By the end of the week, our little routine of training and resting had settled in comfortably. The seven days of respite passed quicker than I expected. Before I knew it, the long bells on the guild towers were ringing out across the city once again, loud and resonant at the crack of dawn.

It was time, the second stage of the Decennial Tournament was finally here.

I woke to the sound of those bells echoing through the morning air. Even through the walls, the tolling was impossible to miss.

I blinked awake and gave a long, luxurious stretch. Every joint in my body popped or cracked in sequence—neck, shoulders, spine, hips, and somehow, even my paws. A week of near-constant sleep had left me exceedingly well-rested, if a tad stiff.

I shook out my fur and rolled off the floor-bed, landing on the cold floor.

Across the room, Sali sat against the wall, eyes closed, hands resting on her knees. Meditating again. Her quiver and bow leaned by her side within arm's reach. I watched her silently for a moment, noting the calm rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed.

After finishing a few more cycles, Sali opened one eye and offered me a small smile. "Good morning," she said quietly.

"Mhm," I grunted in response, scratching one ear with a hind leg. My voice came out a tad gravelly from sleep.

I lumbered over to where a basin of water sat. Sali must have fetched fresh water earlier. I splashed my face and took a few gulps to wet my dry mouth.

Morning preparations done.

As I waited for Sali to make breakfast, a sudden clamor arose from outside our quarters. The sound of many footsteps and voices just beyond the door. I heard excited murmurs, the scratchy shuffle of shoes on stone, the metallic click of… something.

I frowned. It was just sunrise; who could be causing a commotion at this hour?

Sali furrowed her brow, clearly hearing it too.

I pawed to the door and nudged it open a few inches.

Flash!

A burst of bright light went off immediately, startling me. Through the narrow gap, several figures pressed forward.

"There he is!" a voice hissed excitedly.

"Sir Pophet! Could we have a statement?" Another flash, a luminograph, capturing my half-asleep face no doubt.

I opened the door fully to confront a small crowd of reporters and luminographers clustered just outside. There were at least six or seven of them, possibly more hanging back. A few wielded boxy portable luminograph cameras, and others had notepads and pencils at the ready.

Most wore arm-bands or badges indicating their press affiliation. They must have staked out our lodging, waiting for me to appear.

The moment I stepped out, questions flew at me from all sides:

"Sir Pophet, is it true you're the Sixth Heir of Sunmire?"

"Why have you been in hiding all this time?"

"Do you plan to return to Sunmire after the tournament?"

"Is it correct that Sunmire's High Council denied your existence until now? How do you respond to that?"

Their voices overlapped in a chaotic barrage. A couple of bolder ones even inched closer.

I blinked against the onslaught of noise and camera flashes. My ears pinned back irritably. It was far too early for this sort of frenzy. I hadn't even had breakfast yet. Hell, I hadn't even had a nap yet this morning beyond waking up.

One particularly eager young man nearly poked a recorder at my snout. "Sir, what message do you have for Sunmire—"

I cut him off with a low, rumbling grunt.

It wasn't a word, just a guttural sound of annoyance, but it was enough to make the man jump back as if I'd snapped at him.

I fixed the group of them with my best flat, unamused stare. For a moment, the barrage of questions died down. I cleared my throat and spoke calmly, "Disrespectful."

With that, I stepped back and shut the door firmly. A muffled flurry of voices erupted again on the other side, but I was done listening.

Sali stood a few feet away, bow in hand. Concern and a bit of amusement warred on her face. "Reporters?" she guessed.

"Hrf," I grunted. I shook my head in annoyance.

There were more important things ahead of me today than entertaining journalists. Sali seemed ready to step out and shoo them off, but I waved a paw. "Ignore them. Someone from the Adventurer's Guild will fix the problem."

I glanced at the small clock on the wall. We did have some time. The organizers liked everyone present early for roll call, but not this early. My eyes drifted to my rumpled floor-bed, and a yawn escaped me before I could stop it.

In spite of all the rest I'd gotten, I suddenly felt the urge for one last tiny nap—a quick power nap to top off my energy, I told myself.

Sali followed my gaze and let out a light chuckle.

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Without further ado, I plodded back to my pile of blankets.

As I circled in my bedding, Sali went to bathe before preparing breakfast.

I curled up, resting my chin on my paws, already feeling my eyelids growing heavy.

*****

The late-morning sun beat down on the grand arena as I stood among the remaining entrants of the Decennial Tournament's second stage. All one hundred of us who had made it this far were assembled at the center of the coliseum's sandy floor.

Above us, a colorful array of gonfanons; vertical banners embroidered with each entrant's name, title and/or affiliation, and number, fluttered gently in the breeze. I found my own banner near the front of the display: No. 9, Pophet of Sunmire, marked with a stylized image of my pug-like face.

Guild attendants with long poles stood ready; whenever an entrant was eliminated, they would slice down that person's gonfanon, letting the banner flutter to the ground in a public declaration of their defeat.

My hulking 13-foot frame drew no shortage of gawking from the stands, but I paid it little mind.

One of the Guild's marshals stepped forward, raising a hand to call for attention. The murmurs in the crowd died down. Another marshal had pushed a massive black cube roughly ten feet high and equally wide into the arena.

Murmurs rose again at the sight. Clearly, this block was not a usual fixture in such contests.

"Entrants!" the marshal's voice boomed, magically amplified. "This artifact before you will test your strength. You will each strike it twice, and it will display a numeric score for the force of your blow."

