Originally, they had planned to hold the tournament inside the main building of the store, but with so many people turning up, that became unfeasible. By the time the sign-up sheet hit its third page and the line for cocoa curled past the display case, the choice was obvious. So the tournament moved to the inner courtyard.

  Jeremiah had used the chaos as an excuse to finally do something he’d been putting off for weeks. He’d found an automated install kit on the System Store, the kind that came with chirpy step-by-step prompts so simple even Billy could follow them. A few dozen Marks and one night of fiddling later, a clean inner doorway now sat to the right of the pastry counter, framed in dark wood that matched the café’s trim. No more funneling guests through the apartments or — worse — threading them past sacks of feed and stacked terrariums in the back storage room.

  Not that Jeremiah had done much. As soon as he had activated the kit, that a sleek silver drone appeared in the shop with a soft electronic hum. All he’d done was mark the placement for the new door, and the machine had gone to work. Its articulated arms had unfolded in smooth, practiced motion, rotary cutters carving a perfect outline through plaster and wood. When the machine finally powered down, the air was already clear, the dust gone, and a brand-new doorway stood where a solid wall had existed only minutes before.

  He could still remember running his fingers along the frame once the process finished. The surface had felt cool and faintly rough, textured like old wood that had been there for decades.

  He had smiled then, half amused, half impressed. A few weeks ago, he would have fussed over such a small amount of marks. Now, it barely seemed to matter. He still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but a smile curled faintly at the corner of his mouth as he flicked open his System wallet.

  —?—

  Quantum Marks: 6,233

  —?—

  Such was the power of a festival.

  When the countdown on the floating screens read five minutes, every display — inside and out — pulsed the same pale warning. Conversation stilled, people moved, cups met saucers, chairs scraped, and everyone stopped what they were doing. One by one, people turned toward the new doorway and filed through.

  Jeremiah fell in with them.

  High walls ringed the space in warm brick and climbing ivy, their edges softened by planters that Lewis installed at regular intervals. At the center stood the ash tree, a story tall with a thick, solid-looking trunk, its canopy casting the courtyard in a living shadow. Beneath it, a temporary stage sat over the flagstones: a low, rectangular platform of dark boards set on braced legs.

  The crowd churned toward it in waves. Locals in patched coats rubbed shoulders with shop regulars. A knot of teens in mismatched jackets craned for a better view. Several of the entrants hovered near the stage steps, clutching carrying cases, padded crates, or simple lacquered boxes.

  The courtyard hummed. The mana wasn’t thick for Jeremiah here the way it would be by the sea, but he could feel an almost-buzz in the air that seemed to mirror the crowd’s excitement, as if local the mana’s ‘meaning’ was subtly changing. Not in its entirety — more like it was gaining a new ‘flavor’, however minute. Above, a few of the floating screens had drifted under the branches.

  “Jerry!”

  Stella rushed out of the crowd, dress flaring as she darted around a stack of folding chairs. She wore a floral number that shouldn’t have made sense in the cold — bright print, quick hem, the skirt catching at her knees — yet the young girl showed no sign of discomfort. A sunflower rode high over her ear, its stem laced into her hair so neatly that Jeremiah suspected she had used a Minor Floramancy talisman to do it, its stem gently coaxed into shape, no pins required, petals fresh as if unplucked.

  The kids had been learning. Lewis pretended to grumble about it, but Jeremiah had caught him watching them with a smile occasionally, as the kids argued over the best use of their allotted talismans.

  Tish and Tosh barreled in on Stella’s heels. Tosh sported a dark green pinstripe vest that made his narrow chest look rakish. Tish wore a puffed blue dress with a satin rose tucked around one ear — the same blue as the overly poofy dress she wore. Tosh yipped twice and spun in a tight circle; Tish held herself very still for a half second, as if to be sure Jeremiah saw the dress in all its glory, then wagged in place until her whole back half wobbled.

  Behind them, Milo shouldered through like a gentleman late to a gala. The old hound wore a fitted vest with a bowtie that had somehow stayed straight and a pair of sunglasses that did nothing to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Stage security” had been embroidered down one side of the vest in neat thread. He stopped by Jeremiah’s knee and gave a brisk, professional chuff — on-duty, but accepting of praise.

