The registrar squinted at the parchment, lips moving silently as he tried to pronounce the name.
"Hy… Hy-oo-gah… Aran… Aran-jee?"
Aranji gave a slow nod. "Close enough."
The man grunted, scribbled something down, and handed him a wooden token marked with a crude sigil. "You'll be quartered with the other competitors. Tents are set up near the practice fields. Don't cause trouble."
Aranji took the token and walked off without a word.
The tournament grounds were already alive with motion. Squires ran back and forth with bundles of armor and weapons. Horses neighed in their pens. Mercenaries sharpened blades, and knights polished their sigils. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and roasted meat.
He found a quiet corner near the edge of the encampment, tucked between two supply wagons and a stack of hay bales. It was shaded, secluded perfect. He laid out his gear: his Aikuchi blade, a few scrolls, chakra pills, and a small cloth pouch of dried fruit and jerky. He activated his Byakugan, scanning the area.
The competitors were strong physically, at least. Their chakra was faint, barely more than a civilian's. A few had enough to rival a low-level Chūnin, but their networks were crude, unrefined. Their strength came from muscle, not mastery.
"They're like iron hammers," he thought. "Blunt. Heavy. But predictable."
He deactivated his dōjutsu and sat cross-legged, beginning to meditate. The noise of the camp faded into the background as he focused inward, letting his chakra settle.
Then a shadow fell across him.
"Didn't take you for the brooding type," a voice said, deep and amused.
Aranji opened one eye.
A tall man stood before him, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, with a mop of wind-tossed dark hair and a mug of frothy ale in hand. He wore a surcoat of storm-gray and blue, the sigil of a broken trident stitched over his heart.
"I'm Lord Dagon Wythers," the man said, raising his mug in greeting. "Of Storm's Drum. You?"
Aranji blinked. "You're a lord?"
Dagon grinned. "A minor one. Don't worry, I don't bite. Unless it's on the field."
Aranji sighed. "Hyūga Aranji."
Dagon tilted his head. "That's a mouthful. You from Essos?"
"Farther."
"Farther than Essos?" Dagon laughed. "What, you fall from the moon?"
Aranji didn't answer.
Dagon took a swig of his drink and sat down beside him, uninvited. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"I talk when I need to."
"Fair enough." He looked around. "You always sit in the shadows like a ghost?"
"I prefer quiet."
"Well, you picked the wrong week for that."
Aranji glanced at the mug. "What is that?"
"This?" Dagon held it up. "Smallfolk call it beer. I call it horse piss. But it does the job."
"I hate it already."
Dagon laughed again. "You'll get used to it. Or you'll go blind. Either way, it's a rite of passage."
Despite himself, Aranji smirked. "You're loud."
"And you're grim. We balance each other."
They sat in silence for a moment, the noise of the camp washing over them. Dagon leaned back on his elbows, watching the sky.
"You here for the melee?" he asked.
Aranji nodded.
"Good. I was worried I'd be the only one worth watching. You've got the look of someone who's seen real war."
"I've seen worse."
Dagon's smile faded slightly. "Yeah. Me too."
They didn't speak for a while after that. Just sat, two strangers from different worlds, sharing the same silence.
Eventually, Dagon stood. "Come on. There's a pre-feast tonight. Free food, terrible drink, and a chance to size up the competition."
"I don't drink."
"You will tonight."
Aranji hesitated then stood. "Fine. But if I die, I'm blaming you."
"That's the spirit."
Later that evening, they sat at a long table beneath a canvas pavilion, surrounded by knights, hedge lords, and mercenaries. The food was greasy, the beer worse, but the company was… tolerable.
Dagon was charismatic, loud, and surprisingly clever. He told stories of battles in the Stormlands, of duels won and lost, of lords who underestimated him and paid the price. Aranji listened, occasionally offering a dry comment that made Dagon laugh harder.
By the end of the night, Aranji had downed half a mug of the bitter ale, grimacing with every sip.
"This is poison," he muttered.
Dagon clapped him on the back. "And yet you're still drinking it. That's what we call progress."
Aranji shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Maybe this world wasn't all bad.