Tirren crept along the street, walking at a brisk pace. Being outside in the streets of Najer was exhilarating. Tirren had done it tens and tens of times with Jefremov, but doing it alone was refreshing. The dark streets were lit occasionally by lamps hung from poles, but they were interspersed with plenty of darkness between. Tirren was keeping a careful grip on his mana, in a tight veil. Hopefully he would pass as a mortal, or a Seidren of unknown potential. Tirren’s hand felt light as he walked, with the dark ring taken from his finger.

  The demon would have called out again, and Tirren needed to retrieve Severin and be back as soon as possible. He feared that Jefremov might reprimand him upon return, but if he managed to rescue Severin, he would surely not be punished too severely. In his accompanied travels of the city to the many sects and schools of magic, Tirren had a general idea of the location of the Crystalline frost school. Every time he had passed it, he had wondered why they never stopped there to fight.

  Jefremov thinks he knows best. We’ve been in Najer this whole time, and he hasn’t shared the fact that he started a sect war. Not only did he start a sect war, he’s the only one worth fighting. Severin and I are weak.

  As he walked, Tirren debated sitting down and progressing to Sand Seidren on the street. He had hungered for progression for so long, and Jefremov had given him enough of a start he could force it through. Tirren calmed himself, and decided that he would heed his master, for now.

  He approached the area in which he thought the school had been. He walked down the street, and when he didn’t see it, he walked over to the next street. It wasn’t there either. Tirren walked back to the street he started on, and then over in an opposite direction. Wandering back and forth, he began to worry that he wouldn’t be able to find his way back. He saw a couple of blue-robed members of the Najer patrol walking towards him, and Tirren felt the irrational fear of those who met the guard and couldn’t remember if they’d done something wrong. He raised his arm to ask for directions, but then lowered it.

  The guards noticed, and turned to face him. “Identify yourself, Seidren.”

  How did they know Tirren was a Seidren? “I’m… a Seidren. . . from the west.” Tirren said haltingly and quite lamely.

  The guards looked at each other. They both squinted at him. “Are you a Tree Seidren?” The one who hadn’t spoken yet asked, puzzled.

  “No! Well… yes. I am looking for my friend, he might have been at the crystalline frost sect school…”

  “In the dark?” The first patrolman asked again. Tirren could hear the growing suspicion in his voice.

  “You’re veiled, out after curfew, and can’t name your sect. Drop the veil. Now. ” He commanded with a serious voice.

  “You can’t order me around, I haven’t done anything wrong!” Tirren said back quickly.

  The men began advancing quickly towards Tirren. He threw his hands up in a defensive position and tried to step backwards, but he hadn’t noticed the subtle formation of ice mana around his feet, so he fell backwards, landing on his rear end. The men came quickly toward him and grabbed him by the arms. They threw some mana cuffs on him, and began dragging him away. Tirren didn’t dare resist.

  Tirren was walked three blocks until he was taken to a small guard station. He was walked in, searched, and then thrown into a cell in the back of the station for holding.

  From his vantage of his small window cell, he could see parts of the street. He lay on the floor in his cell until the sun started to come up and lit his cell. A guard threw a paper wrapped sandwich through the bars, and Tirren quickly set into it.

  Later in the morning, a female guard with a list came in and talked to Tirren.

  “It looks like you were arrested for vagrancy by the city guard. The fine is ten gold pieces. Do you have the means for the fine?” The guard spoke in the practiced way of someone who had said something hundreds of times.

  “I don’t have ten gold pieces on me right now, and ten gold pieces to get out? What does vagrancy even mean?”

  “The gladian vessel comes late morning, would you like me to mark you down for it? You can pay your fine with successful combat.”

  Tirren quickly thought of the non-answer he had been given. It would be super embarrassing to have Jefremov come get him, and pay the fine for leaving. Tirren could see Jefremov’s knowing smile, with condescension dripping from it. “What is the gladian vessel?” Tirren asked, hoping for a way around contacting Jefremov.

  “Gladitorial combat in the leagues of the blood pits. As tree Seidren, you would have to start at the lowest league, but you could fight for the crowds and the glory. Pay your fine that way. Lots of captives do it. If you're in here on more serious charges, then we don’t make it an option.”

  “Put my name down. I’ll fight for the money.”

  Tirren heard a roaring voice above him, and the chanting, clapping, and stomping of feet. He stood in the dark, in a small enclosed space. Before being led here by one of the administrators, he had been allowed his choice of shoddy weapons, shields and armor.

  He had taken a rusty helmet which had two rusty triangular eye holes, a small protrusion with small holes for his nose and a grid of holes through which he could breath with his mouth. He had a sleeveless leather jerkin on, and a small shield in his left hand. In his right hand he gripped a smaller broadsword. The sword was awkward in one hand, but Tirren didn’t know what to expect and figured he wanted as much as he could. He had a bracer which was loose on one arm and another which was quickly cutting off the circulation in his shield arm. He knew he must look ridiculous, but the faint smell of old blood was telling him he needed to be prepared.

