The Hunter's Guide to Monsters

Clouds half-covered the midmorning sky. The breezes blew crisp, still carrying the scent of a late night rain.

On the west field of Rakaens, four raised platforms were set up. One hundred and twenty-five contestants gathered around each tent, for a total of two hundred and fifty participants in the tournament.

The air rang with the sound of metal against metal, and the roars of a gathered audience.

Outside the blacksmith Avaldan's tent, Krow focused through a stretching routine. He wasn't alone. A number of the participants were loosening up as well.

Too bad there wasn't a chance to practice the sword movements a couple of times.

He'd stand out too much..

From the quality of most of the participants, not many had the 'formal' training that warmasters had.

Dabalt hadn't been called to the platforms yet, so Krow didn't know the skill of the other. The way he stood indicated a familiarity with the weight of a sword.

Could the other recognize the Swordsbearer starting motions incorporated into his stretches?

Possibly.

The confidence in which the Tamvost draculkar said this tournament would be a warm-up didn't sound fake.

Then again, should he believe the words of a braggart?

Tournaments like this were a weakness for draculkar, with their low VIT.

Only by putting most of his stat points into VIT did it keep up with this STR and DEX. Even then, it was still under 50 points.

He'd equipped his armors except the pauldrons, which were too conspicuous, what with the shadow-tendrils, and the Whisker necklace for MP. The rest were plain enough to conceivably be used by a butcher.

He wasn't worried, currently. Amateur tournament meant under Lvl 15. Most of the fights took five minutes or less to finish.

Even with his most powerful armors unequipped, and his weapon damage  reduced, he could still take at least half the people here.

"Number 157 of Avaldan!" yelled the referee of his assigned platform. "Aaaand! Number 64 of Tetlochriiis!"

Oh? Krow knew that name.

Tetlochris, in Zushkenar, was one of the premier armorers for the White Kingdom, a guild-run group that rose to rule most of Northern Marfall, subordinating several northern city-states under their banner.

He made blades?

Tetlochris was a non-player; it would've been difficult to switch tracks suddenly. That celebrated Armorer, what did the blades he created look like?

Krow walked up the steps onto the raised platform.

His opponent bounded up from the crowd, waving gaily.

A siren, garbed in an outfit that other games might have noted belonged to a 'swashbuckler'. From the cheers of the townspeople, Number 64 was a local.

"I will say this again: using Spells is a defeat! Going out of bounds is a defeat! A fatal blow is a defeat! Yielding is a defeat! Killing others is a defeat! Maiming others will be prosecuted! Potions are not allowed! Does everyone understand!"

Potions were not allowed? Shkav. He'd planned to support his endurance with Low Revitalit.

Still, Krow nodded, as did his opponent.

"Then begin!"

The other charged immediately.

Krow drew the falchion, brought it up, catching the attack on the guard.

The other laughed, eyeing the blade. "You're the butcher, aren't you? I am Morumain."

Krow bent his knees, heaved. The other stumbled back. "And if I am?"

"As expected, you do have some strength, despite looking like a stick."

Gah. This again.

He was slowly filling out, alright?! He'd chosen a gradual growth!

Should he just have piled the muscles on?

Tsk.

The other's blade speeded forward.

Krow parried, parried again.

Morumain danced around like a whirling dervish, to the cheers of the crowd. His swordplay was full of feints and energy.

A swordsbearer's style was more grounded, and Krow kept the stances even as he gave ground before the other's enthusiasm.

He played along, only attacking when it could be as dramatic as possible, slowly getting used to the sword once more.

Parry, parry, parry otherwise.

Morumain frowned, took a closer look at Krow. His movements suddenly became more deliberate.

Krow attacked, parried, stumbled, then attacked again. The suspicion on the other's face didn't abate.

A disarming maneuver that Krow absently twirled the sword to defeat, and they were blade to blade again.

Shkav. He'd been found out, hadn't he?

What would the other do?

A grin flashed.

The dancing dervish returned, flashier and faster than ever.

Krow matched his energy, exaggerating some of his movements now that he had a better grip on the sword, retreating and attacking in turns.

They twirled and leaped across the stage.

A hundred throats thundered approval.

It wasn't like Krow didn't know what Morumain was doing.

In a competition like this, the competitors were of no consequence. They were only numbers.

Only the swords and smiths mattered. This was a PR show.

Even the common sword he held was a little more elaborate than practical.

The only way for a competitor to gain a little glory was to extend the show a little, and let their name spread using flashy moves.

But sirens had the same problem draculkar had, low stamina.

Morumain became more serious. A swing nearly battered down on Krow's fingers, and he knew the other was tiring out. He switched tactics, going for strength instead of speed.

The other retreated, surprised.

Krow didn't allow him room, relentless until the falchion slipped through the other's guard and rested at his neck. Krow smiled. "Yield?"

The other laughed. "Yield!"

[You've defeated a Lvl 12 fighter in a duel and gained three (3) silver serpens!]

"Number 157 of Avaldan wiiiiiins!"

The platform near buckled at the noise of cheers and jeers alike.

Krow stepped back, sheathed the sword.

The other touched fingers to his forehead. "Not a butcher then, my friend?"

"Not just a butcher."

"Who is just one thing in the world?" Morumain agreed as they clasped arms. "Hfah! I haven't had such a fun fight in months! I'll buy you a drink later! Best spot in town!"

"Sure."

They parted as the referee called the numbers of the next participants.

Krow glanced at his clock. Ten minutes.

That fight was too long.

He watched the next fights, then the ones on the other platforms. Only a few stood out. There was a female mafmet who liked to play with her opponents, tiring them out before decimating them in a one-sided attack.

He watched her fight twice before his name was called again.

The opponent was younger than he was, a draculkar. Krow's lips twitched as he watched the other strut around the platform, letting his cape flutter in the wind.

What was with all the peacocks in this town?

The opponent was fast, but not as skilled or as entertaining as Morumain. Even with Krow prolonging the fight, the youngster yielded in just over two minutes.

He didn't have to wait too long for the next fight, then the next. He tried to keep his fights under five minutes but over three. Surprisingly, he managed it.

When they said amateur tournament, they really meant it. There were under Lvl 10s in the roster.

[You've won ten (10) duels with an unmatched weapon!]

[You've gained the Easy Prey Badge from winning ten (10) duels with an unmatched weapon!]

[You've gained the Sham Swordfighter Badge for winning ten (10) duels while pretending to be a sword wielder!]

Oy, he had been a swordsbearer, you know! What sham swordfighter?!

Also, seriously, how many badges did he have so fast?

What even was his last life?