Chương 153: Mirathra Central

The Adventurer's Guild lobby stretched perhaps forty feet on a side, ringed by dark walnut paneling. A vaulted ceiling arched overhead, and the light spilling down from ribbed clerestory windows helped light the room, while runelight chandeliers did the rest of the work. Somewhere ahead, an abacus clicked. A row of six identical desks lined the far wall, spaced at exact intervals.

Only three were currently manned, each attendant in the grey livery he had seen at the entrance, each one head-down in paperwork or in conversation with a client. Above the desks, brass numerals from one to six were mounted on the paneling. Cal shivered involuntarily. Welcome… to uncanny valley. Population: you. He shook his head at the strangeness of it all. This is nothing like what I've come to expect from adventurers. Just what is going on here?

The attendant at the third desk from the right motioned him over and he obliged. The woman at the desk had strawberry-blonde hair wrapped at the nape of her neck in a bun that likely hadn't shifted an inch in hours. Her eyes were the color of a light blue sky, and she gave him a terse smile when she greeted him.

"Good day, adventurer. What can the guild do for you?" She did a once-over on him and her smile hitched when she saw the bronze badge hanging there on its cord.

"Deadfall," she said. Her fingers, which had been resting lightly on a stack of intake forms, drifted a half inch toward a leather-bound ledger on the corner of her desk.

"We don't often get adventurers from that far out on the frontier. It must have been quite the journey." The last sentence carried a polite gloss of interest with a faint underlayer that suggested Deadfall might as well have been a fishing shanty on the backside of nowhere.

"Yeah… it was a long month."

"I'm sure. May I have your name, please?"

"Valorn. Cal Valorn." She pulled the ledger across the desk and flipped through to a section, running a manicured finger down a column of names. The finger stopped, and her eyebrows lifted a fraction.

"Second place in the Deadfall Reaping Tournament," she read, her voice dropping to a private murmur.

"Defeated a noble scion in the semifinal round. That's..." She glanced up, her eyes searching his appraisingly.

"That's actually quite impressive." He gave her a modest smile, aw, shucks dialed to the proper setting, while he noted the position of every exit.

"What can I say? I got lucky in a couple matches."

"Second place in tournaments with any Illuminet is rarely luck, Mr. Valorn." She closed the ledger and folded her hands on top of it.

"I should clarify what we do here, before we go any further. It probably looks nothing like what you're used to—""You can say that again."

"Yes, well. As I was saying, this building is Mirathra Central. We're an administrative office. Contract postings, bounty listings, the daily work that most adventurers seek out—all of that is handled at our four district branches in the outer city. This branch focuses on regional management of the adventuring work across the province, along with the coliseum next door and the Imperial Arena Circuit." So the Guild really does run it. Score one for deductive reasoning.

"Okay, that all makes sense. The 'Imperial Arena Circuit' bit is new to me, though. What does that bit mean?" She studied him a moment longer, tapping one finger against the closed ledger. Then she abruptly rose from her chair.

"I don't usually do this for newcomers, Mr. Valorn, but you've come a long way." Her smile warmed slightly.

"Allow me to show you our facility. It might help to better… answer your question." She was already stepping out from behind the desk before he could respond, heading off towards a side hallway. Curiosity got the best of him, and he fell in beside her and matched her stride.

"Lead the way, ma'am."

"Nola, please. Nola Valentin."

"Nola, then." She led him through a broad archway on the lobby's east wall and into a corridor of wood and carpet. Doors lined both sides at regular intervals, each of them closed and bearing a small brass plate at eye level engraved with a name and title. Regional Coordinator. Circuit Liaison. Contract Adjudicant. Head Trainer. A tall window looked out over the avenue at the end of the corridor. As they approached it, Cal glanced casually through the glass.

The great curved wall of the coliseum rose across the street, close enough that he could read some of the text on the banners.

"That's the Mirathra Coliseum, then?" he asked, tilting his head toward the window.

"I heard the name at the inn I worked at a few times. Merchants passing through liked to complain that none of the entertainment back home could hold a candle to it."

"Then you've heard more than most of your neighbors, I imagine." Nola glanced at him, faintly amused.

"That is indeed the Mirathra Coliseum, Mr. Valorn. The heart of the Imperial Arena Circuit for the entire province. Every serious fighter within traveling distance of the rune gate knows it by name, though… perhaps not all..." she trailed off as she side-eyed him.

