Dane walked back to the rest area designated for combatants; they earned more freedom after the monster fight. While the combat matches were dangerous, they almost always ended without any deaths.

  Guard towers loomed over the second floor, ready to shut down any bright ideas they might have had of inciting a riot with their newly gifted weapons. In his five years as a spectator, he only saw it happen once. After witnessing an elven marksman explode a combatant's head with a plasma bolt, most people stayed in line.

  There were hundreds of unfamiliar faces; Dane hoped seeing others test for conscription would finally quiet his guilty conscience. The chances were slim. Everyone knew how hard it was to beat a monster. He searched but didn't see anyone from the neighborhood.

  Guilt began to well up inside him. He wished that he could curse the elves, but instead, he felt lucky, blessed even. The elves wouldn't have wasted the training on him if he had been a year older. Dane knew plenty of kids barely older who charged headfirst into the proving grounds only to be met with a swift end at the jaws of a monster.

  Dane looked up through the square-shaped hole of the old stadium. He could make out a cloud resembling the Shadow cat, just a dark grey smudge in the sea of perfect fluffy white ones on a canvas of light blue. The sun was beating down on his face. He had plenty of time to kill before the duels.

  His number was 605, and he wasn't sure how many people were behind him, but he was prepared to lie there for the rest of the day.

  "Babysitter, I thought the system was a gift from the empire. How come you came to me before the affinity test?"

  "Dane, you are a [redacted]."

  The system glitched the moment it tried to explain why he had access early. He attempted to reword his question and push it to gather as much information as possible, but the system ignored the prompts each time the topic was approached.

  "Can I call you Alfred?"

  "Sure thing, Master Dane."

  "Dane is fine."

  "Of course, Dane."

  "You know what, Master Dane works better. Is there any way you can throw in an English accent?"

  The silence that followed the question was palpable.

  "I see that I have a mana pool. Can you tell me what my magic affinity is?"

  "You have a space affinity with a minor time affinity, Master Dane."

  The old ratty books that he studied from always mentioned how those with space and time affinity were destined to be heroes of the emperor. He would have a life on easy street. Now all he had to do was make it to the magitest, and he would be coasting.

  "Number 605, please report to the platform for your duel; I repeat, number 605, please report to the platform for your duel." The announcer said lazily, undoubtedly because he had been the only announcer in section 4 all day.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  He returned to the stone circle in the ground, this time on the other side where they had placed the shadow cat. He saw a tall, skinny-looking person with fiery red hair and wiry muscles standing across from him.

  His opponent had a tremendously large two-handed sword that he looked like he could barely lift. Dane would have an advantage over him in maneuverability. But a feeling Dane couldn't shake was pestering his mind. And all of his hair began to stand up with goosebumps. He looked down at his feet, and the platform began to glow a deep blue.

  Dane charged at the lanky man. The man was calm and collected. He stared at Dane like a mountain lion stalking its prey, but his eyes weren't focused on Dane. It was almost as if his trance-like eyes were staring through him. When Dane got within three feet of the skeletal man, his danger sense went off the charts.

  With one smooth motion, barely lifting the massive blade from the ground, the opponent shifted his stance and swung low. His blade was a blur as it came barreling towards Danes ' left foot.

  He pivoted to his right and jumped backward as the blade's tip nicked his shin. Even with the edge dulled, if that had landed, the match would have been over. Dane bounced from foot to foot, not staying in one place. He had to stay loose because he didn't want to see if his leg could bend backwards.

  Before he could fully regain his composure, a downward strike reminiscent of a Smash Bros down b attack was coming for his head as Skeleman jumped in the air like an owl swooping in for a mouse. Dane rolled to the left and felt the monstrous sword plunge into the ground, where he had been moments ago.

  "Trying to get the sword out of the stone. Are you sure your name is not Arthur?" He joked while the tall man tried to pull out his sword.

  Dane knew this was his opportunity, so he gripped the axe handle tightly and swung as hard as he could with a lateral slash that wouldn't hit anything vital but would leave a nasty mark on his opponent's shoulder.

  Before the hit landed, Skeleman grinned and yanked his sword sideways, using the hilt, still embedded in the ground, to block the axe swing. The clang reverberated up Dane's arm, and he lost hold of the borrowed weapon.

  He lunged after it, but the red-haired man abandoned his sword to hit him square in the chest with a front kick. That would be fine if he wanted to make this a hand-to-hand match. Dane stumbled backward and got into a boxing stance.

  He danced on the balls of his feet, keeping his heels off the ground with his left leg as the lead leg; he turned slightly to the side to make his body a smaller target. The large man had a form more akin to a pugilist from the 1920s, which really gave off "why I oughtta" vibes.

  Dane began to circle left, trying to keep his left foot just outside his opponent's right. Then, Skeleman threw a jab. Dane ducked in a peekaboo fashion, leaning all his weight on the left leg, throwing his hard overhand left just above his opponent's shoulder.

  Skeleman had already committed too much of his momentum to the jab and could only watch as Dane's fist plummeted into his cheek, just shy of hitting its target of the chin. He stumbled to the side as Dane fully pushed through, just as his father always taught him.

  Dane changed his level and hit a hard-nosed double-leg takedown that was basically a tackle. The red-haired man came tumbling down onto his back, his skull cracking against a large stone. Dane scrambled into full mount and hammered down blows. But he was surprised when his fist was snatched out of the air, mid-swing; the wiry man squeezed Dane's fist in the palm of his hand.

  "Fuck you have that farm boy strength, don't you?" Dane whispered to no one in particular.

  He was in trouble. Dane looked at his hand, which looked like a beer can inside a frat boy's hand. The crazy son of a bitch started to headbutt the fist, turning it into hamburger meat. He gritted his teeth, and he felt them begin to crack. Then he drove his free fist straight into his opponent's throat; the cracking and snapping was the only noise Dane could hear.

  "Fuck that was a good punch." That is what Dane imagined he said, with the only sound escaping his mouth being a gurgle.

  Dane watched as the tall man began to suffocate, his last breath a compliment to the chef. The medics rushed out to the field when he signaled for the surrender. Dane hoped he would live; this man was someone's son and probably led a life similar to his own. Why did he have to be the one to end his path?

  Dane went to the medic tent, hoping that he wouldn't have to deal with his favorite healer, Marjorie. However, since he used the only health potion he had, the chances were high.