My eyes flickered open, the dim glow of dawn spilling across the room. I was back. The familiar weight of exhaustion pressed down on me. I wondered if, over the next few months, I’d ever grow used to these special shifts.. I exhaled slowly, letting my vision adjust to the faint light filtering through the shutters.

  Master Matt had kept me blindfolded the entire night. His lesson had been merciless, forcing me to rely on instinct alone, dodging attacks I couldn’t see. I was battered and bleeding by the end, and the healing potion he gave me kept me upright. Even now, phantom aches lingered beneath my skin.

  I sat up with a sigh and shuffled to the bathroom, taking care of business that couldn’t wait. When I returned, my equipment lay scattered across the floor like discarded armor from a fallen soldier. I’d worn it to bed most nights, trusting its self-repair enchantments, but it lacked self-cleaning. After my shower last night, I couldn’t bring myself to put the grimy-looking gear back on.

  Instead, I activated my Anchor.

  The interface shimmered into existence, revealing the spoils of last night, the Warlords “donations.” My inventory was brimming: clothes, equipment, healing and mana potions… and something stranger.

  Twin swords materialized in my hands, their edges gleaming faintly in the dim light. I invoked Identify.

  The words lingered in my mind, heavy with implication. I promptly dismissed the blades back into storage. “Ain’t nobody got time for that,” I muttered, refusing to flirt with cursed whispers.

  I continued rifling through the items until I found what I truly needed: a plain set of blue robes and a pair of brown boots. No stats, no enchantments, just clean fabric. I summoned them onto the bed and dressed, tugging the robes into place until they looked halfway respectable.

  Before heading downstairs, I opened my Anchor once more. Yesterday’s level-up still glowed faintly in the interface. I slid my free stat point into Intellect, nudging it up to 36. The number pulsed briefly, then settled, a quiet reminder of progress.

  A knock at the door snapped me back to reality.

  I unpinned my badge from my armor, clipped it to my robes, then de-summoned my equipment into my Anchor’s storage, and headed to the door. My hand lingered on the door latch for a heartbeat, anticipation curling in my chest. Balt would have barged in without knocking, so whoever waited outside was someone else.

  “Yes?” I called.

  Silence.

  I opened the door to find Vice mid-knock, his green robes catching the light. A brief smile tugged at my lips, he was an affable sort of man, but this time his expression carried no warmth. This wasn’t a social call.

  “Champion Riven,” Vice said evenly. “May I come in?”

  I stepped aside, motioning him through. We moved to the small office tucked into the corner of my quarters, its desk littered with scrolls and faintly glowing crystals. We sat across from one another, the air heavy with unspoken weight. “What can I do for you this fine day?” I asked, leaning back in my chair. “I am guessing you are here about what happened last night?”

  Vice shifted, turning fully to face me. His eyes were tired, shadowed from a sleepless night. “I am. I’ve been up all night reading reports, interviewing sect members, and even speaking with patrons from the inn. Now I need your version of events.”

  I shrugged. “No problem.” I wasn’t worried that I had broken any laws. Lawson told me once that the laws on the floor are simple; if someone attacks you, you may defend yourself.

  So, I told him. Every detail. From the Warlord fight to finishing the duel that Jox had demanded earlier in the day.

  Vice listened in silence, but when I finished, he exhaled a long, weary sigh. “So it is true. Jox Rave is no more.” His shoulders slumped, as if the words themselves carried weight enough to crush him.

  I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes. “You care less about the Warlord I dispatched than Jox? I don’t get it.”

  Vice’s gaze flickered, pained. “Jox Rave was a fool, yes. He would never have reached the top hundred of the Anchor Games in his lifetime. But his father…” Vice paused, his voice tightening. “His father is Earl Rave. The youngest brother of Emperor Samuel himself.”

  Vice continued, his tone grave. “I’ve already sent missives declaring it a legal duel, with reports from bystanders and sect members to corroborate. You are protected by law, also your status as a Champion helps as well as your individual power should help against direct retribution, but… perhaps not. Men like Earl Rave don’t care about legality. You must be prepared. People with that much wealth, that much influence… they do not forgive.”

  I gave the man a smile. “I appreciate your warning, Jason. Truly, I do.”

  Earl Rave. Emperor’s brother, huh... Another man who thought his bloodline made him untouchable, just like Caron. There are usually only one way to deal with these types.

  Rising from my chair, I placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. My voice hardened, steel beneath the calm. “But if they think I won’t cut them down for messing with me or my friends… they’re wrong. I don’t care how high I have to cut.”

  Something in my gaze made him pale, the confidence draining from his face. The silence between us stretched, heavy with unspoken threat.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Before either of us could say more, my badge flickered, its glow shifting to the number zero. The Anchor shimmered to life, projecting a message into the air:

  The door slammed open with a bang, and Balt all but tumbled inside. His hair was mussed, cheeks flushed with excitement, and his chest rose and fell like he’d run a marathon. A grin split his face, wide and unrestrained, and he practically vibrated with energy as if the Anchor’s announcement had lit a fire under his skin.