"Yeah, well, folks at Deadfall's Adventurer's Hall never mentioned anything about the guild being involved in organized fighting. That part I've only just put together."

"That certainly doesn't surprise me, especially with you being from the frontier. The guild's history is longer than most people realize." She took on the tone of a lecturer settling into a favorite subject.

"You'd be forgiven for thinking the Adventurer's Guild has always been what it is now: a body for suppressing wildlife and gathering commodity materials from the countryside. That's what most people see. But the guild in one form or another has been around for millennia, long before the Dominion. In many of the old kingdoms we were the ones who delved and managed the dungeons directly. The strongest fighters in the world gravitated to our halls, because that was where the work was at.

Where the coin and stones flowed." She paused at a junction in the corridor and gestured him to the left.

"When you gather that many powerful and ambitious people in one place, you have a problem. There's never enough real work to keep all of them satisfied. So somewhere along the way we started giving them another outlet."

"The arena?"

"Indeed. It started with exhibition matches and duels, with occasional tournaments. Eventually an enterprising chapter head devised the concept of leagues, and the rest is history." She spoke with pride for the institution at that.

"No one really knows when or where the first guild arena went up. It's older than the records. But by the time the Dominion arrived, arena fighting was already deeply tied into how we managed our own. It kept the ambitious ones from tearing each other apart over small grievances and gave them purpose. It also gave the crowds a spectacle worth paying for."

"And the Dominion? How'd the 'Imperial Circuit' come about?"

"The empire simply formalized it and standardized the tiers. They also… took a large cut." Her smile thinned.

"But because Caelverax conquered the world, the circuits have never been so competitive. A century ago, a champion in one kingdom might never fight a champion from another. Now the circuit spans the entire empire, and the guild still runs the network of it under Imperial oversight." Kind of reminds me of soccer. I wonder if they have a World Cup, and who the Veraxus version of Messi is? He suppressed a chuckle to himself as he responded.

"The entire empire… except Deadfall?"

"There likely isn't an arena in Deadfall for a simple reason. A frontier settlement out on its own should have plenty of actual adventuring work to keep the locals there occupied."

"I suppose that makes sense." It's interesting to think about it from both sides. I always thought the merchants at the inn were complaining about the lack of entertainment, but the delvers? They were probably complaining about not being able to sign up for a quick fight, if they were into that sort of thing. It likely never became a problem because the delvers usually weren't in town long enough for anything to fester, and the Legion cracked down hard on anything that did.

Nola stopped at a small alcove set into the wall, where a rack held stacked brochures of cream paper. She selected one and passed it to him.

"Take this. It should help answer some of your other questions." The parchment was thick and expensive stock, with fine edges. The heading at the top read The Imperial Arena Circuit: A Guide for Prospective Contenders, in a florid but readable style. Cal opened it as they walked. The Bronze Circuit (E-Tier). The Silver Circuit (D-Tier). The Gold Circuit (C-Tier). He skimmed past prize purses and sponsorship structures, past marketing copy about glory and the Emperor's favor.

He stopped at a section headed Rules of Sanctioned Combat. Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

"Tier-Lock: All sanctioned matches shall be conducted between contenders of the same relative Tier, unless both agree in writing. Rank Adjacency: Contenders may only be matched against opponents within one Rank of prestige of their own. A Proven shall not be pitted against an Honored." It's good to see the league is protected against obvious mismatches, at least. Hopefully that speaks to good management. The rest, he decided, could wait.

Sponsorship agreements and purse structures were the kind of thing you read carefully once you knew you were going to fight. He folded the brochure and tucked it into his belt pouch. They passed through another archway, and the corridor here narrowed. The doors on either side were farther apart, and the brass plates had grown smaller and more discreet. She let their footsteps be the only sound for a few strides, and then she turned her head slightly toward him.

"What brings you here today, Mr. Valorn?" She'd shifted her tone. Still inviting, sure, but the space around them had emptied, and her question arrived in a corridor with no one close enough to overhear.

"Just… exploring my options."

"Mm. The coin here is much better than the frontier, yes? A Stalwart E-tier on the circuit can earn in a fortnight what they might make in a year adventuring around Deadfall. Are you looking to form a team? Take on higher-value contracts?"

"I'm still taking my measure of the place, Ms. Valentin."

"Perhaps it's the renown you're after? Some come for that. Fighters who feel their names should carry further than the last village they aided."" As I said, I'm here to see what the capital has to offer."

