Author's Preface
The next day, the arena was alive before anyone took the stage. Fans from every nation packed the stands behind their teams, chanting and waving flags, the noise of fifty countries compressed into one building. Microphones hung from the ceiling, capturing everything from competitor voices, crowd reactions, the ambient roar of an event that had replaced the Olympics in the world's attention.
Titus walked to the center of the arena floor. The crowd went silent immediately. He looked out at the twenty-five qualified teams.
"No speech needed. You've all earned your spots. So, who among you wishes to challenge first?"
The arena waited.
"Well, Bob. Titus getting right to it. No ceremony. No warmup."
"Looks like no time will be wasted today, folks." Bob leaned forward. "Ireland's representative has stood. Any guesses on who they're going after, Michael?"
"I'd put my life savings on Great Britain. They do it every year."
"And every year?"
"Every year they lose."
"Ha. Well, seems you're right. Will this be the year Ireland finally pushes past rank 40 and ends their Great Britain losing streak? Let's head to the arena floor and find out."
On the floor, Titus stood between the two teams as they took their positions facing each other. He raised one hand. A dome of blue energy expanded outward from the center of the arena, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, sealing the fighting space completely.
"This dome will contain all attacks within the arena." His voice carried to every corner of the building. "The bracelets on your wrists will teleport you out if you sustain lethal damage." He looked at both teams. "We are here to show the world the strength of awakeners. Give us a good show."
He stepped off the platform.
Ireland and Great Britain stared at each other across the arena floor. Two nations with centuries of bad blood. Neither of them blinked. The crowd held its breath.
"Well, Michael, the spirit of the Fighting Irish is alive and well today. They are wasting absolutely no time. Ireland came to this tournament with four mages and no tanks in their lineup."
"A massive gamble, Bob."
"It is. Let's see if it pays off."
"The man known as the King's Guard, Britain's main tank, is taking the full barrage head-on. Not moving an inch. Absorbing everything Ireland is throwing at him."
"The Brits are splitting their formation, surrounding the Irish team. Working the angles."
"That fighting spirit may not be enough here, Bob. The British attacks are relentless. Ireland is struggling to keep up."
"Wait."
"...What are we seeing, Bob?"
"The four Irish mages. They're... they're combining their spells. All four of them simultaneously. If this works, it's going to be devastating. If it doesn't..."
BOOM.
"My goodness."
Silence for a moment.
"I can't see anything on the arena floor, Michael. That explosion... the dust hasn't settled yet. We're waiting."
"..."
"THE BRITS ARE DOWN! THE BRITS ARE DOWN!"
"Ireland needs to finish it right now, and yes! There they are! Two assassins cutting through what's left of the British lineup. The King's Guard is barely standing after that explosion. It's over."
"Well." Michael took a breath. "That was something. The Irish gamble paid off completely. Great Britain falls to 44th. Ireland jumps all the way to 13th in one fight."
"First upset of the main tournament. And a big one."
"The Fighting Irish indeed, Bob."
The next few hours proceeded the way most of the veterans in the stands expected. Nations settled old scores. Teams challenged the ranks directly above them, looking for marginal gains. The fights were competitive but predictable, the better-ranked team winning more often than not, the crowd responding to each result with the appropriate level of interest.
One major upset broke the pattern. Pakistan over India. A result nobody saw coming. India dropped to 49th. Pakistan climbed to 21st. The crowd reacted loudly and then moved on.
Beyond that, the rankings held. More notably, nobody had touched Germany or Russia. The two highest-ranked teams in the tournament sat untouched through hours of challenges. Teams looked at them. Calculated. Decided against it. Found easier targets elsewhere. The crowd had started to notice.
Then Seoul's representative stood.
"Bob. South Korea... Seoul... is on their feet."
"The crowd feels this one, Michael. Seoul has been sitting at 5th for three years. If they're standing up right now, there's only one team they're looking at."
"Russia."
"Russia."
A pause.
"This just got very interesting."
"Seoul doesn't seem to have changed their strategy, Bob. They must be feeling confident coming in."
"Four spirit users. One mage. One tank." Bob paused. "Devastating inside gates. Against other awakeners, I fear they may have overestimated themselves today."
"Let's look at the Russian lineup. Four tanks. One berserker. And their sharpshooter, one of the best marksmen in the world."
Below the booth, the crowd erupted as the Russians took the floor. The size difference alone drew noise from the stands. Titus gave the signal.
The Russians rushed immediately.
"Brute force, Bob. That's the Russian game."
"The Koreans do have a few tricks. They've halted the Russian advance, manipulating the ground beneath their feet. Their mage is preparing something significant."
"Oh."
"Unfortunate, Michael. The Russian marksman took out the Korean mage before the ability could release. One arrow. Right to the head. Just listen to that crowd."
"The Koreans have raised a wall of vines now. A druid's innate ability."
"Those vines are gorgeous, Michael."
"They really are. They'd look wonderful growing up the side of a house."
"I'm afraid the Russians don't share our appreciation. Their tanks have torn through that wall like paper. The marksman is firing through the gaps. I can barely count the arrows. The Korean spirit users can't maintain their summons under this pressure."
"As quickly as those vines rose... they've fallen. And so have the Koreans."
"Do you think they'd let me take some home? For the garden?"
"I'd wait a while to ask, Bob. Their Association leader is giving them quite an earful right now. They look very displeased."
Down in the stands, Darrien watched the Russians walk off the floor and leaned toward Blue.
"Not going to lie." He kept his voice low. "Those Russians are strong. But we'd kick the shit out of their motherland."
The crowd went silent. Every head turned. Darrien's voice had been picked up by one of the ceiling microphones. Every word had been broadcast to fifty thousand people and millions watching at home.
The Russian team stopped mid-stride. They turned slowly, scanning the stands until they found the section the voice had come from. Multiple teams stood simultaneously and pointed directly at the team's seats. Every single one of them. The Russian team leader's eyes found Darrien. He raised one hand and pointed at him, then slowly gestured for him to come forward.
"Bob, it appears the American team has been challenged by Russia."
"Yes, Michael, and from what we're hearing, one of their members made a comment about the Russian motherland that didn't go over particularly well."
"I see. And how is the American team responding to this development?"
"The young man who made the comment appears to be... smiling, Michael."
"Of course he is."
Eve turned and looked at Darrien. The look required no words.
Darrien raised both hands. "My bad."
"DARRIEN!" multiple voices shouted simultaneously.
"We'd kick the shit out of their motherland, though." He shrugged. "I stand by it."