As he spoke, he patted the cube's smooth obsidian-like surface. "This artifact hails from a dungeon and has been tested, capable of withstanding tremendous impact. Any damage it takes will regenerate almost instantly, so do not fear breaking it."

A ripple of conversation swept through the competitors at that. This was an unusual test; many of us were expecting combat duels, not a magical punching bag.

"You will go in descending order, starting from entrant number 100 down to number 1," the marshal continued. "Each of you gets two attempts. Only your highest score counts. The eighty contestants with the highest scores will advance to the next round this afternoon. This solves the halving. With eighty seeded, the duels are easily cut down to ten without a problem: eighty to forty, then forty to twenty, then twenty to ten. We begin the duels this afternoon."

A few entrants asked for clarification on minor details, but the marshal quickly addressed the questions. The basic idea was simple enough: hit the cube as hard as you could with whatever weapon, magic, or technique you preferred, and aim for the biggest number.

Satisfied that everyone was clear on the rules, the marshal nodded to the first participant.

"Let's begin! Number 100, step forward!"

At his call, a skinny man with iron gauntlets stepped up and approached the cube. He looked nervously up at the artifact towering over him, took a deep breath, then settled into a fighting stance.

From my place near the front, I watched with ears perked in interest.

The man let out a roar and drove his fist forward, a burst of blue mana spiraling around his gauntlet as it connected with the dark surface. The impact echoed with a dull thud, and for a moment nothing happened.

Then, with a faint hum, glowing numbers materialized in the air above the cube: 19.

The man exhaled and wound up for his second try. This time, he shouted an incantation and struck even harder, a crackle of energy rippled out from the point of contact.

The cube flashed, and the number 20 appeared overhead. A smattering of polite applause rose from the spectators as the first entrant's turn concluded.

One by one, the entrants took their turns. As the numbers counted down, the scores steadily climbed.

Most contestants were landing somewhere in the low triple-digits. I paid close attention to a few standouts, particularly those I remembered from Stage One.

The frost magess I'd seen before stepped up when her number was called. With an elegant flourish, she pressed a palm against the cube and poured a stream of icy mana inside. The cube's dark surface glittered, and it registered her power at 116.

On her second attempt, she tried a different approach, forming a lance of ice and driving it into the block, but the display only ticked up slightly to 118. Satisfied, she gave a small nod and stepped back.

Not long after, the stoic swordsman who had impressed me with his near-impenetrable defense in the previous stage approached the artifact. Rather than swing his blade, he simply laid it flat against the cube's side and let out a slow breath.

The result was 134 points. Interestingly, his second "strike" was just a repeat of the first: a gentle tap of the blade against the cube. The number came out exactly the same: 134.

Then came the hulking man with the warhammer. He readied his two-handed hammer and, with a guttural yell, brought it down on the poor cube as if he intended to split it in half. A resounding boom reverberated across the arena. The cube's display flashed 148, drawing a roar of approval from the crowd.

The big man let out a pleased laugh and hoisted his hammer onto his shoulder. On his second swing, however, he over-rotated slightly and struck the cube at an odd angle; the score only came out to 140 that time.

No matter, 148 remained his best, placing him near the top of the rankings at that point.

There were other memorable performances as well. An dark-elven archer, perhaps overconfident in the face of the device, conjured a single arrow of crackling light and shot it with a high-pitched twang.

It merely sizzled against the cube's surface. The poor elf earned a meager 5, eliciting a mix of chuckles and sympathetic winces from onlookers. Blushing, he hastily tried again, this time drawing his bow to full charge.

The effort only improved his score to 9. Shoulders slumped, the archer slunk away amid polite applause; his chances of staying in the competition were now next to zero.

In contrast, a boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen years of age gave perhaps the strangest display of the morning. The youth assumed an extremely slow, meditative stance in front of the cube, drawing curious murmurs from the crowd.

For a few long minutes, he barely moved at all, save for the deliberate shift of his weight and the gradual pivot of his hips. A full three minutes passed as his turtle-like punch inched forward. Some in the audience began to titter or murmur in confusion. I tilted my head, intrigued, I could feel a silent swell of energy coiling around the boy's fist, growing denser and denser with each passing second.

When his punch finally landed, it did so without a sound.

For a brief moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then a small dent popped into existence on the cube's face, the first actual damage we'd seen all morning, before the artifact swiftly regenerated its form with a ripple of light. The display above the cube lit up with 180.

Gasps and scattered cheers rippled through the stands.

He offered a polite bow as his score was announced, then stepped back.

Finally, the highest mark so far belonged to a spear-wielder with salt-and-pepper hair, a veteran who had placed in the top ten of the previous Decennial Tournament. When his turn came, he twirled his long iron spear and lunged with blinding speed. A crack like thunder split the air. The number 252 flared bright red above the cube, momentarily sending the crowd into delirium.

The spearman stepped back with a satisfied grunt, not even bothering with a second attempt. He knew no one was likely to top that score today.

On and on it went, a parade of talent and power. Most scores hovered around the low hundreds, give or take, as mages, warriors, and specialists of all kinds tried their luck. Through it all, I stood patiently, occasionally shifting my weight or shaking out my fur. By my estimate, we were finally nearing the end of the line.

Sure enough, a hush fell as the marshal consulted his clipboard and then cleared his throat. "Entrant number 9—Sir Pophet, Godbeast of Sunmire!" he called out.

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