"Y'all would need some killer weapons for this tournament!" Jerry's voice echoed through the hall, filled with pride and enthusiasm. "And I and my minions have been working through the night preparing all that's required!"

He gestured grandly to the wrapped bundles being set down around the hall.

"So come pick 'em up!" His chest puffed out with pride. "Every single weapon forged from the cores you gathered. Every blade, axe, spear, and shield crafted to perfection. Some of my finest work, if I do say so myself!"

The dwarves began unwrapping the bundles, revealing dozens—no, hundreds—of gleaming weapons. Each one crafted with care, infused with beast core essence, designed for the specific fighter who'd requested it.

The mood in the hall shifted immediately. Fear and tension gave way to something else—not quite hope, but determination. Purpose. The sight of all those weapons, tangible proof of their preparation, reminded everyone that they weren't helpless.

"Nyla, Aria!" Jerry called out, waving them over. "Your weapons are ready. And boy, did they turn out beautifully."

The two women hurried forward. Jerry handed Nyla a pair of dual blades that seemed to exhale cold air, frost forming along their edges even in the warm hall. When Nyla gripped them, ice crystals spread from the hilts, responding instantly to her power.

"Perfect balance," Jerry explained. "Ice channeling through the entire blade structure. Every strike will freeze on contact. Channel more power, and you can create ice constructs directly from the weapons."

Nyla's eyes gleamed as she tested the weight. "These are incredible."

Aria received her longsword next—sleek, elegant, seeming almost impossibly light. When she swung it experimentally, the blade moved so fast it left afterimages in the air.

"Optimized for speed without sacrificing cutting power," Jerry said proudly. "The core essence is concentrated along the edge. It'll cut through armor like paper."

"Thank you," Aria said sincerely, already falling into practice forms, testing the weapon's balance.

All around the hall, adventurers were receiving their weapons. Exclamations of surprise and gratitude filled the air as people discovered the quality of what had been forged for them.

Seth received his gauntlets—reinforced knuckles gleaming with metallic sheen, magical enhancement circuits visible along the back. He punched the air experimentally, and the impact created a visible shockwave.

"Oh, these are going to be fun," he grinned.

Nibo hefted his new war axe—massive, perfectly balanced, the blade edge glowing faintly with stored power. It made his old weapon look like a child's toy in comparison.

J tested his new spear, the shaft wrapped in golden energy that responded to his will. The weapon felt alive in his hands.

Even James, who'd said his chains had evolved, received reinforced armor—lightweight but durable, designed not to interfere with his fighting style.

The hall transformed from a somber war council into something closer to an armory, with warriors claiming their weapons, testing them, growing more confident with each passing moment.

Akhil watched it all, the Blood Fang still resting against his shoulder. He caught Jerry's eye and nodded gratefully. The dwarf had done more than forge weapons—he'd given them all something precious.

A fighting chance.

"Alright!" Akhil called out, his voice cutting through the excited chatter. "Everyone who has their weapon, get ready to move! We leave for the tournament location in fifteen minutes!"

People began organizing, forming into their groups, making final preparations. The energy had shifted completely—from fear and uncertainty to determined readiness.

'We're as prepared as we can be,' Akhil thought, gripping the Blood Fang. 'Now we just have to survive what comes next.'

Nyla appeared beside him, her new dual blades sheathed at her sides, frost still emanating from them. "Ready?"

Akhil looked at his sister—at the determination in her eyes, the weapons at her side, the strength she'd gained over two days of constant fighting.

"No," he admitted honestly. "But we're going anyway."

She smiled slightly. "Good answer."

Around them, three hundred warriors armed with legendary weapons prepared to march toward their potential deaths.

But they would march together. Fight together. And maybe—just maybe—survive together.

"Time to go," Akhil announced.

The tournament was waiting.

And they were out of time to prepare.

----

The broadcast ended, the magical projection fading as the cameras powered down. Jeren stood alone on the massive platform, the empty arena stretching out around him in all directions. Thousands of seats waited to be filled—not with mortal spectators, but with the divine audience watching from their realm beyond.

He closed his fan with a deliberate snap, the sound echoing across the silent space.

"Such eager little warriors," he murmured to himself, a smile playing at the edges of his lips behind the mask. "Two days of preparation. Two days of hope. How... entertaining."

A presence materialized behind him—not gradually, but instantly, as if reality itself had simply decided someone was now standing there. The shadow shifted, took form, became solid.

One of his Ten Centurion Commanders.

The figure was tall, armored in dark metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. A massive sword rested across his back, and his eyes—visible through the helmet's visor—were cold, empty, the eyes of someone who'd killed so many times that death had become mundane.

"Master Jeren," the Centurion's voice was deep, emotionless. "They've prepared. Gathered cores, forged weapons, organized their forces." He paused. "They're making their way here now."

Jeren turned slowly, gracefully, his crimson and gold robes flowing with the movement. For a moment, he simply regarded his Centurion—one of the legendary warriors who'd never lost a match, who'd killed challenger after challenger without ever being truly tested.

Then his smile widened.

Not the pleasant, charming smile he'd shown in the broadcast. This was something darker, more genuine. The expression of a merchant who'd just closed a deal he knew would profit him immensely.

"Weapons," he said softly, almost fondly. "They think weapons will make a difference. How delightful." He flipped his fan closed with a sharp snap, the sound somehow more menacing than before. "How wonderfully naive."

The green glow from his fan's core pulsed once, responding to his amusement.

"Come then," Jeren said, his voice carrying quiet authority. "Let's go welcome our performers properly. The gods are watching, and we mustn't disappoint them."

He began walking toward the arena's entrance, each step measured and unhurried. The Centurion fell into step behind him, a dark shadow following its master.

"After all," Jeren continued, his bright eyes gleaming with anticipation, "a good show requires a proper opening act. And I do so love making an impression."

Behind his mask, his smile grew even wider.

The warriors were coming.

And he couldn't wait to see the hope drain from their eyes.

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