NOW THE DAY WE HAVE ALL BEEN ANTICIPATING… THE DAY… OF… THE W.O.O.D HINTS TOURNAMENT!"
A roar thundered across the arena, erupting like a tidal wave. Whistles pierced the air, voices collided in a storm of cheers, and countless hands thrust skyward in unrestrained jubilation.
The east coast of the great city, where the Wood Hints were always held, had become a boiling cauldron of sound and anticipation.
The arena itself was carved into the earth like the bones of some ancient colossus. Massive terraces of stone rose in concentric arcs, each row higher than the last, until the podium resembled a colossal amphitheatre that could cradle millions.
Time had weathered its stones, and yet the structure seemed eternal, as if it had been waiting since the dawn of civilization for this very moment.
At the base of the grand podium sat the White Elders and the Sentinels, their presence radiating solemnity, like marble statues brought to life.
In the center was their head, Dermot Regnald, whose mere aura bent the atmosphere to his will.
When he rose, silence rippled outward in waves, and when he raised his hand, the crowd obeyed as though the air itself demanded reverence.
"LET THE TOURNAMENT BEGIN!" he thundered.
The words struck like a celestial drumbeat, and the ground itself seemed to hum in response.
...
5 HOURS EARLIER
...
The city had already begun to glow with the fever of approaching Halloween. Lanterns shaped like grimacing pumpkins flickered on street corners, and streamers coiled like serpents across the walls.
Mr. Chau, with his motley group of helpers, busied himself with the decorations, orchestrating the festive chaos.
Simma, however, stood before a mirror in the solitude of his bathroom. His reflection regarded him with the same weary eyes, copying every brush stroke across his teeth, mocking him with silence.
His chest carried the heavy stone of discomfort, but the fact remained: he had no weapon for the tournament. Ms. Shady was with him, yes, but the absence still gnawed like a hollow echo.
The night before had been cruel. His sleep had been torn to shreds by nightmares, each one dragging him back into the maelstrom of the realm of the transmigrated. Three times he had woken, gasping, drenched in sweat, chasing shadows with his thoughts.
Though he tried to avoid the memories, they haunted him, and by dawn, his restless mind had done what it always did, it sought patterns, clues, the frayed threads that might bind his chaos into meaning.
Perhaps, maybe he did bind the threads, because the type of research he did last night and then the very little confusion on his face right now showed that maybe he understood everything that was going on with him.
"Did I though?"
After Simma had freshened up, he walked out of his room and locked the door behind him. Though he had been awake at midnight with Sarah, he didn't see all the decorations then.
'Sarah,' he thought. Last night was great but still felt very much weird. 'I don't want to think about it.'
The decorations transformed every corner, every corridor, into a pageantry of colour and sharp edges. Even with Halloween two days away, it felt as though the festival had already consumed the present. Everywhere was changed and looked sharper and lovelier.
For a brief moment, Simma allowed himself to smile, to feel comfortable and now imagined Sonja beside him, marvelling as she always did. Yet the thought dissolved quickly. The Wood Hints loomed, heavy as storm clouds, dragging him back to reality.
Initially, he wanted to meet the strange man again, at least so that they could do a few meditating sessions of the training which they had missed yesterday. Since his stay in the Realm of the Transmigrated had taken all day. But he remembered that the man had said that yesterday would be the last day of training until after Halloween.
He carried his clothes, the ones that were given to them by the Citadel for the Wood Hint; a yellow-and-green striped uniform, his name boldly branded across the back in thick black ink. It was both armour and proclamation.
He went down to the locker room and sat at the bench, nervousness crawling toward him. Clearly, Delilah wasn't here to call him by that name, but rather somebody else was, and this person just added salt to wounds.
"Listen up, recruits," called a man striding into the room, while everyone was changing into their attire for the Wood Hints.
He wore a brown suit several sizes too large, its fabric sagging as though it mourned its owner's frame. His body was slim, stretched tall at six feet, with pallid skin and an unkind shade of blonde hair. His long oval face, punctuated by a sharp nose, drew no admiration.
"I've come to revise a few rules… and to ask a few questions."
The recruits stifled laughter, whispers bubbling like a pot left uncovered. The man looked around, baffled. He wasn't a fool; he noticed it.
"Where did he come from?"
"Who knows? Wherever it is, he should go back there and pick up his brains."
"Man, he looks awful."
Simma watched him with distaste. Something about the man unsettled him, more than his appearance did.
Gwen, ever blunt, finally cut through.
"The rules are already posted. So skedaddle."
The room burst into raucous laughter. The man's eyes tightened, his lips twitching into a scoff. But when he spoke again, his voice carried an edge.
"If you are doubting yourself, this is your last chance to withdraw. Once the tournament begins, your path may end forever."
The laughter curdled. His words slithered into the room, wrapping cold fingers around each recruit. Silence fell.
The man's smile sharpened.
"If you are not bonded… truly bonded… to your inner beast, then you are not ready. Better to step back now, and prepare for next year, than to die chasing what you cannot yet grasp."
He gave a mocking salute.
"Cheerio." And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving the recruits in uneasy quiet.
"Bloody weirdo," Draco muttered, igniting another ripple of laughter. Yet the laughter rang hollow.
The man's warning had struck something in Simma. His stomach twisted, bile rising, he felt like he wanted to throw up. For a heartbeat, the thought of quitting tempted him. But no, that was not who he was. He was more than doubt, more than despair. Last night's research had taught him as much.
Now, standing in formation, the recruits waited for the signal. Their bodies were tense, hearts hammering like drums before war.
THUUMMM!
The gunshot cracked the air. The sound was devoured instantly by the roaring crowd outside. The recruits marched in single file onto the massive green field, their hands clasped behind their backs, a soldier's posture masking the tempest within. Unlike the arena battles, which unfolded over many days, the Wood Hints were a crucible of one day, one chance.
The field stretched before them, flanked by the deafening colosseum of humanity. Millions of eyes watched. Millions of voices screamed.
And then it came:
"NOW THE DAY WE HAVE ALL BEEN EXPECTING—THE DAY… OF… THE W.O.O.D HINTS TOURNAMENT!"
The crowd exploded again.
At the base, Dermot Regnald rose. He pressed his finger lightly against the side of his throat, and without a single strain, his voice swelled across the entire arena, amplified like thunder.
"Welcome, citizens! Today we determine those worthy to join us as Azren!"
Another roar. Another quake of sound.
He waited until the tumult dimmed, then continued.
"The final hundred recruits to return here will be disqualified. As will any who falter in their phases. Listen well, your Echelon Seals will guide you through the trials."
He looked at the determined faces of the recruits, as something like a smirk flitted unto his face. It felt more like he remembered his own days.
"First," he went on "the Yiriana's Bow. Second, the challenge crafted by the divined Zolomon. And third…"
He paused, his voice tightening with gravity, "…the trial forged by me, Transcendent Regnald."
He raised his hands as the very air trembled. Behind the recruits, a black-and-white mist swirled into existence, folding upon itself until it shaped into a circular portal at the very far end.
It shimmered like a living thing, breathing, and waiting.
"LET THE TOURNAMENT BEGIN!"