  There was that strange feminine voice again, and cheers. Tirren felt his nerves racing. The trap door above him opened and he felt his platform rising up into the harsh lights of the arena. He shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of the mama spotlights which shone down into the arena. There was an arena around Tirren, with spectators scattered throughout the stands. Tirren didn’t count, but it looked like almost five hundred people.

  Some cheered, and some clapped politely. The loud feminine voice resounded through the arena. “Tirren, the rogue Seidren. He’s a tree Seidren, here to earn a quick coin. We’ll see how quick and easy it will be for him.”

  There was laughter from the gathered crowd. “And now, let’s take a look at what we have today. It’s a special treat, here from the deep jungles of Poultus. Theeeeeeeeeeee Fernacula!!”

  The far wall of the arena opened, and a large creature crawled forward out of the space, and it thrashed its head back and forth. It stood easily eleven feet tall, and was made of thick dark green vines in its entirety. A large Venus fly trap-mouth was mounted at the fore end. Four arms protruded from a stem thicker than Tirren could have put his arms around.

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  “The Fernacula is a blood/growth aspect monster. The famous monster hunter, Smiter the Shadowhunter, brought this beauty in.” When the loud voice announced the name of Shadowhunter, the crowd cheered heartily, and the voice paused to allow the expression of their excitement. “It was alleged that this Fernacula would wander the forest, and eat wandering children from the local villages.”

  “Fernacula are typically sedentary, mostly waiting for prey they can snatch with their large mouths. Once taken, digestive juices are released and the unlucky victim spends hours or days being slowly dissolved and broken down for food. As you can see though, when enraged, or necessary, the Fernacula can move about. This one looks very, very angry.” There was a general chuckle of amusement from the crowd.

  The voice was drowned out, as Tirren was shoving down the fear which was threatening to paralyze him. The monster didn’t have visible eyes, but it had swiveled towards Tirren, and had started dragging itself towards him. There were four trunk-like protrusions which Tirren would have called arms, and two thicker and shorter protrusions, which Tirren labeled legs. The plant was dragging itself towards TIrren and it was silent as it did so.

  Tirren watched the limbs crashing down, dragging the monster forward, and he looked down at his small shield, about the size of a dinner platter. Tirren tossed it aside. If he did manage to block a blow with his pitiful shield, it wouldn’t do much to stop other damage. Tirren took his midsize broadsword in two hands, and began walking forward to meet the beast. The announcer chirped a comment about tree Seidren,which elicited a laugh from the crowd, but Tirren blocked her out.

  Tirren calculated which limb was supporting the weight of the creature, and he dashed under the creature and struck. His sword hit hard, and glanced off the bark which he discovered covered the limb of the creature. Tirren looked at his sword in frustration. The rusty second-hand sword wasn’t cutting. Tirren hacked again, and again at the same place, but the bark didn’t give at all. Tirren dove as the bushy outgrowth of a hand smashed down where he had been standing. He came up again, and a sweeping trunk came at him. Tirren struck, but the Fernacula disregarded his puny attack, and he was thrown away, tumbling through the sand. Tirren got up quickly, disoriented, and quickly found his sword, which had tumbled away from him.

  The monster was turning towards him. The monster wasn’t quick, but it was strong, and seemed to be invulnerable. The monster stalked towards him, and Tirren backed up, his mind racing. Simple strength would not solve this for him, and losing this fight was no option. A glance at the wide mouth of the creature frightened Tirren enough to improvise.

  A smarter hero would find a way to start a fire, or outthink the monster. Tirren didn’t have that.

  He would just have to hit harder.

  Tirren led his mana away from his core, and into the sword. Tirren remembered the feeling of force aspect, which he had been so close to taking in. Tirren didn’t know exactly how he did it, but as the ambient mana left his body, he changed it to force aspect mana, and he fed it into the sword, to empower it. He swung the sword experimentally to see if it was reacting properly.

  The sword felt no different, in fact, as Tirren looked at the sword in his manasight, he saw that the mana was just being sucked into the sword, like a sponge. Tirren stopped that immediately. The sword seemed to drink Tirren’s mana the same way his body was strengthened by mana.

  Tirren reflected on what he had seen while possessed by Ivarmarktarius. The demon fought Sand Seidren, those a level above Tirren, and won every time. He was a master fighter. He used Tirren’s mana in effective, destructive ways. Tirren needed to think like his demon.

