Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes-Chapter 64: Steel and Wits

The next morning, Ivaim strolled through the bustling marketplace, weaving through the vibrant crowd. Stalls lined the streets, offering everything from fresh produce to crude weaponry, while the air buzzed with a mixture of chatter and the occasional cheer.

At the center of it all stood a makeshift arena—a circular pit surrounded by wooden barriers, where a group of onlookers had gathered to watch a sparring match.

Ivaim’s eyes lingered on the arena for a moment, a mix of curiosity and apprehension stirring within him.

’Grandma Neli would probably kick me out of the bakery if she knew I was doing this,’ he thought, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

Still, he pressed on, steeling his resolve. ’I’ve got my own path to walk. Escaping this Fractured Reality is all that matters now.’

As he moved through the bustling marketplace, his gaze flickered briefly to the makeshift arena in the center.

The crowd’s cheers rose and fell like waves, echoing the clash of steel and the grunts of effort from the fighters.

’In any case, at least now I’m sure that the Master of Cruelty can be found in the arenas. He might even be one of the Council of Champions...’

As he neared the edge of the crowd, a familiar figure caught his attention—the woman from the registration booth.

She stood near a weapon stall, her posture composed as she spoke with the vendor. Spotting him, she straightened and offered a polite smile.

"Good morning," she greeted, her tone even and professional. "I didn’t expect to see you here so early."

"Morning," Ivaim replied, his voice light. "Figured I’d get a head start. The arena doesn’t look like the place to stroll in unprepared."

The woman’s smile softened, though her gaze remained sharp.

"That’s a wise approach. Have you finalized your decision? Are you certain you’re competing?"

He nodded firmly. "Yes, I’m sure."

Her eyes flicked over him briefly, noting his empty hands and lack of equipment.

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"It appears you haven’t brought any weapons with you..."

Ivaim scratched the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly.

"Uh, yeah... kind of forgot about that part."

She inclined her head, her tone remaining polite.

"That’s understandable for a first-timer. There’s a storage area at the back of the arena where spare gear is available. You’re welcome to choose something from there."

"Thanks," he said with a grateful smile.

"It’s no trouble," she replied, clasping her hands neatly in front of her.

"Just keep in mind that the spare weapons are often left behind by previous competitors. They might not be in the best condition, but they’ll serve well enough for practice."

He tilted his head toward the arena. "What’s going on in there?"

"Morning sparring matches," she explained, gesturing gracefully toward the pit. "The fighters are warming up for today’s rounds. It’s a good opportunity to observe their styles and strategies."

Ivaim looked at the competitors, their movements precise and aggressive.

"Any advice for someone about to jump into the fray?"

She regarded him thoughtfully.

"Stay calm. Assess your opponent before rushing in, and remember that strength isn’t the only measure of a fighter. Sometimes, it’s the clever ones who survive the longest."

"Clever, huh?" Ivaim smiled faintly, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Guess I’ll have to rely on my wits, then."

"Wits are a valuable asset," she replied, her tone even and sincere. "Sometimes more effective than any weapon."

Ivaim nodded, her words echoing in his mind as he stepped into the storage room. The air inside was stale, carrying a faint metallic tang.

The dim light filtering through a small, cracked window revealed rows of worn racks lined with weapons.

Most of them looked like they’d seen better days—blades dulled from overuse, wooden handles chipped and splintered, and rust clinging stubbornly to the edges.

His eyes scanned the assortment: swords with uneven edges, axes with loose heads, and spears that seemed more decorative than functional.

A pile of mismatched weapons sat haphazardly in the corner, as if they’d been tossed aside for being too damaged to use.

He picked up a dagger, its hilt wrapped in frayed leather. The blade was short, not particularly sharp, but sturdy enough. He turned it over in his hand, testing its weight, before tucking it discreetly into the inside of his jacket.

’This might come in handy.’

His gaze then landed on a metal baton lying at an awkward angle against the wall. He picked it up, giving it a few experimental swings. It felt solid in his grip, and its simple design made it easy to handle.

"This will probably be more useful to me," he muttered to himself with a small smile.

Swords and axes lined the racks around him, their presence almost mocking. Ivaim chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

’Swords, axes... all too flashy for me. It’s not like I know how to use them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

As he adjusted his hold on the baton, he glanced back at the door. The woman’s words lingered in his mind. Wits over weapons. He tightened his grip, a sense of resolve settling over him.

’This’ll do. For now’

The creak of the door broke his focus. The woman stepped in, her demeanor as composed and professional as ever. She scanned the room briefly before her eyes landed on him.

"You’re up for the first match," she said, her tone polite but carrying a firm edge. "It starts in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?" Ivaim arched an eyebrow, shifting his grip on the baton. "That’s not exactly much time to prepare."

"It’s plenty," she replied, though her frown betrayed her concern.

"That’s why I asked if you were sure about competing. I’ve never seen someone enter the arenas with so little preparation. It doesn’t send the best message to the town."

Ivaim’s lips curved into a relaxed smile.

"Really? I’d like to think the town would appreciate a fighter who exudes unwavering confidence. Calm under pressure, ready for anything—that’s not such a bad image, is it?"