Chapter 119 – The Registration of the Ten Cent.

Monday dawned to the sound of iron horns summoning hunters toward the eastern sector of the city.

Diana walked along the main thoroughfare wearing the Dragon Chestplate under her black leather coat, the Crown of Arcane Sovereignty resting firmly on her brow between her obsidian horns. Beside her, Zarek carried his two moon steel swords strapped across his back, with a light linen coat draping over his four secondary chitinous arms.

As they descended the hill toward the great stone arena, Diana glanced sideways at the swordsman, who was greeting street merchants with casual waves of his hand.

“Zarek,” Diana broke the silence. “Why do you make a point of broadcasting to the four winds that you are a Candidate for the Sin of Wrath when you're outside your Circle?”

Diana remembered the warning from Cassian and the System itself: the basic rule of survival for most Fragment holders was absolute anonymity. If a weaker Candidate was discovered by a high-level veteran, the hunt for their soul began that very instant.

Zarek let out an amused chuckle, tossing a dried nut into the air and catching it in his mouth:

“Because the Seventh Circle is a true hell, Diana,” Zarek explained, his casual tone belying a brutal reality. “The Succession War of Wrath has been raging for over fifteen hundred years. Every other living Candidate from that Circle is an ancient monster with a Level between one hundred and twenty and one hundred and sixty.”

He gestured with two of his secondary hands beneath the coat:

“I'm the youngest Candidate in the entire lineage of Wrath. I inherited my fragment a mere twelve years ago, back when I was still Level 15. If I stay in the Seventh Circle shouting that I'm an heir to the Throne, any Level 140 veteran strolling down the street will drop a blade and cleave my skull in two before I can even draw my swords.”

He blinked his four secondary forehead eyes at Diana with a sharp-toothed grin:

“But here in the Third Circle, where everyone is sitting around Level 50... nobody cares about wars from the deep abyss. When I tell them I'm a Candidate for Wrath, merchants think it's just a showy gladiator moniker to draw crowds at tournaments, and hunters respect me for my Level 60. It's the best camouflage in the world: hiding the truth by shouting it out loud.”

Diana listened to the explanation in silence.

The Commander shook her head slightly, finding Zarek's logic absurd, yet conceding the maneuver had an undeniable practical efficacy for anyone who needed to level up without being hunted down by Level 150 monsters.

***

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The Armory Hall of the Red Cauldron Arena

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The Red Cauldron Arena was a colossal structure of red granite and cast-iron grates built along the lip of the city's lava moat.

The registration hall was packed with pairs of veteran mercenaries. There were Level 55 ogres hefting two-handed battleaxes, manticore riders carrying shock lances, and Level 58 duelists clad in runic chainmail, all shouting and jostling to sign their teams onto the city hall's wooden placards.

Diana and Zarek forged a path to the central stone counter, where a four-eyed imp clerk stamped combat registries with hot wax.

“Registration for the Conquerors' Doubles Bracket,” Diana declared, her clear voice cutting through the hall's din.

The clerk raised all four eyes, adjusting thick spectacles on the bridge of his nose.

“Elite division entry fee: five silver coins,” the man said in a flat monotone.

Diana drew five silver coins from her pouch and dropped them onto the counter with a crisp metallic clink.

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[TOURNAMENT ENTRY FEE PAYMENT]

- Red Cauldron Elite Bracket Fee: -5 Silver Coins (500 Bronze).

[NEW NET WORTH IN VAULT: 468 SILVER COINS AND 50 BRONZE (46.85 GOLD COINS!)]

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Four hundred and sixty-eight silver coins safely secured in the faction vault.

***

The clerk took up an iron quill and began filling out the entry form:

“Team name and member identification.”

“Arcane Greed Faction,” Diana answered. “Diana, Level 43 Commander. Zarek, Level 60 Blade Master.”

The clerk stopped his quill in the middle of the parchment.

The imp's four eyes drifted from Diana's amethyst circlet down to her dragon chestplate, and then flicked back to her Level 43 registration. Next, he looked at Zarek leaning on the counter with his twin Level 60 lunar swords.

The clerk gave a raspy snort through his nose:

“Level 43 paired with Level 60? A rookie mage with the Blade Weaver of the Seventh Circle?” The imp shook his head with professional disdain. “I hope your girl knows how to sprint through the sand, Zarek. The veterans in this Level 50 to 58 bracket don't go easy on anyone with a short health bar.”

Diana leaned forward slightly, resting both gloved hands tipped with obsidian claws onto the stone counter.

The two golden rings at the center of her vertical pupils flared with an icy, direct glare:

“Just log the name on the roster, clerk,” Diana said in a velvety, cold Archdemon voice. “The physical wellbeing of the other arena competitors is their problem, not yours.”

The clerk swallowed hard under the pressure of the girl's golden gaze, shut his mouth immediately, and stamped the document with the red seal of Beelzebub's garrison.

He handed the iron identification badge into Diana's hands: Pair Seventeen — Conquerors' Bracket.

Diana took the badge and turned around, walking toward the hall's exit with Zarek at her side.

The tournament would begin the following morning.

The grand prize was the Permanent Official Border Pass to the Second Circle.

Diana adjusted her black leather coat, feeling her reserve of 1,460 mana points and her 213 Intelligence points primed for battle.

The arena was set. And the Commander of Greed intended to sweep that elite bracket in the very same way she had conquered everything so far: with precision, fire, and steel.