Toward the High Elvan City was a crowd of people in their brown baskets and folded clothings worn diagonally. The brown woods surrounded the bakery shop which at the same time was also a meatshop. The butcher of the area, Bigscope, notorious for electrocuting people underground for a living back then but changed because his CR (Caster's Resistance) was depleted and now he can't even get a proper job without it, slammed the raw, blood-glazed flesh stripe to the table and looked up at the odd-looking man in front of him, a bit slouched and eyes as lost as the sea waves that crash very randomly.
"Bigscope here," said Bigscope. "You looking for what?"
"I'm looking for a portal, sir." Humpkin unknowingly pointed to the sharp needle of the building afar. "A portal out."
Bigscope has had for a very long time now a bad hearing. But he knew for sure the nutball was once up to something—Caster's Resistance is a the frontal part of one's own magic, and without it one would be discriminated in such society. So if he's looking for "Northal," then it could be the case that he's pre-arranging a possible suicide.
"Look." Bigscope chopped it half. "You can't go there." His eyes traveled to his hands, which beared a long broom. He put the knife down, his bulb-like, pig-wide face appeared bigger in his stance. Clearly he was about a shoe taller, maybe two.
When Bigscope was clearly about to open his mouth, Humpkin bowed for his interruption and adjusted his waist a bit in his way when a kid came running to the next street, a crumpled green paper in his hand, irises sharked to the barraged, tent-like candy store.
"Won't your mother be mad? You coughed blood last time, you know . . ."
The voice faded, Humpkin strode the sun-baked bricks. He didn't want to notice it, but he knew in the back of his mind that people had been eyeing him for having dressed very radical for the world, something these people may have probably never ever even seen.
But when he also thought about it, the road seemed more like the Golden Bridge of his world, his city. At least, even for a very short moment, he felt home, and he felt his long gone years—though he hoped they wouldn't be gone and he could return someday to his world.
But there was this feeling as he buried his feet forwards. The air was choking up in his throat, like a dust breeze fired by a group of bees. Rather, that's how he felt it was. Unexplainable. The mad feeling of air whooshing him as if he doesn't belong here.
He pressed the broom to his chest and whispered "I love you, and I won't let you down."
He did not know he was headed to Jag Shore. Neither did he know all about the true meaning of Caster's Resistance. Right now, he knew he was taking such a huge risk doing everything without knowing the slightest granule of things. That, he knew, was not very detective of him.
His sweat ran down his forehead as he said it, the words in pure gravitas of a father's love.
Meanwhile, underground Jag Shore, a foliated dark entrance somewhere in the Jag Forest led to a bright play, a stadium, and a dark crowd surrounding in blistful murmurs of the next fight. From one of the private windows outside the defeated crusts of the dome enclosing the stadium, Hermswitch Diablo ordered the white-donned servant of the family to signal the start to the Figure Host. He adjusted his weight back to his yellow-glimmering chair after the servant silently closed the door, then tipped wines to the window with a smile, imagining the flow of coins enclosing the entrace of his lungs. Actually, his very-private room he bequeathed with shining gold furnitures already. He thought that maybe he was probably already drowning in one.
The Figure Host announced: "For the next battle!" The old bartender Frisher from Ruke Queens was once a bow-maker who blended Caster's Resistance better than Fruddino Merrequiaschio ever did—a prodigy from the Victoria Era who helped the Diablo Family overtake the underground businesses and government seats of the Jag Shore by contract, which involved little girls.
The crowd growled.
"The Bow, The Man, Frisher!" Next. The crowd slowly went silent. "And the Otherworld Genius, Alissa!" The silence stayed.
She stood strongly in the corner light, her highschool outfit worn neatly in pride. Glasses adjusted, bare outstretch of hands.
The opinions came diversified.
"Does she really think she's going to win?"
"We're humans, you see—but the power gap of her world and ours . . . it's another story."
"Low Man is washed," said Rich Grandpa from the crowd. "I know because time tells."
So the Figure Host continued from the unseeable speakers. "For the final match for the Nine-Hundred Gold, both these participants will fight until one is incapacitated!"
The vocal energies returned. Deeper than a chainsaw's lullaby under the sea, the thrusting of the metal railroads.
"No draws, and no surrender!"
Hermswitch now leaned forward in his seat, smiling and drinking Diablo Family–special wine made by the Open Leaf Company that was contracted a lifetime of earnings to remain only in the enclosed quarters of the city for their hyper- and super-fleshing techniques that resulted in a very delicate taste.
"FIGHT, START!"
The golden doorknob fidgeted.
"I'm busy, Bordpoll. Seeing who's the next food."
"I'm actually very, very sorry, Master Herms, but it seems there's an issue with the Caster Detector put on the Elvan Express."
Hermswitch switched his gaze to the door, eyes bulging. "You call that Elvan again and my sword will be up your ass like Gareth, that damned lollygag."
"I'm very sorry, but a Four-Star object seemed to have passed by. Without a holder. Or so we think."
Now, Hermswitch arched a brow. The last time this happened was when that Dick-Rider Fat-Scope ran away like a little boy after murdering the Old Diablo Family Head in a one-sided, planned attack that depleted all his CR to a fatal point.
Alissa poured her hand down, the heart-red flame launched her heights the old boomer can't even fathom to twist the neck for.
Frisher stretched the string of the plain-shine bow. The aim would be the pink-misted trails.