Hey guys, every chapter there will be Tira/Zasalamel segments, telling you about the unfolding tournament, following Kilik, and revealing what Zasalamel has to do with The Tournament of Souls.
Meanwhile....
Zasalamel looked over at Tira. "Has it started yet, my servant?" Tira nodded. "The tournament has started at all four locations, my master." They were in the audience of the Chinese tournament, where they saw Kilik and Maxi about the brawl to their deaths in the first round. The crowded cheered when Kilik entered the arena. "Are there any big threats, Tira?" Tira gasped when she heard her first name. When she was insane and under Nightmare, he was usually adressed as 'creature' or some other unhealthy name. "Uhm, yes. Kilik, Xianghua, and Maxi are in this Chinese tournament. In the Japanese tournament are Mitsurugi and Taki. We have Sophitia and Cassandra in Sparta, and in London there's Ivy and Raphael. Where's Cervantes?" Zasalamel watched Maxi enter the arena and replied, "He's watching his daughter in London. He wants to kill her, you know." Tira nodded. The gong crashed, and the two warriors clashed in the fight for their life.
This was shaping up to be a very interesting tournament indeed.
It was the morning of The Tournament of Souls. I had signed up the day before, and the registration officer laughed at my clothes. Maybe that was a sign. I had a match scheduled for noon, which meant that the whole morning would be booked with earlier matches. The officer told me that there were two deathmatches per day, but forfeits were allowed. I spent the morning in the stands of the large stadium, watching the matches. There was this one lady with white hair. She had a tight, snake-skin sort of outfit that left little to the imagination. In the first round, she dominated her opponent, ending by complaining that her now dead opponent got blood on her suit. Hardcore. Suddenly, the announcer yelled, "Moore versus Wilder!" This was my time. I rushed out of my seat of this makeshift stadium and passed through the gates.
This Wilder chappie looked Scottish. He was fighting in a kilt and an old iron broadsword. The referee, who looked like he had never smiled in five years explained the rules. "Alright, listen up! You try to kill eachother, you can forfeit your match if you value your pathetic life, and when one of you is dead, we advance so somebody else can slaughter you. Got it?!" We both nodded, and I settled into a combat position on this 20' by 20' wooden platform that passed for an arena. A skinny man whacked a stick into a large gong, signaling it was time to fight. I had prepared for this moment for two months. Dozens of scarecrows trembled in fear from me. I readied my weapons as the Scot charged.
I ducked under his horizontal blow and jabbed the shortsword in my right hand into his leg. He cried out in pain as he fell to the ground. I backed away some as he swung vainly at me with his broadsword. "I don't wish to kill you, Wilder. Forfeit now." He shook his head. "I promised that I would die trying to win this. Do your worst." Well, now was high time to test a certain move. I flung my left sword at him, it spun around twice and lodged in his neck. The move worked!"A decisive victory!" The announcer yelled as I picked my left sword out of the corpse. Poor man, he didn't see it coming. It truly was a decisive victory. The crowd cheered as the announcer yelled, "In one hour the second round fights will begin! Until then, combatants, you may rest!" I clambered down from the slightly raised platform and headed to the locker room to dress in normal clothes.
My second battle would be at 6:00 PM. That gave me time to eat a big lunch and give it time to settle, and then warm up for the second round. Sixteen competitors remained for now, which meant 64 in the whole tournament, unless of course, two combatants suffered a mortal wound in their match. Then, they would be replaced by a prisoner who deserved to die. Those prisoners never lasted long.
What would happen next round? Find out next chapter!