Breakfast kept getting better.

  Steam rose off platters of warm bread and pats of butter soft enough to smear with the back of a spoon. Bowls of sliced fruit gleamed—ruby berries and pale, crisp crescents—and earthen pitchers of milk sweated in the cool air. Someone had even set out a crock of honey that caught the light like amber. Strips of crispy meat that reminded Max of bacon were added to the buffet this time as well.

  Max ate quietly, letting the simple luxury steady him. The cotton-stuffed mattress hadn’t lied; his body felt less like a bruise this morning. Higher Vitality paid dividends.

  He didn’t linger. With hours to kill before the day’s card, he slipped into a side corridor and followed a sign scratched in chalk-two blades crossed over a square-to a fighters’ training room.

  The space had the feel of a converted storeroom: high ceiling, chalked footwork grids on the stone, and racks of battered practice gear. Makeshift weights, stone disks lashed to iron rods, sandbags stitched from old sailcloth, sat in stacks sized from goblin child to hobgoblin brute. Punching bags hung from chains, some stuffed with straw, others with something heavier that thudded like meat when struck. The walls bristled with wooden dummies and padded posts; many carved at different heights to suit goblins of every build.

  Perfect.

  Max pulled Solaris Edge from his ring and set into some baseline drills he picked up in the past month or so. Wrist snaps. Cut-lines. Guard transitions. He moved along the chalk grid until breath and blade were in rhythm, then layered in what mattered most now: footwork off heavy angles. Step through the arc, not away from it. Korrak and Gorath had taught that lesson with bruises; Max wasn’t eager to relearn it at full speed.

  Blink timing came next. He didn’t burn mana—just the count and habit. Two beats to bait. One beat to vanish. Appear at the angle you already cut in your mind. He traced the pattern until it was dull and sure, then holstered Solaris Edge back into the ring and finished with fifteen minutes at a bag, palms and elbows, to keep his close-in answers honest.

  A distant cheer rolled down the corridor like weather.

  The house voice boomed a moment later, muffled by stone. “Citizens of Krazhul—take your seats! Day Two of the tournament is about to begin!”

  Max toweled off, drank from a clean water skin, and headed for the fighters’ gallery. He found a narrow spot in the shade where the officials’ box overhung the stands. The stone above was thin enough to catch voices when speakers forgot themselves.

  “…yesterday’s openers were better than expected,” one said, amused. “Hopefully the healers are able to get everyone back into fighting shape in time.”

  “Depends on blood loss,” another replied dryly. “But if fighter five versus number thirteen doesn’t go long, we can put the winner against the human.”

  Max’s eyes sharpened. Winner of the next fight will fight me tomorrow.

  He settled in as the sand crew finished smoothing the floor. A gong rolled across the arena while the two gates rattled.

  #5 Brakka Redtusk strode out from the left, bare arms corded with muscle, red-dyed braids beating against his shoulders. His weapon was a cruel compromise between axe and sword—a heavy cleaver meant to chew more than slice. Across the pit, #13 Tazzik Quickfang slipped into view, twin daggers held low, lean frame coiled and ready. He wore light leather with laced seams that wouldn’t catch a blade; his hood shaded quick eyes that never stopped measuring the surrounding.

  Berserker versus flurry. Control the storm, Max thought, and paid attention to the fight.

  Tazzik moved first, a blur that cut left then right, testing edge and range. Brakka didn’t bite. He stalked forward with small, ugly steps, cleaver high, letting the daggers skitter at his reach. The first exchange was shallow—Tazzik scored a line across Brakka’s forearm and vanished before the cleaver could answer. The crowd hissed at the lack of blood.

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  Brakka just smiled.

  Trigger, Max noted. He wants first blood, the rage that comes from adrenaline. Sure enough, the next time Tazzik’s blade kissed skin, Brakka roared and surged. His pace doubled, then redoubled. Heavy swings carved the air in hungry arcs, trying to bisect Tazzik with every strike.

  Tazzik dodged the cleaver swings easily and fed small cuts into the openings: tendon grazes, ribs, triceps. He was going for a Death by a million cuts approach it seemed to Max.

  Brakka didn’t care. He took the cuts to get closer. Twice Tazzik slipped clear by a hair. The third time, the axe found purchase.

  Brakka ate a cut on the forearm, stepped through his own arc, and clinched—a wrestler’s grip around the torso that yanked Tazzik off his feet. The daggers flashed for a kidney but Brakka slammed a headbutt into Tazzik’s face before the blade connected. Cartilage popped and blood sprayed all over. The cleaver rose in tight, mean motions built for inside work, not showy sweeps. Two chops to the thigh, one to the collar and Tazzik buckled. The last blow landed behind the ear with the flat of the blade—calculated. The body went limp.