"Fine, fine, have it your way. I'll be curious if you have more to say after you see the rest of our facilities." The corridor soon opened onto a balcony above a vast training atrium spread below them. It took Cal a second to reconcile the scale of it with the modest size of the building outside, and then he realized the room had to extend beneath the block, sunk two full stories into the ground with the balcony where they stood serving as one of several observation points around its perimeter.

The floor below was divided into a grid of sand-covered practice yards separated by low walls of polished stone, and the total effect was less "sectioned gymnasium" and more "showroom floor." Muted sounds filtered through some kind of runic dampening on the balcony rail. The thunk and clang of practice weapons. A low chorus of grunts and calls and instructor's shouts.

"There," Nola said, indicating a reinforced chamber set into the atrium's far side. A thick wall of crystal, easily twenty feet tall and forty across, allowed a view into its interior. The chamber itself was ringed with layered runes that Cal could see even at this distance. Two figures darted about inside. The one on the left carried a longsword whose blade was wreathed in a sickly green vapor that trailed behind every swing. The other fighter wielded no visible weapon at all.

Instead, shields of pure translucent force sprang into being at his hands, forearms, feet and knees the instant he needed them, each one flaring and dispersing as blows connected. It was reminiscent of Astrin's ice magic, but that's not what ultimately caught his attention. Every clash of blade and shield sent a visible shockwave through the sand at their feet, rolling out from the point of contact.

"D-tier," Nola said.

"Talented Silver Circuit contenders, both of them among the best up-and-comers in the province. They train here at Mirathra Central because this is where the greatest training is available without a private sponsor." She glanced at him sidelong.

"The chambers you're looking at are reserved for our top performers. The ones we believe have real potential to reach the next level." Cal watched the pair for another few seconds. The sword fighter overextended on a diagonal cut, and the shield-user rolled his weight to the outside, resetting the distance with a small correction of his lead foot. It was fast, sure. And competent. The techniques were, taken at face value, impressive. And yet…

Selara took a red drake apart on her own, and that thing was an absolute terror. Sure, her fire affinity helped her overcome its magic, but even without its fire I don't think either of these two would stand a chance. Heck, I think even if they joined forces, they'd get devoured. This is just... He groped for a comparison. Yes, they were talented and lethal. But there was a looseness in the shield-user's footwork on their latest reset that Selara would have punished.

The sword user's cut hadn't leveraged the full use of his hips. Neither of them would have survived one exchange with a member of Team Zenith, in Cal's estimation. Yeah, I don't think sponsorship will be a problem if I decide to get involved. But would it even be worth it? What's the catch? There's always a catch. He kept his face neutral and looked at the fight the way he was expected to look at it. Impressed. A young man from the sticks, taking in the big time.

"Are there halls like this for C-tiers?" he asked, all polite curiosity.

"We have facilities, yes. But most Gold Circuit contenders train in private compounds provided by their sponsors. What you see out here—" she gestured back across the atrium at the general floor "—is for the up-and-comers. The chambers behind crystal are for the ones close to breaking through. Everyone in this building is trying to make it into a private compound." They watched for a bit longer before she led him to a curving staircase that took them off the balcony and down two flights to the atrium floor.

Up close, the noise was fuller and textured—the layered soundtrack of dozens of drills happening at once behind their low dividers. The nearest yards were F-tier, with twenty or thirty trainees in each, all doing the same drill at slightly different speeds while an instructor shouted corrections across the sand. Wooden spears mostly, some with weighted heads for building shoulder strength. The atmosphere was energetic in the way the Deadfall garrison yard had been energetic, only a bit more organized.

They walked past a series of these, and gradually the yards changed. The E-tier sections were bigger with fewer people. Ten or fifteen trainees per yard, with blunted real weapons instead of wooden ones, and more complex drills. The instructors gave individual corrections rather than general commands. He caught a woman practicing a [Flicker Step] variation off a partner's parry, and the technique was more polished than anything he had seen at Deadfall. The last yard was different.

It was set apart from the others by a broader dividing wall and a small archway, and the sand inside had been raked recently into clean parallel lines that were already being torn to ruin by the boots of the fighters using it. A half-dozen adventurers sparred on the sand, all of them E-tier and fighting at a level of skill and intensity that made the surrounding yards feel like warm-ups.

