ritual, Helm of Awakening, and Sensei’s Divining Top.”
The GOAT laughed. “That’s useless.”
Narro raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“I spin the Top, put it on top, draw it, replay it,” Narro said, flat.
The judge nodded. “Legal.”
“That’s useless!” the GOAT scoffed.
“I spin the Top, put it on top, draw it, replay it,” Narro said again.
“You’re going nowhere.”
“I spin the Top, put it on top, draw it, replay it.”
“You have a combo. But it’s bad,” the GOAT said. “You’re not even—”
“I spin the Top, put it on top, draw it, replay it.”
“Okay, how long are you doing this?”
“Two hours,” Narro said calmly. “You have a final to play. So eventually, you’ll forfeit, and I win by default. Right?”
He looked at the judge.
Judge Dread nodded. “Tournament rules.”
The GOAT scrambled for his lawyer—who frantically flipped through a thick rulebook.
He shook his head and pointed to a page.
“You’re wasting time. That’s illegal.”
Narro spun the Top again. “Not wasting time; I’m playing out a combo with the purpose of winning—by forcing a forfeit.”
Judge Dread raised his shoulders. “It’s not technically illegal.”
“You’re ruining the game,” the GOAT pleaded one last time.
“Yes,” Narro said, spinning the Top.
“But also: very legal.”
***
Narro exited the tower.
He now had a location device to find Devin, a formal request never to return,
and, as a bonus, the woman had offered to babysit anytime he wanted.
“Stupid game,” Narro muttered as he mounted his horse—who had conveniently reappeared—and rode off in the direction he’d been pointed.
Behind him, the tower sat quiet.
That evening, the administrators huddled in candlelight, working hard on a new rule update.
A deck had been added to the banned list:
The Deck of Infinite Wasted Time.
***
Decklist:
- 4× City of Traitors
- 4× Ancient Tomb
- 4× Lotus Petal
- 4× Dark Ritual
- 4× Street Wraith
- 4× Chrome Mox
- 4× Helm of Awakening
- 4× Voltaic Key
- 4× Sensei’s Divining Top
- 4× Gitaxian Probe
- 20× Swamp
- Patience
How It Works:
- Play the Top.
- Spin the Top.
- Put Top on top.
- Draw Top.
- Repeat until opponent has real-life obligations.
Chances combo hits turn 1 with mulligans: 82.6%.