Henry Savoy hated mornings.
They never agreed with him—mornings were for birds, for sun-worshipers, for people who wore pressed suits and shiny shoes, not for bartenders who lived in the night like bats.
He wasn't built for it, and if there was any job in the world that should be safe from the morning, it was his. Bartenders were creatures of the night, after all—temple keepers in the sanctuary of smoke and sweat, priests of poured liquor and secrets you only dare tell a stranger in a drunken stupor.
That's when he's himself, when the dark swallowed the city whole, and the drunks came crawling out of it like worms during a storm.
But here he was, wide awake at dawn, being dragged through a tunnel that might as well have been cut from a medieval fantasy novel. But this day feels different. The buzz of the midnight poison was there—no hangovers, though. Because, this day, instead of serving drinks, he was about to serve a beating.
One way or the other, to be honest.
He's just quite sure of his own self most times.
The tunnel to the arena was grim, he'd half-imagined that this is how it looked like for Roman gladiators before they were sent to fight each other or the lions. Or maybe it was more like something from those secret English dungeons he'd read about as a kid, where they sent people to be forgotten.
Forgotten or torn apart.
Same thing, really.
It was dim, lit only by orange-flamed torches stuck to the wall every few steps or so. One good thing he took note of about the place as they walked was that the place was not restricting or tight. It was quite spacious, really. It was spacious enough for the guards surrounding him—front, back, and side to side—and still left room for nobles or mercenaries to stand around, bickering and sneering.
And by God, they really do that a lot!
Henry Savoy was the man of the hour, and he felt like that, too.
More so when a lordly-looking fuck, along with his battalion of fancy-dressed entourage, decided to cut their stroll to certain death.
"Here he is! The Chosen One!" the lordly figure bellowed, his voice dripping with mockery as he stepped into Henry's path. The man was dressed in silks and furs, the kind of outfit that made Henry think he'd never worked a day in his life, not in the real sense anyway.
Or maybe it's just compensation for that gleaming bald head.
He resembled a ball pretending to be a person, and if his skin were leathery and he was lying on his back, Henry thought, he could pass for a semi-hairy version of Wilson from Cast Away—like I said, he was bald, but his clothes sure weren't.
The guards escorting Henry stopped, their armor clanking as they made like a statue. It was clear this man had authority, but Henry didn't give a damn about authority. Never had, never would. He used to serve minors back in the Walking Stick. It was illegal and reckless, but that's what he is.
The ruiner of the spirit and mind.
Henry quirked an eyebrow, his smirk curling wider at the edges. "And who might you be? Head of the local knitting circle? You look like you could sew a mean scarf."
The lord's face flickered—a tic of annoyance, quick as a breath, swallowed up by a cold, crooked smile. It would drown out when he let out a chuckle.
"No, your Holiness, I am a tanner. I skin animals that I hunt, and sometimes, I butcher them, too. And my name is Lord Myrion of House Savelle."
"Tanner, huh? That explains the smell." Henry leaned forward, just enough to make the man recoil a little, as if afraid of being touched by something dirty. "Should've told me earlier—I'd have brought you some skunk's ass water. You know, a little cologne to match the personality."
The noble's entourage stiffened, but Lord Myrion's smile didn't falter.
"Witty to the last, are we? The crowd will adore you." He turned his back, strolling down the tunnel as if he had all the time in the world. "But do not worry. After today, you'll have no need for your tongue, or that charming attitude."
Henry's heart pounded with the slow rhythm of readiness, but outwardly, he yawned ennui. "Great. I've always considered a career change. Maybe they'll make me court jester. I'm more fit for that than whatever it is you fucks want out of me, and God knows you people need a sense of humor around here."
The tanner's laugh echoed off the stone walls. "A shame really, I was going to bet on you. But, you look and act more like a slave or a criminal rather than the gods' Chosen One. It is much worse than a Dorthen. Though, I must say, the watchers do love a dead body more than a punchline."
Henry only snickered, and Lord Myrion replied with one back after turning around and walking away. When they were gone, the guardsmen started to walk and he did so as well. And what the hell is a Dorthen? For now, he omitted that from his mind.
If there were eyes on him earlier, they were more so now. Lord Myrion must've been a bigshot around here, he thought.
In truth, he was.
In a world without alcohol beverages, there must be powers that provide. One of them is the thrill of the hunt. And that was truly Lord Myrion's business. He books hunters and the games thereof, sometimes partaking in it himself, then using the dead animals as more profit.