  Brakka let him drop and threw his head back, roaring to the stands.

  Max exhaled. Strengths: relentless pressure, embraces damage to close the gap, short-arc power. Weaknesses: slow feet until enraged; open on the low line when he steps through; baitable by first blood.

  A soft chime touched his ear.

  [System Prompt]

  New Utility Unlocked: Combat Profiles

  Create and maintain dossiers on observed combatants.

  – Add entries: style, weapons, armor, spells/skills, habits/tells.

  – Tag weaknesses and recommended counters.

  – Profiles can be pinned for pre-bout review.

  Max blinked. Finally. He focused on Brakka and let thoughts become fields.

  [Combat Profile — Brakka Redtusk | Seed #5]

  Style: Berserker pressure / clinch finisher

  Weapon: Heavy cleaver (short-arc power, chops in tight)

  Armor: Light leather, no helm (braids can be grabbed)

  Skills Seen: Rage trigger on first blood (speed+, pain tolerance+), Power Surge bursts

  Habits/Tells: Smiles on first blood then charges; steps through his own arc; headbutt inside; accepts shallow cuts to enter

  Weaknesses: Foot speed (pre-rage); low-line exposure when stepping; off-balance after headbutt; hates leg attacks from oblique angles.

  Recommended Counters: Don’t parry. Stutter-step and cut low as he steps; bail on the clinch with Blink or elbow-break; Shadow-feint to draw headbutt, punish with rising cut; save Solar Flare for post-rage stall

  He pinned the profile. It hovered at the edge of his vision, ready to be recalled with a thought.

  The rest of the card rolled on. Grok Redmaw bludgeoned a spear-user to a messy yield. Lyrn the Quiet swam through a net like smoke and left another body cooling. Korrak absorbed a poisoner’s tricks and ended him with the same implacable verdict as last night. Each time, Max opened a new profile window and added some information. Skill, tells, gear that mattered, the kinds of mistakes they made.

  By sundown the sand was dark in twenty places and the air tasted like iron. The healers were all low on mana. The announcers called an end to the day’s festivities and the crowd thinned into a river headed toward the market streets.

  Then the crimson cloak stepped onto the sand with a herald’s staff and raised a hand.

  “Quarter Finalists,” he called, his voice rolling effortlessly into every tier, “by decree of the House and the Iron Quarter, there will be a feast tonight in the Great Hall—to honor those who have advanced and to set the table for the battles to come. Eat, drink and enjoy the cities hospitality.” His eyes flicked toward the fighters’ gallery, pausing—barely—on Max. “Tomorrow, the real fights begin.”

  Cheers answered him. Somewhere high in the stands, drums began to thump a simple, hungry rhythm.

  Max followed the flow to the Great Hall and stopped dead at the threshold.

  From the outside, the hall was a squat rectangle of stone. Inside, it opened into a cavern of light and sound—spatially expanded, no question—its ceiling vanishing into painted vaults where lanterns bobbed like tame stars. Long tables stretched to a distant haze. The smells were amazing: meat and fat and spice and the sweet tang of fruit wine.

  Whole animals turned on spits—boar, goat, something scaled that oozed gold fat—while platters groaned under pyramids of charred ribs and lacquered wings. Bowls bristled with herbs. Trays of flatbread steamed beside crocks of butter and sharp, salty cheese. Some dishes looked familiar; many didn’t. Max didn’t ask any questions, and he filled a plate. And then another. With his new body and energy, he could really eat.

  Fighters clustered in loose tribes, stablemates, district loyalties, grudges that softened under meat and drink. Korrak toasted alone with a small cup and nodded when Max’s glance found him. Maela laughed with a knot of knife-fighters and never stopped watching the doors. Somewhere a trio of drummers started up a different rhythm and the hall answered, benches thumping in time.

  By the time Max made it back to his room, his belt dug into him, and he decided the bed would forgive a man who slept fully clothed. He stretched out, hands behind his head, feeling the slow contentment of a body with an over full belly.

  For the first time since walking through the barrier, he felt something like excitement for tomorrow. Not relief, or dread, just a sense of eagerness.

  He called up Brakka’s profile one more time, let the information burn into his memory, then dismissed the window and closed his eyes.

  He had two more fights until he could challenge the Elder. He just needed to stay focused and keep getting stronger to survive.