  Jeremiah grinned and laughed before crouching down to ruffle ears and pat heads in turn.

  “Look at you lot,” Jeremiah said, still grinning as he stood. “Dressed to impress.”

  “Duh,” Stella said, slipping around his arm. “Hurry up!”

  He opened his mouth to protest, only to be dragged bodily two steps forward.

  “Mani’s about to start!” Stella said with excitement. “We need you on stage.”

  Jeremiah let his eyes travel once across the courtyard — the anticipatory hush gathering under the chatter, the regulars squeezed into front rows, the latecomers craning from the steps.

  He exhaled, rolled his shoulders to set the last knot loose, and nodded. “Alright,” he said.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Stella’s grip tugged him the last steps, and then Jeremiah was at the edge of the low stage. Two long tables flanked the center, their dark boards chalk-marked for placement. Between them, on its own waist-high pedestal, sat the Arena Arcadium.

  Mani stood beside it, straight-backed, mic in hand, and far more composed than Jeremiah had ever seen him. His dark suit caught the glow of the stage lights.

  For a heartbeat, Jeremiah’s brow rose, and he smirked — the design was almost identical to his Shopkeeper’s Regalia, though tailored to fit a twelve-year-old who had absolutely no right looking that confident.

  The mic squealed once, then settled. Mani turned to the courtyard and raised a hand. The crowd quieted, the sound damped by brick and ivy until only the soft tick of the screens and rustle of leaves remained.

  “Welcome to the Crossroads’ first Interstellar Coleoptera Battle League tournament,” Mani said, rolling through lines like he’d been practicing in mirrors all week.

  … which he likely has, Jeremiah thought to himself with a smirk.

  What followed was a quick, clean tour: how the bouts worked, what the Arcadium did, how a handler called a forfeit. While he spoke, the screens drifted into position under the canopy and lit with familiar footage — the Ferrospark male from the test bout lunging in a flash of light, the Goliath Bark Beetle taking the hit and rolling, bark plates shrugging sparks like rain. The crowd answered with a cheer, and Mani rode that current without pushing it and moving on.

  He pivoted, gesturing toward the stage stairs, and called for contestants. A line quickly formed behind him — thirty-two in all. The group was mostly kids — a girl in a patched bomber jacket holding a lacquered box; a boy in scuffed sneakers who kept rubbing his thumb over the latch of his carrier; and a young girl who looked barely eight, frozen in place like a statue as she stared out over the crowd and the crowd stared back.

  Only a few outliers broke the rhythm. A woman in a mechanic’s coverall with grease stains along one cuff. A heavyset man with a homemade armband stamped CBL in block letters and a smug look. And an old man with a rickety cane, grinning like he was having the time of his life. He waved the cane at the crowd and got a modest ripple of cheers in response.

  “Of course, none of this is happening without support,” Mani said, and his hand cut toward the front rows, “So let’s give a grand thank you to our prize sponsors, the good people of the Market Street Collection!”

  He gestured toward the front of the crowd, where a group of shopkeepers stood together — familiar faces all. Jeremiah spotted Mrs. Vaughn from the apothecary, two of the brothers from the Crossroads Deli, even Sally and her husband from the grocery across from Jeremiah’s shop, gathered around the unmistakable bulk of Ulrick. The baker raised his hand, a broad grin cutting through his beard, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Mani raised his mic again, laughing over the noise.

  “Now, I know what all of you want to see now!” Mani said, grinning, “Let’s look at our prizes!”

  Mani turned toward the floating screens with a theatrical sweep of his hand. The crowd quieted, the hum of anticipation thick as the image above the stage flickered and shifted — lines of bright text blossoming across the projection. Numbers and icons scrolled past in neat columns, each accompanied by the shimmer of gold and silver borders.