A broad-shouldered man with long black hair streaked with iron-grey stood at the side of the yard, and a silver badge hung at his collar bearing an emblem Cal had been seeing across Mirathra Central: a stylized rune gate flanked by an evergreen on one side and a mountain shoulder on the other. Wind rustled the tree and blew snow on the respective halves. The instructor was a Veteran. Cal surveyed the spars. These are the ones close to the fancy atrium rooms, I'm guessing.

Nola watched him take it in for a while before leaning toward him.

"Before we go further, I have to admit I am curious, Mr. Valorn. About the safety measures at your Reaping Tournament. It said in the ledger that House Kaelix's own scion was your opponent in the finals. That must have been quite a thing to see. I'm quite surprised you're alive."

"There were life shields placed on every contender by the Legion's medicus, and the captain of the garrison had strict orders for fights to end once the shields were triggered." Her lips curved.

"Of course. Festival fights are almost always more… civil. The professional circuits are a world away from that, I'm afraid. Many sanctioned formats offer no protective wards at all. Even in the ones that do, there is nothing in the rules that compel a fighter to stay their hand. Life and death on the sand are almost always decided by those standing on it." She turned to look at him fully, making sure she had his attention.

"Mutual respect between contenders often spares a life, but there are no guarantees of mercy. A grudge just as easily takes what good sportsmanship could protect. And the crowd..." Her blue eyes drifted to the sand of the yard in front of them, watching a fighter break his opponent's guard with a heavy overhead chop and stop the blade a hairbreadth from a throat.

"The crowd is fickle. Some champions become favorites for their willingness to spare a life. Others for their cruelty. The arena has been home to every kind of triumph and every kind of tragedy, Mr. Valorn." And no Captain Hatch to jump out and stop a killing blow once the fight is over, Cal. He nodded soberly and she searched his eyes to make sure he truly understood. Then Nola leaned in a fraction more, while her voice simultaneously rose to carry across the yard.

"It is impressive, though. What you did in Deadfall Village. Facing down two noble scions at a Reaping, with a win no less. One does wonder, watching this yard, whether any of them here would truly present a challenge for a young man who has already done what you have." Cal frowned at her actions, immediately sensing they were calculated as he prepared for the other shoe to drop. Steinar's gravelly voice came to mind.

"Folk in the capital play different games, lad. Mind who's watching you." Sure enough, a lanky fighter at the far end of the sand snapped his head up, opening his mouth, but he didn't get the chance to speak.

"You've got to be joking, Miss Valentin." The words came from a different direction. A young man with compact muscles and coarse black hair cut short had been kneeling to lace a boot four yards to the instructor's left, out of Cal's line of sight. Right, so, not just a tour then. Little miss receptionist wants to play games. The fighter didn't walk over immediately. First, he wiped his palms once on the front of his gambeson.

Then he came, closing the ten yards and drawing every eye in the yard to him by the time he arrived. He was Cal's height and considerably broader, his exposed arms a patchwork of faint scars—the kind that came from a hundred training bouts rather than from any serious wound. He watched with a hungry brown stare and planted himself directly in front of Cal, lifting his chin high enough to put him a full inch of aggression above his actual height.

"You just going to judge us from the sidelines, then? Some of us are trying to work here. Trying to earn a sponsorship." He looked Cal over slowly and scoffed.

"Proven with some backwater badge. We're all so impressed."

"You should be," Cal said amicably.

"I managed to skip the Initiate rank entirely, I'll have you know."

"Sure you did, tough guy. Now, if you're done gawking get out." The man jerked his chin toward the archway.

"Or, if you actually think a mud-stomping boy from the sticks has what it takes to stand on the sand, step on in. Prove you belong, Proven." The yard had gone quiet. Even the instructor had stopped what he was doing and turned to watch, settling back on one hip, looking on curiously to see how this scene would play out. Nola had stepped off to the side as Cal had been approached, content with the mess she had made and just as interested in the outcome. Crumb, this was just supposed to be an information run…

He had the time, though. Mira's appointment was secured, and this would be a training-yard spar with blunted weapons a world away from the killing sand Nola had just described. The woman might have built this moment for reasons of her own, but he had his own reasons to go forward with it too. Namely, he was itching for a fight. A low stakes fight with spectators sounded like a lot of fun, and a great way to blow off some steam.

Rolling his shoulders once, he felt the black leather of his armor shift smoothly with the motion. He let a small smile settle onto his mouth, and this one—unlike every polite one he'd offered Nola in the last half hour—actually reached his eyes. He took a step forward, closing half the distance to the cocky young man and letting his voice carry to the ring of watchers.

"Well, since you asked so nicely."