Chapter Text
December, 1626
For four years, Zora does everything the smart way.
He gets his grimoire and studies Dad’s old books until he can see every rune with his eyes closed. Ignores the street fights he can’t win and profits off the ones he can. That’s easy; there are plenty of shitheads who are all bark and no bite. A single thug robbing a woman at knifepoint. Two drunks throwing fisticuffs after too many beers. Purse snatchers who can run better than they can fight.
He lurks around busier streets in the Common Realm where shit happens every day. A few odd jobs here, a few errands there, all paid under the table. Sometimes he infiltrates the Noble Realm incognito and filches a few overpriced trinkets to pawn, just enough to cover a room at a shitty bed-and-breakfast in the town of Veritas. Harmless stuff.
Then, Steno fucking Taliss of the Purple Orcas tries to strangle a bartender over a tab dispute, and Zora steps in like a dumbass.
His Counter-Trap is flimsy. Steno’s vine magic shatters it before it can fully absorb the attack. One-on-one, Zora’s no match against a Magic Knight who’s spent years showing off and honing his magic on innocent civilians. The bartender and other patrons slip away, leaving Zora to be flogged by a barbed vine whip.
Steno gets away with it, like Magic Knights always do.
Zora spends the night of his nineteenth birthday floundering through the rough part of Kikka. Falls through an illusionary wall. Stumbles around the Black Market. He’s heard that some witches set up shop here. He’ll find one of them. Ask them to whip up a potion to heal the shredded skin on his back. Figure out how to pay off the debt when his head isn’t swimming.
Before he can enact this half-assed plan, he blacks out.
Zora frowned at the doll in Dad’s hand. It was a silly little thing, a redheaded figure in a black neck gaiter, bearing razor-sharp teeth. “What’s this thing?”
“A doll! I made it!” Dad grinned and waved the doll teasingly in Zora’s face. “Super Magic Knight Zora has a bit of a mouth on him, but he’s as good as his word. He’s a warrior who protects the country behind the scenes!”
“You know I’m twelve already, right?”
“I’m not saying you have to match this! I just think you should talk a little more. You know, communicate with others!”
Super Magic Knight Zora. At the time, that title sounded like a dream.
A Purple Orca sneered before Dad’s grave. “Zara Ideale. I bet you died with regrets. You hung out on battlefields acting like a Magic Knight when you were just a peasant.”
Another laughed. “That’s why you got nailed in the back by a comrade!”
No. Zora would never be a Magic Knight. Not after what happened to Dad.
When Zora comes to, he’s freezing his balls off.
He’s lying on his stomach, topless, in an alleyway behind some kind of stadium, surrounded by mushroom-infested walls. His bloodied shirt is neatly folded beside him, and cold water is flowing down his back. The busted skin melds back together, pulled taut by whatever recovery magic is being cast on him.
When he turns his head, he locks eyes with a guy who smiles and introduces himself as Eugene while tucking his grimoire away. Eugene takes off his black, fur-lined robe and drapes it over Zora’s back, and leaves before Zora can get a clear look at his face.
✿
The next morning, Zora walks into the stadium and learns about the Black Market Brawl.
The Brawl, an underground fight club, takes place on Tuesday afternoons. To bypass the law that demands formal registrations for all tournament-style rumbles, the Brawl isn’t a championship, only a series of one-on-one matches with no minimum skill requirements. As long as someone has their own grimoire, they’re welcome to participate at their own risk. Armand is both the owner and the referee, and intervenes with his shield magic if anyone goes too far. After he bought the deed to this previously unnamed place a few years back, he dubbed it The Armageddium, a stupid pun that he insists is inspired.
There are two kinds of participants at the Brawl: Brawlers and Challengers. Brawlers, the backbone of the Armageddium, have to be here most weeks and make a living out of this. They’re frequent participants who catch Armand’s attention and get promoted at his discretion, for good combat skills or high entertainment value or occasionally both. Challengers are casual participants who show up whenever they want or never again, and they can either challenge a Brawler or enter their name into a random matchup draw. On weeks when no one challenges a Brawler, Armand will get another Brawler to fight them in an exhibition match.
As for how the participants get paid? Win or lose, every participant earns something, and so does Armand. The payouts are entirely crowdfunded by bets; basically gambling with extra math. But the bets are cash-only and capped at a thousand yuls per audience member per week, and people either win back their money with a little extra or lose whatever they paid. No one falls into debt, and some walk away happy. Tame enough for lawmakers to ignore.
It’s crazy that some people have the fuck-you money to pay to watch a fight, but Zora’s not going to complain if that fuck-you money lands in his pocket.
✿
January, 1627
Zora makes his debut at the Brawl under the codename Super Mage.
This time, his Counter-Trap doesn’t fail him. He sends the other Challenger careening out of bounds after just two minutes. But that Challenger is a lady half his size, and the audience is a bunch of sexist pricks who boo him for doing his job right.
Whatever. Next week is a fresh start, right?
Nope.
Turns out, ninety-nine percent of the audience is regulars.
As the weeks go on, those spiteful motherfuckers keep betting that Zora will lose. But the joke’s on them; Zora makes a better profit when he wins against the odds. Plus, Armand’s the only one with the authority to ban someone from participating, and he likes fighters who make an impression. Zora, armed with Dad’s unique traps, does exactly that.
✿
March, 1627
Ten weeks later, Zora has racked up a respectable six out of ten win rate, and Armand promotes him to a Brawler. It’s definitely a lot safer than what he’d been doing before. Sure, another Brawler named Serge lost a finger, but that was the only serious injury they’d had in forever, to hear Armand tell it. The point is, Zora’s learning a lot by fighting someone new every week, even if he’s only holding his own against amateurs. A Purple Orca can still kick his ass.
Someday, he’ll be strong enough to fight losing battles and come out winning.
Right now, he’ll show up to the Brawl, fight, get paid, and go home. And train the shit out of his spells and his runes. (And dodge the other Brawlers’ invitations to hang out because he’s not here to make friends.)
He’ll put his Envoy of Justice days behind him until his win rate is at least nine out of ten. Hold off on beating up people who deserve it for all the shit they’ve done. He’s not Dad. No way in hell is he risking death to save some fucking stranger.
People like Steno Taliss shouldn’t get away with maiming a guy and almost killing another, but Zora didn’t survive this far by himself by being stupid. His encounter with Eugene was a fluke; sheer, dumb luck. There won’t be a healer the next time he gets hurt.
Or so he thinks, until he meets Ambrose.