The provincial kid arrives at the capital's chaotic gates.
If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s this—everybody underestimates me. And I mean everybody. When they see mud on my boots, they think I have mud on my brain. That’s fine; they just never noticed me paying attention.
Well, I do pay attention, believe it or not. This time I got some weird envelope in the mail. It’s got crooked edges, like someone was teething with it. I think it’s some sort of mistake. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it could reveal the truth. The truth about what, I’m not so sure. But some sort of esoteric thing, I guess.
When I saw it was an invite to a random gladiator show in the capital, I immediately seized the opportunity. You know, I’ve never been to the capital. In fact, I’m so far removed from there, that if you asked me where to put the forks, I wouldn’t even put it on the right plate.
I’m on the train, whizzing past villages that look like broken teeth on the fields. Every mile closer to the capital, the roofs get higher, the shadows sharper. Longfaule likes to pretend it’s clean and orderly, but the dirt somehow always seeps through the cracks.
“You can tell more about a kingdom by the way its poor walk than the way its princes strut.”
The train screeches to a stop. I sling my duffel over my shoulder. It’s heavier than I thought it’d be. I step straight into the sunlight. It’s heavy, like judgement. Ahead, a line sinews toward iron gates. Guards examine every man like they’re weighing swine.
I’m dizzy from all the noise, the chaos, the blur of my surroundings. A passerby sizes me up. “Tournament?” he grunts, but doesn’t wait for an answer. I join the line, gripping my duffel tight. Like always, I feel like a total outsider. Every man here is taller, broader, with jaws that could cut glass. Fine. I’ll let them smirk. I didn’t come here to impress them.
After a while, a guard beckons me forward. My stomach sinks. “ID, please.” I’m twenty-two, but I fumble through my pockets and come out empty-handed. He squints. The man behind me groans. Suddenly, my old Student ID falls right out of my bag. “We’re waiting,” the man says, tapping his foot. I shove it in his face. “Alright, provincial kid,” he grunts. “You’re in. Next.”
Dudes are flexing, showing off bronze muscles dripping with sweat, lifting weights the size of boulders. I forget that I’m not really “alpha.” I’m more “beta.” Are we in Sparta, or in Valencia?
Among all the grunting, a refined gentleman actually walks through—Chevalier L’Ourever. He’s wearing a cravat, breeches, and gold buttons. He ushers the crowds like a shepherd herding loud cows. For a minute, my eyes meet his. His eyes are knowing, subtle, as though he knows what I came here for—yet I don’t even know why I came here.
Just then, a slick-haired man—the CEO type with steely grey eyes—barges in, carrying a ginormous tripod. He pulls out a wad of cash and offers it to Chevalier. Chevalier’s face hardens and he pushes it away. The slick hair dude slips past anyway. Then, a spectacles guy shoves Chevalier off of him, insultingly, and walks into the crowd. I may not know what fork goes where, but I know dishonesty when I see it.
👤 The Gentleman
A commanding dude on the podium booms, “Welcome to the Wildcard Heat! Today’s event is sponsored by Windsor Capital!” The slick hair guy is grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Next to him is the moustache man, who jabs him with his elbow. They must’ve rigged the entire event.
The organizer hands the mic to Bill Bitemoney—a wiry guy with glasses and way too much enthusiasm. Bill launches into a sales pitch for his "World Success™" program, promising fame and sponsors for a thousand ducats.
“I’d rather keep my money than be famous… Why would I want to even be on the headlines anyway? What’s the point? A mention for one day and then forgotten the next?”
While everyone else flocks to Bill’s stand, I tell him off. The crowd murmurs, and Bill gets flustered, but the two culprits rush to hype him up. The crowd goes back to its money-worship. Whatever.
The event organizer insists I’m locked in. I rip up the ticket. “No. Not needed anymore. It’s rigged.” The crowd gasps. The vendor slams his fist on the desk and barks that I'm being disrespectful. I stay put.
As I point out the two culprits, the burly vendor charges and slams them to the ground. But then, the moustache man grabs me and shoves me straight into the mud. My pants and polo shirt get all muddy and gross. I land on my hands, get on my feet. The crowd jeers and shouts, “Mud Knight! Mud Knight!”
I yell back at them: “You all shut up, you fools!” There is a shocked silence, then they all laugh again. I feel like Banquo surrounded by evil sisters.
As I walk toward the shade, Chevalier looks at me with pity. “Matthew, son,” he says, “you need a place to rest. You have come this far. It is only fair that you can rest your weary head.”
I sigh. “I’ve just caused trouble. I should just go home. Nobody wants me here anyway.”
He stops me. “You’ve been honest. Diligent, even. We are holding a prestigious concert tomorrow, and many socialites will be present. I wish to introduce you to them. I will ensure that you are not mocked and protect you against undue humiliation.”
I perk up. “A concert? What’s that?” Chevalier slaps his forehead in disbelief. I feel embarrassed. “Trust me—all shall be taken care of. There is no need to be overly cautious.”
I nod. “Yes. I trust that all will be well, sir.” He extends his hand, and soon I’m sinking into a bed, resting. I have no idea what to expect tomorrow. Wait. Which singer? Who?