Doom.

Mereloco lunged forwards.

Doom.

What happened next would be replayed many times. These few seconds would be presented again and again -- in the news, on videographs and historical accounts, through word of mouth and hushed horror. Thirty seconds of action, given or take, replayed on and on for eternity.

Doom.

And, of course, it would be replayed most of all in the minds of those who witnessed it in person.

Doom.

Mereloco lunged forwards, planted his lips against the top of Tealin Jade's face -- and sucked his eyeballs right out of their sockets.

The switch in momentum was immediate. Tealin dropped Mereloco as he staggered back, screaming in agony, his eyes dangling from their nerves before him, swinging like pendulums. His remaining eyeballs flicked back and forth crazily, driven to incoherency by the sudden loss of mainsight.

Even as he was dropped, though, Mereloco wasn't finished. He ended the match before he hit the ground.

Mereloco's hand lashed out as he fell, the tips of his fingers hooking into Tealin's open mouth, and -- with the last Unchained he could muster -- he tore the bottom half of Tealin's jaw away. The scream became a gurgle, but it was quickly replaced by cries of horror from the audience. Mereloco paid them no mind.

Tealin's four hands scrambled at his bleeding mouth, as if they could stuff the blood back inside, his eyeballs still dangling limp. With such pain and sudden damage, his ability started to release -- the flowers fading from Mereloco's body, leaving only the small holes in his skin.

That sealed Tealin's fate. If he'd maintained his focus, maintained his Garden Macabre, he still could have won. He still could have lived.

Unfortunately, all he could do now was die.

Mereloco smashed the severed jawbone into the side of Tealin's head, burying it halfway into his skull. His enemy's body fell limp, but Mereloco was taking no chances. As Tealin collapsed, Mereloco continued to beat him with the jawbone…

Doom.

Again.

Doom.

And again.

“Mere, I’ve been thinking…

“Why is it that we fight? People, I mean? L-Like this, I mean? Look at my hands. I feel sick. I know people can’t always come together, but does it always have to end like this? Shouldn’t there be another way? Shouldn’t there be… something more than all this? There has to be, right?

“What do you think?”

Doom.

And again.

By the time he was done, the head of the man who'd been called Tealin Jade was little more than a puddle on the floor. Mereloco rose to his feet, tossed the now-warped jawbone atop the carcass, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had won.

There were no cheers from the audience. No smiles. Just thousands of pale faces, staring at Mereloco in silence. The muted terror of the masses.

He glanced at them.

“What?” he said. “This is a battle to the death. Why are you surprised?”

Atoy Muzazi sank down into the armchair, face in his hands, trying to work his mind through all that had happened tonight.

The brutal end to the first true match of the Dawn Contest had been one thing, but Muzazi was still fixed on another. Dragan Hadrien. The way he'd slipped his way to a default victory. The obvious planning he'd put into this beforehand. The deck he had clearly stacked in his favor.

“He's going to get away with it,” Muzazi mumbled into his palms. “Always, always… he always gets away with it.”

Rufus paced back and forth near the back of the observation booth, his arms crossed, a look of utter concentration on his face.

“Lemme get this straight,” he said, raising a hand. “Both Xander Rain and Nael Manron are working for Hadrien. That's bad, I get it. But these matches are still one versus one when you get down to it. It doesn't matter how many allies you have.”

Muzazi cast a glare at him. Had he even been paying attention to what had just happened?

“It may be one versus one,” he explained. “But if a match ends up being Dragan versus one of his… underlings, it's basically an automatic victory for him. He's able to pass through the rounds without fighting at all.”

Yes -- when you got down to it, the Dawn Contest was meant to be a series of intense battles in very quick succession. Fatigue was a factor. Another benefit of Dragan's strategy was that he could keep himself in peak condition for the occasions where he did need to fight.

Jamilu stood before the window, arms crossed, golden spear resting at his side.

“Even if we ignore the tournament itself,” he said grimly, looking down as cleaning automatics collected the body in the arena. “Hadrien has control of both the Tree of Might and the Crimson Carnival. The attacks after the opening ceremony were almost certainly on his orders too. The amount of influence he can wield… well, it's significant.”

He turned his head to look at Muzazi.

“If I were Hadrien,” he said. “My next move would be to send Manron after the weaker contestants in my own bracket. If he eliminates both participants in a match, there's a blank slot in the bracket instead of a victor -- and if Hadrien ends up against that blank spot, that’s another automatic victory for him.”

As he rose from the chair, Muzazi's hands shook with rage. Even now, even now, Dragan Hadrien was making a mockery of things. He'd obtained strength -- undeniable strength -- yet still resorted to tricks and betrayals instead.

He was anathema.

“I have a recommendation,” Jamilu said seriously. “There are cases where Dawn Contest matches have begun early, in impromptu situations -- out on the streets, not in the arena.”

Muzazi nodded. “The Godsmith's Contest was famous for it. Only the final match ended up happening where it should. What of it?”