  The list gleamed in the air for all to see — stacks of prize money, shimmering voucher icons, and even a large, fancy terrarium like the ones Jeremiah used for his own beetles. Each item glowed with its own small allure: one-line descriptions and placement, from 1st all the way down to 10th place. Even those who didn’t place were rewarded with a participation prize of a 20% off voucher redeemable at any store on Market Street.

  Jeremiah could feel the shift ripple through the crowd — that edge of disbelief, the breath caught between awe and hunger. The Outskirts weren’t destitute, but they weren’t far from it either. For many, even the smallest of those vouchers could mean a month of comfort. For the kids in the front rows, it meant something rarer still — not just a handful of marks or a bit of recognition, but the promise of something more.

  Mani’s hand swept toward Jeremiah. “And now,” the boy declared, his grin bright as the overhead lights, “as host for this event, the Mystical Menagerie has prepared a grand prize!”

  The murmuring swelled, rippling through the courtyard. Jeremiah took that as his cue. He stepped forward and flicked his fingers through the faint shimmer of a menu screen.

  A faint hum rippled through the air. Then, with a soft pop, three pedestals shimmered into being along the stage’s edge. Atop each rested a small wooden box, dark and ornate, carved with whorls of flowing patterns that gleamed faintly.

  Gasps and scattered applause broke out as Jeremiah approached the center pedestal. He felt the weight of the crowd’s gaze like heat on the back of his neck. Mani’s voice carried smoothly over the speakers.

  “For our Second and Third place contestants,” he said, “the Mystical Menagerie offers something truly special.”

  Jeremiah lifted the two side lids in unison. Inside, nestled ina bed of fine ash, was a perfect silver orb the size of a pea — smooth, translucent, and faintly alive. The light within them pulsed softly, swirling like captured storm light. Gasps broke from the front rows as the display screen projected the inside of the box for all to see.

  “Each will receive their very own Ferrospark egg!” Mani announced. “These rare beetles are not your typical creatures. Not only are they half-Wyrd beasts, but properly raised, you may find they even have a spark of magic in them!”

  The crowd roared. Some cheered; others leaned forward in stunned silence. A child near the front clapped his hands, eyes wide with awe. Few knew what the prize actually was, but the excitement of the crowd and the egg’s eye-catching nature got people whispering.

  “And for our Champion…” Mani’s voice rang clear,

  Jeremiah smiled faintly, then lifted the lid of the middle box.

  Light poured out in a soft golden wave. The orb inside wasn’t merely shining — it pulsed, as though it possessed a heartbeat. Hints of amber and molten white slid across its surface, the glow reflecting in every watching eye.

  “The egg of a Ferrospark Matron!”

  A collective breath rippled through the courtyard, followed by applause that rose and rolled against the brick walls. Jeremiah closed the boxes with care and stepped back. The warmth from that single golden egg lingered against his palms.

  Mani raised his free hand high, the grin on his face turning mischievous. “And now…”

  He snapped his fingers.

  A green shadow dropped from the canopy like a stone, landing in a crouch behind him with a thud that shook the stage boards.

  The crowd gasped as Maddie, the Tangled Lynx, rose from where she’d landed, fur rippling in waves of dark emerald and charcoal. A lit torch was gripped delicately in her jaws, its flame reflected in her golden eyes. She padded forward until she was next to Mani and lifted the torch toward him.

  “Good girl,” Mani said. He plucked the torch from her mouth with an easy flourish and strode toward the Arena Arcadium at the stage’s center.

  He drew himself tall, let the pause stretch just long enough for the tension to rise, and then called out, voice ringing to the far walls, “Let the tournament… begin!”

  He touched the torch to the small brazier atop the Arcadium.

  The brazier flared bright gold, and the Arcadium itself seemed to come alive, splitting apart like unfolding origami. Ribbons of wood, stone, and glowing light rose from its surface, twining through the air before streaming outward across the stage.

  When they had finished, twin lines of eight battle arenas sat on the two tables to either side of the stage. Each arena was connected by pale glowing lines of energy, like an umbilical cord.

  For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The the crowd roared, half in awe, half in disbelief.

  Mero smirked and turned to Jeremiah. “Say what you want, but the kid knows how to put on a show.”