When the official rule scroll slid through the slot in her observation booth, Laia's brow furrowed as she read it, then furrowed deeper still.
She had expected standard 1v1 brackets—elimination rounds, quarterfinals, finals, the usual tournament structure. This was nothing like that.
All two hundred contestants would have their armies deployed to different drop zones across a single massive, purpose-built divine realm. The match would run for three full years of internal time. Examiners would drop supply crates, point beans, and wild void beast waves at regular intervals. Scoring was based on total points collected, time survived, enemy outposts destroyed, and surviving troop count. Highest score at the end took first place.
It was a free-for-all. Total chaos. Alliances were allowed. Betrayal was expected. You could team up to take down the strongest contestants, or go it alone and hoard every resource for yourself. And it would not end early even if only one army remained. If you were the last one standing, you got all the resources—and all the void beast waves, too.
Laia sat back in her chair, staring at the scroll.
On one hand, her ragtag three thousand had almost no chance against stacked noble legions in a straight fight. On the other, chaos favored the scrappy. Smaller teams could hide, scavenge, pick off stragglers. Her people were very good at surviving on very little.
Then she shrugged.
Oh well, she thought. Que sera, sera.
She would not micromanage them. They knew how to take care of themselves. She'd throw in the slimes too, for good measure. Hopefully they didn't cause too much trouble.
It was too late to overthink it anyway. The final inspection had already been completed. Every contestant was locked in their own private observation booth, no communication allowed. The portal channels were already building power. Soon every army would be dropped into the arena realm.
She leaned back, popped a sweet glazed nut from the complimentary snack tray into her mouth, and waited.
Down in her kingdom, the expeditionary force stood in perfect ranks, and every last one of them was vibrating with quiet, ferocious excitement.
The three new clans had thought they knew hardship. They had lived in a dying realm adrift in the void, eaten scraps, survived on nothing. Then they had arrived here, and learned what true scarcity was: a god so poor they ate void beast meat to get by, a kingdom so barren the fields would barely grow grain, a land where floods and hailstorms counted as good weather.
When word had spread that the tournament arena would be stocked full of supply crates—grain, preserved meat, fine tools, seeds? The whole camp had lit up like a volcano.
This was not a battlefield. This was the promised land. A land flowing with milk and honey. And they were going to bring every last bit of it home.
Every last one of the three thousand fighters wore multiple layered storage pouches across their chests and backs. Carts stacked high with docile elemental slimes rumbled behind the ranks, ready to be loaded down with loot.
Vorath stood at the head of the formation, looking far more solemn than the occasion deserved. He clapped a heavy claw on the stonehide drake chieftain's shoulder.
"Sadly, we of the old clans cannot join you on this sacred journey. Our traits bar us from this bounty. But we will wait here for your return. Bring us back good grain seed. Bring us smoked meats. Bring us the fattest sheep that blessed land has to offer. You carry the hope of every hungry mouth in the kingdom. Go now, and make us proud."
Every warrior thumped a fist to their chest. They had trained for three straight days for this. They had memorized every preservation trick, every foraging technique, every efficient packing method the human scholars could teach them. They were ready.
The three chieftains stepped forward to lead the march: the frost wraith matriarch as lead strategist, the stonehide drake alpha as frontline brawler, the silverback ape chief as heavy hauling specialist. Behind them, the slime carts rumbled, ready to roll.
Elowen drifted over to stand beside Vorath, watching the ranks file toward the glowing portal.
"Do you think we brought enough bags?"
Vorath sighed, heavy and long-suffering. "It'll have to be enough. We worked the weavers day and night. Every fighter carries at least eight hundred pounds of storage capacity. The drakes and apes have full two-ton pouches each. And before you ask—no nesting pouches. The rules say no bag-in-bag tricks."
"Such a shame," Elowen murmured. "I could have fit so much more."
"Trust me, I tried," Vorath said. "The runesmiths said it wouldn't hold. Would've been perfect, too."
Elowen tilted her head. "Wait—if you tried, why didn't we fill every pouch to the brim before they left?"
Vorath's jaw tightened. He jerked his head toward where Theron and Gimli were standing off to the side, arguing quietly about kiln temperatures.
"Those two," he said, grim. "Burned through most of our charcoal stock running test kilns for the meat-drying racks. Used every last spare scrap of rune-cloth reinforcing the drying houses. By the time we got around to making the storage pouches, we were out of material. Couldn't hit maximum capacity."
Elowen stared. Then she sighed.
Of course they did.
The world blurred.
The three thousand fighters touched down on soft, grassy soil in the middle of a sparse oak forest, and instantly dropped into a defensive circle. Carts rumbled to a halt behind them. Slimes oozed gently off the edges, bouncing quietly.
They might have been here for the loot, but they were not stupid. Get eliminated first, and they'd never live it down. The whole kingdom would mock them for centuries.
The frost wraith matriarch lifted a hand, and her scouts fanned out into the trees, silent as shadows. The drakes formed a tight perimeter. The apes took up positions by the supply carts, ready to move at a moment's notice.
So far, so quiet.
No one had spotted them yet.
Up in the grand viewing galleries, the tournament broadcast had only been running a few minutes, and already one contestant was drawing more eyes than everyone else combined.
Word had spread fast after the registration leak: the mystery Third Rank peak girl with elemental slimes and evolved specialty races. Everyone had been curious to see what her opening move would be. A bold charge? A stealthy flanking maneuver? A brilliant tactical deployment?
What they got was Laia, leaned back in her booth, feet propped up on the control console, working her way steadily through the entire complimentary snack platter. No commands. No adjustments. Not even a glance at the battle projection half the time.
And her army?
Three thousand fighters all wearing what looked like dozens of storage sacks apiece. A small fleet of wooden carts. Carts full of slimes.
The viewing gallery murmured.
What in the realms is she doing? people whispered. Is that… a supply caravan? Did she bring slimes to a tournament?
Kaelen Shaw, who had snagged himself a front-row seat, stared at the screen, then burst out laughing.
Oh this is good, he thought, cackling to himself. This is so much better than I expected.
He leaned forward, popcorn in hand, and settled in.
This was going to be the most entertaining tournament in a hundred years. He could already tell.