Jamilu crossed his arms. “We make that happen here. Before Manron can finish his rampage, you track him down…”

His eyes turned cold, and his spear shone gold.

“...and you eliminate him.”

Muzazi's eyes drifted past Jamilu, down into the arena, where the leftovers of Tealin Jade were now being carried away. There was nothing left of his head but meat and blood, leaving a trail as he was dragged off. That man Mereloco might have been brutal, but he'd been absolutely right about one thing.

This was a battle to the death.

“Very well,” said Muzazi. “Where do we start looking?”

“Right here,” Jamilu said, stepping forward.

As he walked, he released his grip on Victory, allowing the demon spear to float freely as he pushed it towards the center of the room. A low, vulgar chuckle emanated from the weapon as it took position. Even that tiny vocalization seemed to contain malice upon malice… it was enough to send a shiver down Muzazi’s spine.

“What’s this, now…?” Victory sneered, his voice low. “You’re choosing to rely on me, brat? Is that really okay?”

Jamilu ignored it. “Through Victory, I have access to the three abilities he wielded in life,” he explained. “Compass, Conquest, and Calamity. Compass is the one we need right now. Think of it as an evolution of the Aether ping -- I name a subject, and the spear will tell me the direction it’s in and how far away it is. It can even locate things under an Aether cloak. So long as they’re in range, there’s no escape.”

Stolen novel; please report.

“How large is that range?” Muzazi asked.

“Substantial,” Jamilu replied. “Victory always interferes with our attempts to measure it specifically, but it’s enough that I don’t see Nael Manron being outside of it.”

The spear shone malevolent gold as Jamilu began to channel his crimson Aether through it.

“Have you considered maybe I don’t want to use my power for a Supremacy dog like this? Maybe I’ll trick you guys and lead you into a trap, eh? That could be interesting. Heheh…”

“Ignore him,” Jamilu said, annoyance creasing his expression. “I’m using the ability with him as a conduit only -- he has no influence over the results.”

“Hey, your name is Muzazi, right?” Victory said tauntingly. “Atoy Muzazi? I never forget a face, kiddo, don’t you worry about that. You guard the Supreme Heir, right? That’s your 9-5?”

Muzazi looked away. “That’s right,” he replied quietly.

“Don’t engage with him,” Jamilu snapped. His voice was suddenly filled with anger, the most emotion Muzazi had seen from him since they’d met. “Every word he says is a trick. Don’t even listen if you can help it.”

“Maybe once this brat slips up and I’m in control, I’ll pay that kid a visit, eh? That could be interesting, too. I’ve always wanted to kill a Supreme, but it looks like they’re fresh out right now. Next best thing, though, you know? Ha!”

Muzazi clenched his fists, breathing deeply through his nose.

“I’d make it slow, you know? Make it last. It’s just like eating a meal. Only stupid kids eat as fast as possible. Only we adults know you’ve gotta savor the sensations. That’s right, isn’t it? You and me, man, just you and me… only we understand what it really means to murder someone.”

Murderer.

Muzazi’s eyes widened in shock, but before he could say anything Jamilu interrupted.

“It’s ready,” he declared, red Aether coalescing around his palm. “Compass! Nael Manron, the King of Killers!”

As a grumble of discontent sounded out from Victory, the spear began to move -- spinning in the air in all directions, until finally stopping…

…and finally pointing.

On Floor 212 of the HajiMesh building, a spiraling skyscraper topped by an ostentatious bell tower, someone was getting ready.

He was clad all in black, every inch of his body concealed, the cloak that hung around his form disguising even the shape of his movements. His breathing was silenced by the mask he wore, like a dark and simplified skull, and his boots did much the same for his footsteps. As a result, he made not a single sound as he reached his position.

Nestled between two air purification units, there was a space just barely too small for a human to fit into. This would be the sniper's nest. The man positioned himself, Scurrant bones dislocating and relocating to allow himself passage.

He aimed his gun.

A DrazherTech 9600 Deleter. Top-of-the-range model. While intended as a sniper rifle, the dial next to the sight allowed the user to adjust the plasma release -- increasing the power of a shot all the way to that of a rocket launcher if necessary. For now, though, it remained at standard sniper settings.

“Ram-1,” the man said, riffle trained on where his target would soon appear. “In position.”

“Ram-2. In position.”

“Ram-3 in position.”

“Ram-4, ready.”

“Ram 5,” came the modulated voice of their leader. “Wait for my signal.”

A chorus of voices. “Roger.”

Snipers were posted all throughout the area, from vantage points that were just below ideal -- so as not to be easily found. Their rifles were trained on one singular point: the Surface Tension Hotel, the last work of the great architect Zabraman. The building was like a sequence of bubbles joined together, glass reflecting the city lights around it, the hotel surrounded by acres of artificial grass on every side. Essentially, the whole place was one giant window -- exactly what you wanted when you were looking to assassinate someone.

And, more importantly, it was where the man called Chicken Punk was staying.

Chicken Punk cracked his neck as the door to his hotel room opened, doing his best to ignore the buzzing of his agent on the script.

