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“Considering the loyal patronage of the Practor Family, I think some cheap drinks are worth betting. But what do we get after his loss?” asked Reginol.

“What do think would be fair?”

“Hmm... How about you teach us about your mystery candidate?”

“No deal...”

Surprised to see Hurman intervening in their game, Reginol asked, “Why so grumpy? Did the old man wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“If you want to know about Oliver, you’ll need to bet more than drinks.”

.....

“Oh... interesting...” Smirking, Reginol thought carefully about Hurman’s words. “Then maybe we should hold off on our game.”

“What? Aren’t you a betting man by nature?”

“We’ll save it for the second or third round, if your man can even make it that far,” laughed Reginol. “Then maybe I’ll be more willing to bet something of value.”

While the Practor Family bickered with Libarn’s first manager, Oli reached the bottom of the stair and searched for open seats among the contestants. In all, Oli counted twenty-nine competitors seated so far, including himself, and most sat in their own cliques. With around fifty seats available around the stage, Oli found a patch of open seats in no time. But the moment Oli sat down was the moment people made a move to approach him.

“The name’s Oliver, right? You can call me Burttin, or Burt for short.” One common-looking man with medium-length, ungroomed, black hair was the first to near Oli. With his hand extended, he asked, “Mind if I sit with you?”

Eyeing him carefully, Oli nodded lightly. “I don’t–”

“Of course he doesn’t want to sit with you!” A shout came from the side, grabbing Oli’s and Burt’s attention. It was a young man and woman wearing expensive, blue armor, heavy and light respectively, with the man pointing at Burt’s tattered shirt and torn pants. That young man laughed mockingly, “From your appearance alone, how could he tolerate being near you for so long? He’d rather sit with someone accomplished with an actual rank.”

The young woman chimed in, “So go on, head back to your seat with the other no-names.”

Burt opened his mouth but closed it immediately after. He spotted the confusion on Oli’s face and that was enough for him. “Sorry to bother you, Oliver. Maybe we can talk later after these two have been eliminated.”

“Why you?!”

“You dare denounce us?!”

The arrogant young man and woman shouted in disgust but Burt was already leaving. To Oli’s dismay, this left him to deal with the cocky duo without someone else as an excuse. Then again, Oli didn’t mind learning about his opponents or taking advantage of free information.

“What did you mean by ‘no-names’?” Oli asked.

“You don’t know?” Sitting on Oli’s right side, the young man explained, “The no-names over there are the lucky ones who managed to get in by waiting in line. They have no sponsors or credibility to their names. They’re just commoners playing around like they have some actual worth.”

“I’m Jezza, by the way, ranked seventeenth,” mentioned the young woman, sitting on Oli’s left side as she eyed Oli’s robust physique.

“And I’m Worrik, number thirteen. Sorry for not introducing myself earlier.”

“That’s fine.” Nodding, Oli acted as if nothing had gone wrong thus far despite his true feelings. “I’m still new to Trighton City, so I don’t know much about the people here other than a few big names. Mind filling me in on some things?”

“Sure, what do you want to know?” Worrik smiled.

“I’m not sure why I’m appraised at number sixteen, but it makes me wonder who’s number one.”

“Ah... Then look over there.” Oli’s gaze followed Worrik’s finger as Worrik explained, “That’s Trenk Forell, the number one seed. Pray to the creator that he’s not your first opponent, or you’ll find yourself ousted without any chance of recognition.”

Oli examined Trenk carefully. He wasn’t wearing anything too eye-catching apart from his flexible and well-tailored light armor. It was stained dark red with black highlights, worn over the top of his grey and black underclothes. The only other accessory was a red pendant around his neck, made of some sort of crystal.

“Then I’ll do that...” commented Oli, playing along with Worrik’s joke.

“There’s also Freele Whizek, the number two seed, and Trantor Forell, the number three seed,” added Worrik, pointing just past Trenk. “But don’t go thinking you’ve got a chance with Freele. She’s already Trantor’s woman, even before they were engaged.”

Oli chuckled lightly, looking over the couple talking amongst themselves in the distance. Trantor wore robes instead of armor, as did Freele. Trantor’s robes were black and red while Freele’s were white and green, yet both were sleek and fitted to their lean bodies.

“Do the colors represent their families?”

“Yup! That’s exactly it!” Jezza chuckled.

“Then... is every combatant wearing their sponsor’s colors or is that just a family thing?”

“If their sponsors have colors to represent, then their entrants will wear them. That’s why you don’t need to worry about that, coming from the Practor Family. How did you manage that, by the way?” asked Worrik. “Are you a wandering swordsman that amazed the old patriarch?”

Laughing, Oli scanned over Worrik and Jezza once more with his newly learned information in mind. Keeping his thoughts private, Oli jested, “Who do you think I am, the protagonist of some fairy tale? I’m just a nomad that learned about Trighton Institute, so I want what every young cultivator wants. Resources.”

“But with a body like yours, you can’t be weak... You look stronger than everyone here from appearance alone.”

“Hey?!” Worrik complained.

“What? Am I wrong?” Jezza claimed with a teasing smile. “From the look of it, you’d probably wipe the floor with most everyone here.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving. Size doesn’t matter for everything...” Oli sighed, taking time to scan over the other competitors.