  Tirren led his mana towards his hands again, but this time, he didn’t give it to his rusty sword, he surrounded his hands like a glove, making it force aspect as well. The whole while, he was walking slowly away from the monster stalking him. It began moving faster, and Tirren brought more force mana around his wrists and forearms. The monster had pushed him into the end of the arena, and Tirren had the option of trying to get around it to the space of the arena behind him, or to fight. Tirren could feel his force mana working for him, and the sword felt lighter. He charged again.

  Tirren dodged a stamping foot, and swung at it. His sword almost whistled as he swung it hard, with his mana enhancing his swings. His dull sword hit the trunk with a smack. It bit deep, and Tirren held on tight to the sword as the Fernacula dragged its arm away from him. Luckily, he kept his sword in hand. Tirren fed more force mana around his hands, and as he ducked a horizontal strike from a limb, he used his hands to coat his feet in more mana.

  Tirren fed more and more mana into his force gloves, which extended almost to his shoulders in his manasight. Tirren leapt away, using his force mana around his feet to gain extra distance. He struck again, glancing blows which wouldn’t stick in the bark, each time hitting harder and harder. He began to notice that his stronger blows were drawing little beads of muddy brown liquid.

  The monster bled!

  Tirren leapt a blow, laughing at the stupidity of his actions. He was dodging blows that if taken incorrectly, would surely break bones. A reaching hand came for him, and Tirren swung his sword at it. He left a gash across the “palm”, and he dodged backwards. Tirren’s mana well was draining quickly. He had grown much in his time since leaving Serventis, but this was a whole new application of mana.

  Tirren eyed the “neck” of the creature, right beneath the large fly-trap mouth. Tirren was going to finish it. He dodged again, brought his mana to bear in his arms, and then on his left foot. He dodged, dashed and then leapt. He flew through the air, and time seemed to slow for him. He watched a near miss of one of the limbs, and then he brought the sword back over his head with two hands. His feet kicked back as well, and he felt the flat of his blade on the soles of his feet. With everything he had, he struck, and brought the sword down on the neck.

  There was a satisfying smash, and the sword sunk into the thick back and wood of the creature. Tirren had hoped he would slice cleanly through the trunk of a neck, but the sword was lodged in the wood, the large blade more than halfway submerged, but the head was not severed as hoped. The beast thrashed and Tirren clung to his sword, but after the second thrash, he was thrown into the air. His world spun and he lost which way was up and down.

  When he landed, it was on a surprisingly soft material. As he shook his head, he watched in horror as the marginal spikes of the fly-trap mouth closed around him. He was inside the mouth of the monster. He could dimly hear the roar of the crowd outside of the mouth. It was dark, and the pressure of the closed mouth was keeping him from moving. Tirren’s panic surged again, but he forced himself to calm down. Panic likely meant death. Tirren’s racing mind remembered the knife sheath around his leg. He managed to contort enough to reach his leg, and he worked the knife out slowly. He felt an acidic water begin to surround him and his breathing quickened.

  The acid burned his exposed skin, but Tirren knew the higher danger was likely drowning. Tirren had landed in the mouth, which was surprisingly soft. Tirren realized that the mouth was where the monster drew the nutrients of its dissolved victims. It was not hard and protected. Tirren began working his knife around, and got the point down. He pushed, and it penetrated the inside of the mouth. He worked the knife back and forth. The liquid was pooling in the mouth, and Tirren felt it rise above his ear, as he was laying supine on his back in the mouth. He began frantically working the knife back and forth, slicing deep wounds into the mouth of the beast. It thrashed about a bit.

  The acid finally came over Tirren’s head. He grabbed a large breath, but continued to work the knife. With his other hand, Tirren began forming a mana dart. He would fight to the last breath. When the mana dart had finished forming, Tirren was still dragging his knife back and forth with one hand and he held the dart in the other. Then, with a thrash, the monster spat Tirren out. He fell in a slow arc, surprised that his knife had convinced the monster to release him.

  As he fell, he watched the monster, a sword hanging from its neck. There was a slow trickle of muddy brown blood around the blade, but it was not the fatal strike Tirren had wanted. Tirren felt the ground approaching rapidly. Tirren felt he had about three punches left. He fell and spun as he did. He threw the mana dart.

  It missed the monster’s head. The dart sailed down to where it exploded against the sword embedded in the monster’s neck. The sword rang like a gong, and dropped from the monster’s neck. As the sword fell, blood flowed freely from the wound. Tirren landed hard, and his breath was knocked out from his lungs. Tirren gasped and struggled to breath. By the time he had gathered himself, he looked over, the monster was bleeding, and cowering in the corner.

  Tirren stood, and walked painfully to his sword. He lifted it in the air. The voice which had been giving a constant narration of the battle announced. “Tirren, the rogue Siedren wins! What an upset.” Tirren’s head ached, his skin burned, his bones hurt, and he did not feel like a winner, but he was.

  The crowd roared.