The match was scheduled at noon, ensuring that those few who did work on Sunday could conceivably come to see it, and see it they would, in no small part thanks to a campaign of word-of-mouth advertisement orchestrated by the Krishorns, not to mention natural rumor and the attention of local news publications.

With the courtyard off-limits as it was, Zel warmed up in the basement gym, drilling striking technique even mere hours before the match. However, by the time nine in the morning hit, she had to pry herself from the target dummy and rest so that she would be in pristine shape when the time came.

…So, in the absence of anything better to do, she visited the Leyline Well to check on Jorfr, only to find that he wasn’t there. They crossed paths when she returned to the surface and headed to the mess hall to get a bottle of DDLV, the now cleaned-up norseman carrying a small bottle with familiar blood-red liquid sloshing about. A label with the letters “CHKN” dangled from its neck.

He stopped her, telling her that, “Ah, must’ve just missed you before. Kabral wanted to give you a little somethin’ before the fight.”

“Kabral?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Bartender from the fighting pit,” he elucidated without missing a beat. “Looks like and hates Quincy.”

“Oh. Alright, good to know.”

After that short exchange they parted ways, and Zelsys made her way where she had already been going in the first place. A stop at the apothecary’s counter confirmed her expectation, Kabral setting down a small bottle of familiar dark red, nearly black liquid the moment he saw her. A long seal in blue and green hues of ink wrapped around it where the label would’ve gone suggested its Rubedo-heavy makeup.

“Here to pick up your medicine, boss?” grinned the young man facetiously as Zel came up, already having put a second, labelless seal-bottle full of blue liquid on the counter for her before she could answer.

“Uh-huh. How long before the fight do I take this again, ten minutes or so?” she asked, holding up the smaller bottle. Kabral nodded, “More or less. I’d recommend as close to the fight as possible, since it takes effect nearly instantly and only deteriorates from there as you metabolize it.”

Taking both bottles and safely storing them away, Zel turned on a heel to leave. “Thanks, Kabral,” she said as she left, making her way to her quarters to get a pulp to read in the meanwhile.

As she stood over the writing desk, idly picking through pulps to pick one to read, she heard the bathroom door open. Rather, the door was noiseless, but the sound of bare feet on stone filled her ears.

“Looking a little tense. Nervous before the big fight?” came an unexpected question of doubt from that selfsame direction.

Without thinking, Zel turned to answer.

“Huh? No, I’m just fi-” she began, only to be hit by the sight of a towel crumpled on the ground, immediately followed by that which was above it and the realization that she was so preoccupied with the fight as to miss possibly the least unsubtle “subtle” invitation possible. Letting out a chuckle, she stood up straight and turned her attention to the blonde in the doorway.

In the sect’s entrance hall, just beyond the great doors, a number of people waited. Among them were not just Zel and Zef, but functionally anyone of note within the building, short only of Jorfr. One of Krishorn's people was also present, lugging a bulky metal box on a waist strap connected to some type of headset, supposedly a miniaturized short-range aetherwave comms array. It sure didn’t look miniature.

Zel glanced at her pocket watch. Six minutes until the scheduled start. She kicked back the bottle of blood-coloured brew and flushed it down with a gulp of DDLV, setting both aside as energetic warmth spread through her body. She had removed her ammo belt and intentionally loaded her arm-cannon with an empty shell, even removing her Tablet from the Lightning Butcher’s sheath and entrusting it to Zef for safekeeping.

Two minutes.

One minute.

The chatter of the crowd had steadily grown over the preceding half-hour as the majority of the spectators filed into the area and filled the stands.

Zero.

The slow pounding drums, the screech of some sort of bowed instrument, likely two-strung by the sound of it. Rapid, twangy strumming of that double-necked boxy instrument, throat-singing, familiar at that - uncannily so. Either this was Strolvath, or someone who sounded exactly like him.

There was that uncanny familiarity to the song - like hearing a modernized folk song from a culture that she only had tenuous knowledge of to begin with.

Through the half-open sect door, Zelsys saw Arnys walk into the courtyard, the sound of Ezaryl’s voice coming in as she sang lyrics in Kargarian. Still clad in her ridiculous outfit, smoking from her longpipe as she went, the Matriarch stopped just before she passed the circle so that one of the arcanists could plant a large stamp in blood-red ink just below her left collarbone, handing off the pipe before she entered the oval.

The stamp took on a faint glow when she stepped into the circle, the machines around its outer perimeter coming to life as several arcanists started a quiet chant in rhythm with her entrance music. Ezaryl’s singing faded and she announced out her own mother’s entrance: “Good people of Willowdale, first and foremost we at the Central Kargaria Trading Company would love to thank you for coming…”

Zel lost focus on the words being spoken as her gaze briefly locked with Arnys through the doorway. Her focus returned when Arnys began showboating for the crowd. She started off with posing, then drew in a shallow breath and, in flashes of yellow lightning, dashed about the courtyard faster than Zelsys could see, leaving nary a trace in her wake.

“...On the left-hand side, Arnys Krishorn, Fourth Matriarch of the Krishorn Clan, standing at one-hundred and fifty-eight centimeters, weighing sixty-four kilograms, carrying seventy-four years of experience! Today, she represents her family and the venerable art of Kargarian Gastei-tur!”

“She’s fought in tournaments the world over, personally slain over a dozen A and S-class monstrosities, and even gone toe-to-toe with the likes of the Divine Emperor’s generals!”