  He paused for half a heartbeat when he saw Jason standing there, but the moment of hesitation vanished as words spilled out of him in a rush, tripping over one another in his eagerness.

  He paused when he saw Jason, who stood and gave him a friendly wave. That was all the encouragement Balt needed, he blurted out his words in a rush. “Click on the Tasks tab and accept herb gathering. Let’s get going!”

  I pulled up my Anchor, and sure enough, a new task screen shimmered into view. Thousands of options filled the display, everything from clearing out a goblin-infested cave system to helping a farmer with his livestock.

  I scrolled until I found the one Balt wanted me to accept:

  I clicked Yes, and the system highlighted it. Curious, I tried to select the goblin-clearing task as well, but an error message flashed across my display:

  I clicked No and turned my attention back to Balt. “Why that Task, brother?”

  “Simple,” Balt said with a grin. “When we were walking with Chu and his family, I saw a whole patch of that plant in the forest before we hit the road. Should net us some good points to start with.”

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “Hell yeah, Balt. Way to use your head.”

  Balt’s smile widened, but then he finally noticed Jason standing nearby. His expression shifted, and he gave a quick bow. “Apologies, Vice. I didn’t realize you were here with all the excitement going on.”

  Jason chuckled good-naturedly. “No big deal, Master Balt. I’m glad to see you so eager. We designed the Task list with the needs of the city and surrounding towns in mind.”

  I pulled the Task list back up, Jason’s words echoing in my head. As I scrolled through the endless assignments, the meaning behind them clicked into place.

  “The Task list…” I murmured, the pieces clicking together. “It’s designed to help the city. "The tournament is just free labor.”

  Jason nodded. “Indeed. It’s common knowledge; that’s why all the major cities host the tournament. The System allows us to set certain rules, and the cities agreed that a comprehensive task list reflecting the needs of the people would be invaluable. Some tasks are simple, others far more demanding, and each new month will bring special events that can reward participants with thousands of points if completed. But the first thirty days are always designed to replenish supplies and provide much-needed labor for the citizens who live here.”

  His smile broadened, genuine pride shining through. “And beyond that, it gives the people a chance to meet their hometown heroes before the block battles begin.”

  “But I must be going; a mountain of paperwork is waiting for me to complete.” Vice gave us both a small bow, and we returned the gesture, he was about to leave the room when he turned. “Riven, I know you're strong, but there is more than one way to hurt people. Always keep your eyes wide open.”

  With those words, he left me and Balt in the room alone. “What’s he talking about, Riven? “I’ll explain… but first, let’s eat. We’ll need our strength, and we can talk about last night’s training.”

  Rave, Earl of the West, was awoken in the dead of night to the worst news a man could receive. His son Jox, was gone.

  At over level 150, Rave required little sleep despite his advanced years, but tonight he had been resting lightly in his chambers. The room was vast and austere, its walls lined with banners bearing the crest of House Rave, a black falcon clutching a crown.

  A fire burned low in the marble hearth, casting long shadows across shelves of ancient tomes and racks of gleaming weapons. The air smelled faintly of incense and steel, a mixture of reverence and menace.

  Jox had always been dim, the second son of his third wife, but he was still blood. And blood was sacred. No one dared touch a man who carried the name Rave unless he had a death wish.

  The Earl’s eyes scanned the reports delivered by his attendants. His jaw tightened, and then, with a snarl, he crumpled the parchment in his fist. A howl of frustration tore from his throat, echoing through the chamber like the cry of a beast.

  That idiot boy had challenged a System Champion to a duel and consequently obviously lost. Not only was he lost, but dragged a local thug into his folly. If that Warlord had not already been slain, Earl Rave would have executed him himself for allowing his son into such disgrace and danger.

  Rising from his chair, he strode to the obsidian desk at the center of the room. Upon it sat a relic of his house: the Black Sigil Urn, a vessel carved from volcanic glass and etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight. It could carry messages across leagues in the blink of an eye, binding ink and intent to shadow. No need to use a portal mage to deliver letters like he had received this very night.

  Rave dipped his quill into a vial of crimson ink and began to write, each stroke sharp and deliberate. One letter to his spies. Another to his allies. A third to the merchants who owed him favors. When each was finished, he fed the parchment into the mouth of the Urn. The runes flared, consuming the letters in a swirl of black flame, and the words vanished, carried instantly to their recipients. He felt a large amount of mana leave him, but it was more than worth it.

  He would learn everything about this Champion. He would ruin the establishment where his son had died, grind its foundations into dust, and cast its patrons into the streets.

  Revenge would be his. He would equip the most promising participants after the block battles were over with treasures from his vault, arm them with the best weapons money could buy, and ensure the Champion was humiliated before the eyes of the world.

  He could not strike directly, not yet, not until he talked with Samuel. But he would decimate the Warlord’s sect, destroy the business where it happened, and laugh when the so-called Champion was brought to his knees.

  The firelight flickered across his face, and in the silence of the chamber, the Earl of the West smiled.