Skin and meat and bones.
He'd sell it just like he'd sell the pleasure of legal murder of animals.
And he sold it wisely too.
Many of his clients were men and women of high regards, mostly aristocrats. Those damn aristocrats and most rich people. Because, let's be honest, they do like morbid hobbies. That didn't change in this world either.
So, when they moved and moved, Henry's smirk faltered, if only for a second. The arena—he hadn't fully processed it. The rumors he'd heard of what happened in these "games" were brutal, bloody, and more often than not, fatal. That's, at least, what he heard as he saw in his few minutes there in the tunnel.
He doesn't know this world much, but he knows how this goes. He'd seen one too many movies and read one too many books about these kinds of things.
As they approached the end of the tunnel, the murmur of a crowd became a roar. The noise enveloped Henry like a tidal wave, washing away any last vestiges of calm he might have been clinging to.
The guards stiffened again, pulling Henry to a halt just before a massive iron gate. Beyond it, the arena stretched out in all its glory—a sand-covered battleground ringed by towering stone walls, packed to the brim with bloodthirsty spectators.
He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up for a round behind the bar. His eyes flicked to the tanner, who was now up the marble bleachers and seats, there on the covered and roofed part of the arena, speaking with the other lords and ladies—likely setting the terms for whatever nightmare was about to unfold.
Or he was betting.
Like I said, there must be other powers that provide.
"Enjoying the view?" one of the guards sneered.
Henry shot him a sideways glance. "Just taking it all in before I steal the show. It's not every day you get to play the main act in a circus like this."
The gate creaked open, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. The arena lay before him now, fully exposed under the harsh glare of the sun. Henry stepped forward, feeling the sand shift under his boots, his mind racing like horses on a bay.
He wasn't a gladiator.
He wasn't some war hero with years of combat training.
A bartender—a mixer—that's what he is.
One that's very, very lost.
He squinted up at the other part of the stands, where nobles and peasants alike jeered and hollered.
"Let's see what you've got in store for me," Henry muttered under his breath.
The crowd hushed as the arena announcer's voice boomed through the stadium, dripping with theatrical excitement. "Lords and ladies! People of Oberden! Gather close and bear witness to the Ultimatum! First, we have the challenge—the One Prophesied By the Stars, the Chosen One!"
Henry snorted. "Chosen one? One Prophesied By the Stars? These names are shit. I have to talk to whoever made those for me."
The guardsmen pushed him out to the open circle of the arena, gates behind him slowly closing. He'd walk and wipe the imaginary dust on his shoulders before waving at the people with a smile on his face.
"And our challenger, she is the Champion of the Glass, the Angelius Mastronum, the Saint of Oberin—Lady Keirin Dorthen!"
If the crowd did shout when he went out of the tunnel, they became like lions in loudness when the Saint of Oberin walked out to the light of the sun. By god, what an entrance.
And that's what that soccer ball of a man was talking about. Lady Keirin Dorthen.
Well, he thought, you can't please everyone, what more when you're against slimy fucks?
She wore a silver and gold armor, a kind that was skimpy and showed her feminine features. Though, for people from far away, the only thing that they might see was the crimson robe that covered it. There was a pauldron attached to the robe, pinning it down to its place, making the lower-half only sway from the wind.
Henry Savoy whistled, trailing her body up and down with his eyes. "Like I said, a smokin' hot babe."
"Shut your filthy mouth," spat Lady Keirin. "You mock the Will of the Gods, you mock me, and you mock this sacred custom? You are a dirty pig and a heretic."
"Hey, listen," Henry shot back, shrugging, "I'm not mocking anything. Just saying what I see."
"You see, but you do not understand, Savoy."
Henry Savoy looked at her whole body again before snickering. "Well, I'm seeing a lot."
The Saint didn't dignify that with a response.
Instead, she raised one elegant hand, and the air around her began to shimmer with energy. Holy light, brilliant and searing, coiled around her like a snake, twisting and pulsing as it took shape into a long, glowing whip. The glisten of her armor disappeared, and Henry knew, from their last encounter, that her powers must've come from some sort of reflection or refraction.
She snapped it once, and the crack echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
"Oh, come on," Henry muttered. "Not the whip again."
"Let the Ultimatum commence!" the energetic announcer shouted.
"Alright, Lady Whip-Cracker," Henry grinned, flexing his fingers, "let's dance."