Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes-Chapter 61: The Call to Compete

A few curious onlookers stopped to listen, some nodding, others whispering among themselves. Ivaim’s steps slowed as he watched the scene unfold.

The man continued, his voice brimming with energy.

"The rules are simple! Sign up, step into the ring, and win. The strongest among you will earn the right to advance. Fame, glory, and riches could be yours if you’ve got what it takes!"

Intrigued, Ivaim shifted the flour bag on his shoulder and approached the platform. Beside it, a small table was set up, cluttered with papers, quills, and an inkpot.

A young woman sat behind it, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scribbled names into a ledger. Her hand moved quickly, but she glanced up as Ivaim stepped closer.

"Excuse me," he began, his tone polite but curious. "What’s this about the Regionals Arena?"

The woman straightened, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her expression was a mix of professionalism and mild surprise.

"Ah, are you new to this?" she asked, her voice brisk but not unkind.

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Ivaim offered a small nod, gesturing lightly toward the crowd.

"Let’s say I overheard something interesting."

She smiled faintly, tapping the quill against the ledger.

"The whole of Vallgorath is gearing up for the Coliseum of Chosens. It’s the biggest event of the year. But only those who place at the top in the Regionals get to compete there."

Ivaim tilted his head. "And the Regionals?"

"You have to earn your spot," she explained, pointing toward the bustling arena at the heart of the marketplace.

"First, you compete in the local town arena. It’s not just about winning every match, though. What you need is the townspeople’s recommendation. If you become their top pick—the fighter they believe can represent them best—you’ll move on to the Regionals."

"Interesting," Ivaim murmured, his gaze following the direction of her pointing finger.

She leaned back slightly, studying him.

"Final sign-ups for the Town’s Arena are today," she added, her tone carrying a faint warning. "The matches start tomorrow and continue through the week."

Ivaim met her gaze, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Sounds like I’m just in time, then."

The woman raised an eyebrow, her eyes flicking over him. With his lean frame and the flour bag slung over his shoulder, he didn’t exactly look like a seasoned fighter.

"You’re signing up?" she asked, her skepticism thinly veiled.

"Why not?" Ivaim said lightly, stepping closer to the table and setting the flour down beside him.

She frowned, reaching for the quill but hesitating.

"You do realize this isn’t just for show, right? The fighters are experienced. This isn’t a place for... amateurs."

Ivaim chuckled softly, leaning slightly on the table.

"I appreciate the concern," he said, his tone teasing. "But I’m not exactly new to challenges. Besides, who doesn’t like a good underdog story?"

The woman shook her head, clearly unconvinced, but she dipped the quill into the inkpot anyway.

"Name?"

"Ivaim," he said, the smirk never leaving his face.

She wrote it down, her expression still doubtful as she glanced up.

"All right, you’re in. Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

"I wouldn’t dream of it," Ivaim replied, grabbing the flour bag with ease and throwing it back over his shoulder. "See you at the arena."

...

As Ivaim approached the bakery, the warm aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scents of the marketplace.

His pace slowed as he noticed someone standing near the bakery’s entrance—a man dressed in scuffed leather armor, the kind that had seen better days.

The man leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually, though his posture held a certain tension. His droopy eyes, shadowed by a heavy brow, gave him a tired, almost disinterested look.

Yet, there was a quiet sharpness in the way his gaze flicked across the street, as if he was sizing up everyone and everything in his field of view.

The leather armor he wore was well-worn but practical, with faint scratches and faded patches hinting at past skirmishes. A short blade hung at his side, its hilt polished from frequent use.

Ivaim adjusted the flour sack on his shoulder, narrowing his eyes slightly as he observed the man.

’A guard? No, too rough for that. A mercenary, maybe? Or someone looking for trouble?’ he thought, his curiosity piqued.

The man straightened as Ivaim approached, his arms falling to his sides, though his posture remained relaxed.

His lips curled into a faint, unreadable smile as his eyes landed on the flour bag and other supplies Ivaim carried.

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"Ah, are you the bakeshop’s delivery boy?" the man asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Though his tone carried no malice, there was a peculiar weight to his words, like someone accustomed to being listened to.

Ivaim adjusted the bag on his shoulder, offering a polite nod.

"Not exactly. Just lending a hand."

The man tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on the supplies before he continued.

"That’s good. The old woman—she’s stubborn as a mule. Always insists on running errands herself, even when she’s got no business carrying things that heavy anymore."

Ivaim chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting at the thought of Grandma Neli’s fierce independence.

"She does like to keep busy," he said. "But someone’s got to help out, right?"

The man gave a dry laugh, his expression softening just a touch.

"True enough. She’s always been that way. Glad to see she’s finally got someone around to take care of these things."

There was an ease in the conversation now, and Ivaim found himself smiling. He shifted his footing, curiosity bubbling up.

"Ah, so are you one of Grandma Neli’s regular customers?"

The man paused, his smile remaining but taking on a different edge—one that made Ivaim’s skin prickle ever so slightly.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I’m Neli’s son."

The air around Ivaim seemed to chill despite the warm sunlight filtering through the marketplace. His fingers tightened briefly around the strap of the flour bag as his mind raced.

’Neli’s son? But… isn’t her son dead?’