The second year of the tournament began with a whimper, not a roar.
Supply drops fell by half overnight. And from the shadowed crevices, the deep caves, the forgotten marshlands, the void-touched monstrosities began to spawn. Born of condensed void essence, self-sustaining, endlessly proliferating, they seeped into every corner of the realm like rot through wood. For the surface alliances, the easy days were over.
The Radiant Covenant fractured first.
Murong Xue stood in her gleaming white command pavilion, her face like carved ice, and stared at the quartermaster's report until her eyes burned. Ten crates. That was all they had in reserve. Ten.
She was an imperial princess. A Fourth Rank goddess. Scarcity was something that happened to other people. Hoarding was for merchants and peasants and small-minded fringe lords. Her people had always been fed. Her lands had always been rich. Why would she stockpile crates like a squirrel hiding acorns? The gods provided. That was how the world worked.
It had never occurred to her that the gods might stop.
Her armies had lived on supply drops for a full year. They hunted a little, for sport. They gathered wild fruit now and then, when they were bored. No one farmed. No one preserved. Why would they? Before Third Rank, no one bothered with agriculture. It was a trivial, lowly craft. Gods made the grain grow. Gods filled the storehouses. Subjects fought. That was the order of things.
Down in the southern fields of the Covenant, three orc warriors stood in a muddy plot of land and stared at the stunted, yellowed shoots poking through the dirt.
"Shouldn't it be taller by now?" the biggest one said, scratching his head.
"Maybe we didn't water it right," the second said. "We poured seawater in like you said."
"Wait," the third said, blinking slowly. "Is this even wheat? I thought rice grew in the sea."
A wood elf from Liora Voss's contingent stood behind them, watching, and pressed a hand to her forehead.
"You mixed the seeds," she said, her voice thin with exhaustion. "You flooded a wheat field with salt water. You haven't weeded once. You didn't even till the soil before you threw them in."
The orcs turned as one. "Wheat and rice are different?"
The elf closed her eyes.
Of course they didn't know. Why would they? In a proper divine realm, you prayed for ten minutes at dawn, and the granaries filled themselves. The land yielded endless harvests by divine grace. You fought when you were told to fight. You feasted when you were told to feast. No one needed to know how bread was made.
Only the lowest, most menial servant races bothered with farming. And who would bring servant races to a national tournament?
The biggest orc grunted, pulled a glistening roasted drumstick out of his supply pouch, took two big bites, and tossed the rest into the dirt.
"Eh, who cares," he said. "They drop two pouches a day. We won't starve."
The elf stared at the half-eaten leg lying in the mud. She thought of the stories her queen had told her, quiet and serious, about the strange god whose people scraped by on void beast meat and sour berries, who counted every grain like it was gold.
She turned and walked away. She had seen enough.
Liora Voss watched the scene play out on her projection, and her chest tightened with cold, certain dread.
She had asked Laia once, months ago, how she kept her subjects disciplined. How she made them respect scarcity. Laia had blinked and said, "You just let them go hungry once. They learn fast."
Liora had thought it was cruel, back then. Now she thought it was the wisest thing anyone had ever said to her.
The Covenant was rotten. Soft. Spoiled by endless plenty. They would eat through their remaining supplies in a month, maybe less. Then they would turn on each other. Then they would break.
She would not go down with them.
That night, she gave the order. Quietly. Swiftly. Her elven host packed up their camp, melted into the old growth forest, and vanished. No fanfare. No declaration. Just silence where their sentries had been.
They would go deep into the untamed woods. They would plant. They would hunt. They would build walls. They would survive.
If the others wanted to bicker and starve and waste what little they had left, that was their business.
Deep underground, the void monstrosities arrived to a very different reception.
They seeped through cracks in the bedrock, slithering and hissing, shadows with teeth and claws. They found a well-lit tunnel lined with glowing moss, and three very unimpressed clan leaders leaning against the wall waiting for them.
Borgul crushed one underfoot like a bug. Its shadowy flesh dissolved into smoke.
"Second rate," he rumbled. "Second tier at best. Most aren't even First Rank. If any of our people get hurt by these things, they'll be mocked for the rest of their lives."
The only problem, as far as anyone was concerned, was that they were inedible. No meat. No usable marrow. Kill them and they just dissolved into smoke and left a few worthless shadow shards behind. Good for nothing but kindling. An inconvenience, nothing more.
Korg stood over the central map table, his brow furrowed like a storm cloud.
"Supply drops cut in half," he said, his voice low and heavy. "Half. That means half as much to bring home. All those storage pouches. All those carts. If they cut again in the third year…" He trailed off, visibly pained by the thought of going home with half-empty bags.
Lirael traced a finger along the tunnel network, her face calm as always.
"They will cut again," she said. "It's a test. They want to see who starves first. We knew this was coming. We have three hundred unopened crates in the vaults. The moss farms produce enough to feed everyone twice over. We are fine. We will keep hoarding. We will wait them out."
The real problem, she did not say out loud, was the rice paddies.
They had transplanted every grain seed they had scavenged into tiered underground fields, lit by light slimes, watered by water slimes. It grew well. Better than well. But Korg had been pushing for a second tier—floating paddies, stacked one above the other, to double the yield without digging wider. The light slimes could not reach the lower levels properly. The old methods were not enough.
They were so close. So close to endless food. And yet so far.
Somewhere far above, a low, distant rumble shook dust from the tunnel ceiling.
Borgul lifted his head.
"More of the shadow things?"
Lirael closed her eyes. She reached out with her frost magic, feeling the vibrations through the stone.
"No," she said, slowly. "Bigger. Something's digging down. From the surface."
Korg stood up so fast his stone bench cracked under him.
"They found us?"
"Not yet," Lirael said. "But they're looking. Both alliances. They're running out of easy food. And they know who's been eating well."
Up in the observation booth, Laia yawned, stretched, and glanced at the projection.
Lots of wiggly shadow things down there. Her people seemed fine. They were hitting them with rocks.
"Cool," she mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate cake. "Good for them."
She turned the page of her textbook and reached for another pastry.
Outside her booth, the whole viewing hall hummed with tension. The two great alliances were circling each other, hungry and angry and desperate. Everyone knew the tunnel rats were out there, sitting on mountains of supplies. Everyone knew the next move would be to dig them out.
Headmaster Corvin watched it all unfold, and steepled his fingers.
This was the part that mattered. This was where the real lessons were learned.
When plenty ran out, you found out what people were really made of.