Chapter 13: The Sparring Match

  The journey through the Xenor was unlike anything Marcus had imagined. The city was grand despite not being a capital city, its magical structures towered far higher than any building he'd ever seen in his life, which was saying a lot since Marcus was a "New York" native in his old life, a labyrinth of stone and wood. A cacophony of sounds filled the air: the shouts of merchants, the clatter of wagon wheels, and the rhythmic stomping of boots on cobblestone streets. The smell of fresh bread mixed with the salty tang of the sea, while colorful banners flapped in the breeze, announcing this market or that festival. Xenor, a city teeming with life, felt like a whole new world. It was vast, complex, and full of potential.

  Marcus wandered through the bustling streets, taking in the sights. Stalls selling fruits, vegetables, and exotic spices from distant lands lined the roads, and street performers—jugglers, dancers, and musicians—kept the crowd entertained. He caught glimpses of Beastfolk, Elves, and even a few Dwarves walking among the throngs, their eyes alight with the promise of opportunity in the great city.

  “Hey, watch it!” a grizzled merchant shouted as Marcus bumped into his cart, distracted by a display of bright fabric. He muttered an apology and hurried along, caught in the strange excitement of the city.

  As they made their way toward the Adventurer’s Guild, Marcus felt a thrill building within him. The Guild was the heart of adventuring in Xenor, where those seeking fame, fortune, and glory gathered. It was here that he would be officially recognized and assessed.

  When they arrived, Marcus couldn’t help but be impressed. The Guild’s Xenor branch was housed in a massive building, the exterior carved from the very stone of the city’s foundation. Great wooden doors flanked by tall stone columns led into the cavernous hall. Inside, adventurers in all stages of their careers bustled around, gathering supplies, discussing quests, or enjoying the camaraderie of their fellow fighters.

  “Let’s go inside,” Vira said, guiding Marcus past the crowds. “Boruk says We’ve got a fun show to watch before the assessments begin.”

  They made their way to a raised platform near the center of the hall. Below, an arena had been set up, and Marcus could see a few familiar faces among the crowd—a mix of orcs, beast folk, and others, all watching eagerly. At the far end of the arena stood a lone figure: a tall man dressed in gleaming armor, his face hidden behind a black veil.

  “That’s Ralkar,” Yara said quietly, defending the stairs to join them, her voice full of reverence. “Gold-level adventurer. Psycha user. Old friend, And the one who’ll be handling your assessment.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Gold-level? What’s that mean?”

  Boruk, standing next to him, explained. “Gold-level adventurers start out at around level 30. They’re the elites, the ones who take on the most dangerous quests, who are often sent to tackle threats no one else can handle.”

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  Marcus’s mind raced. If Ralkar was a Gold-level adventurer, then what did that make him? A copper-level adventurer, at best? Maybe lower?

  “Psycha users are rare,” Boruk continued. “And not just any Psycha user. Ralkar is one of the few fighters who specializes in it. Most Psycha users are support types—healers, strategists, summoners. But Ralkar uses it to Warp reality, manipulate the odds of things happening, almost like adjusting luck, or controlling probability.”

  Marcus frowned, confused. “Control probability? How does that even work?”

  Before Boruk could answer, the fight began.

  Ralkar stepped forward, facing off against three silver-level Ki users. The three adventurers, each a towering figure with an aura of raw power, cracked their knuckles and set their stances. They were clearly confident—too confident, Marcus thought. They were in for a rude awakening.

  The match began with a series of quick movements. The three Ki users charged at Ralkar with incredible speed, their bodies radiating power. But Ralkar stood still, calm, almost lazy in his posture.

  Then, the strange happened. One of the Ki users, a massive orc, swung a broad strike aimed at Ralkar’s head. It was a move that should have easily landed, a blow that would have sent most people flying. But, as the orc’s club descended, it suddenly veered off course, missing Ralkar by a wide margin.

  The crowd gasped.

  Ralkar didn’t flinch. He didn’t even move. Instead, he simply raised a hand, fingers extended as if beckoning the strike to miss. Marcus could see a faint, shimmering distortion in the air, a ripple that seemed to tug at the very fabric of reality itself. The orc, confused, staggered forward, his strike completely off-target.

  Ralkar then launched a counterattack, a simple, almost casual knife-hand to the orc’s side. But what should have been a harmless strike sent the orc crashing to the ground with a resounding thud, his body twitching in pain.

  “That’s… insane,” Marcus muttered, his eyes wide. “He barely touched him, that guy's liver is wrecked.”

  Yara smirked. “That’s Psycha. Ralkar doesn’t need to land powerful blows to win. He just shifts the odds in his favor. His strikes don’t need to be strong if he can make them land where they matter. The power is in the adjustment to damage delt.”

  "Wait...like a critical." Marcus thought to himself as he watched in awe as Ralkar moved with unsettling grace. He seemed to control not just the outcome of each exchange, but the very fabric of the fight. The next Ki user came at him with a flurry of dagger thrusts, fast and precise. But once again, Ralkar manipulated the odds, forcing the Rouge's attacks to veer off, missing by mere inches. Each time, Ralkar’s counter was swift, controlled, and devastating. With fluid movement he lazily step in between the blows, each strike aiming to close the Kī generation points. The Rouge stood stunned, before collapsing.

  The third Ki user tried a different approach, attempting to overwhelm Ralkar with sheer force. He charged forward, fists raised, but Ralkar simply stepped to the side, his body flowing like water, his movements deliberate. The strike that was meant to break his defense barely grazed him. And then, with a flick of his wrist, Ralkar placed a debilitating blow to the Ki user’s chest, sending him sprawling.

  The crowd erupted in cheers, but Marcus was still processing what he’d just seen.

  “That’s Psycha,” Boruk said again, his voice full of admiration. “It’s all about controlling the flow of the fight, tricking your opponents senses. The way he can make someone miss, or turn a weak punch into a devastating blow, is incredible.”

  Marcus frowned, deep in thought. “I get it. But it’s like… he’s not just using magic. He’s changing reality itself.”

  “Exactly,” Yara said. “He’s bending perception, making his enemies lose, even if he doesn’t hit as hard as they do. It’s a very different way of fighting.”

  The sparring match ended, and Ralkar stood victorious, his opponents on the ground, battered but alive. He gave a small, almost amused bow to the crowd before turning to the onlookers.

  “Ralkar will be the one handling your assessment,” Yara said, her voice low. “That’s why it’s important to pay attention. What you just saw? That’s the kind of fighter you’re up against in this world.”

  Marcus nodded, his mind racing. He had a long way to go before he could fight like that.

  But one thing was certain: his journey was about to get much more interesting.