“And stop putting me on hold!” the man roared down the receiver, nearly overpowering the sound systems. “I’m telling you -- this is a disaster, a fuckin’ disaster -- have you seen the news?! They hate your guts, man!”

Chicken Punk frowned. “But you said it was a good idea.”

“One surrender, one surrender tracks maybe -- and only if you can make a big joke out of it! You know, that uh, Chicken Punk, biting off more than he can chew! But the guy right before you surrendered too! Everyone’s pissed off, they wanna see some fighting, and what do you do? You pour fuel on the goddamn fire! You’re a friggin’ disaster, my guy!”

Chicken Punk’s frown deepened as he stepped into the kitchen of his hotel suite, pouring himself a bowl of cereal as he listened to his agent rant on. Even the cereal in this place was fancy -- Baby Blues, designed by an all-Cogitant team for maximum nutrition and taste, or so the advertising went. Punk crunched down on it: just tasted like solid sugar to him.

Well, most things weren’t how they seemed anyway.

“Hey,” Chicken Punk said quietly, taking the script away from his ear. “I’m gonna call you back, okay?”

“Don’t you dare hang up on --”

Chicken Punk hung up on him.

He wasn’t trying to be rude or anything. Whatever his agent had been talking about, Chicken Punk was sure it had been important. Probably extremely useful for the entertainment career. It was just that… Chicken Punk had seen something. Right there, resting against the counter.

A wooden crook.

Punk looked up -- past the counter and the crook, to the sitting room beyond. The lights were still off in the suite, so he couldn’t see clearly, but there was someone there. The vague, shadowy silhouette of a woman sitting on the couch. Eyes gleamed ever so slightly in the darkness as she regarded him.

“Lights on,” Punk said, but the room’s autobrain did not respond. Seemed that had already been taken care of.

The woman did not move, but she did speak. “Hello,” she said, her voice soft and sweet.

Chicken Punk flashed his signature grin, adjusting his footing slightly. “I don’t think I know you, missy -- but I do know this is a private room.”

The woman ignored his words.

“Dragan Hadrien…” she mused. “I think I can forgive Dragan Hadrien. I mean… it’s not like his fight didn’t happen at all, right? He did prove himself stronger than his opponent… it’s just that it happened a little earlier than expected. So that’s fine, I think. If it’s part of a strategy, I can forgive it.”

Punk cocked his head. “Huh?”

“But you…?” her eyes narrowed. “I mean, it’s a strategy too, I guess, but not the kind that’s appropriate at all. I mean… disgracing the Contest… disgracing the whole thing… and for publicity? So you can get your stupid face in the media a little more? No. I don’t think I can forgive that. I don’t think I can forgive that at all.”

“Well,” Punk’s grin widened as he raised his hands into a combat stance. “Still don’t know who you are, lady, but I think it’s obvious you want to go!”

A long, quiet sigh, creeping through the room like an infestation.

“So loud…” The woman, still cloaked by darkness, rose to her feet. “You can’t be seen to get away with it. Those Tree of Might people would understand. To make sure the tree stays mighty, sometimes you have to snip a branch or two.”

“You sure like to talk a lot.”

For the first time, the woman replied directly to him: “I so rarely get the chance to do it as myself.” Those were the only words she saw fit to grant him -- before she charged.

It barely took her a second to cross the room, pink Aether flashing around her and briefly illuminating vague and indistinct features of her body. In the brightest of those, Punk could almost make her out fully -- he could see the strange farming outfit she was wearing, the length of the dress adjusted to be suitable for combat but still very much within the realm of absurdity. Her fingers were aimed to claw at his face, the tips surely infused enough that they would strike a killing blow.

But it still took her a second to cross the room, and a second was all he needed.

He tapped his fingers against his palm, sending the signal.

Fire.

The first sniper shot struck the woman in the side, the sheer force of the blow sending her flying off into the fridge. Needless to say, the kitchen was ruined by the path she tore through it. The counter was smashed to pieces and the fridge itself obliterated as it became her bed. The bowl of Baby Blues shattered on the floor, its supposedly perfect nutrition spilling away with the milk.

Chicken Punk’s quarry went to pull herself out of the wreckage of the fridge, but a second sniper shot hit her in the chest -- forcing her back down, the air knocked out of her lungs. He wasn’t stupid enough to think these shots could do significant damage to an Aether-user of this caliber, but even if they could briefly incapacitate her it was well worth it.

In the distance, the bell tower of the HajiMesh building began to toll.

Doom.

The grin vanished from Chicken Punk’s face as he maneuvered through what was left of the kitchen. With one hand, he retrieved a pistol from his holster. With the other, he began to screw on a silencer. After what they’d done to the hotel room already, concealing his shots now was probably pointless… but old habits die hard.

Doom.

And then, once he reached her, he pointed the pistol at her head.

Doom.

“Sorry. When I said I didn’t know who you were,” Chicken Punk said coldly. “That was a Chicken Lie. Looks like you took the bait… Shepherdess.”

Doom.