Chapter 210 - 1-3

Chapter 1

Hunched over his desk, in the dark of his room, a pale man who hadn't seen the sun in too many days typed furiously. No one understood the beauty of Kasser, the beautiful cat-girl in the latest installation of Absolute Apex. Sure, she was trash, a character thrown out solely to attract the attention of horny men who had no other reason to exist in the series, and the series had become trash, but that was exactly what no one understood: the beauty of trash. The exquisite perfection in a series so trashy it had completely fallen apart at the seams. It wasn't good. He wouldn't dare accuse it of such a thing. But it was bad, tasteless and trashy in a way that tugged at the heartstrings and made him laugh at the same time. In other words, peak entertainment.

He hit enter and sat back, crossing his arms, his glasses reflecting the screen's light. With a final stroke, he finished his manifesto on Kasser's beauty, then added one more message:

god_of_trash: if you don't think Kasser is perfect, you can leave right now. 

anyone321: he's gone. there's no saving him. 

peaker-93: conversation's over, dude. no one likes kasser. she's trash. 

god_of_trash: that's the whole point. trash is the best.

2face2u: hey, anyone remember when AA was good? 

The conversation moved on. He sighed, shaking his head. The unenlightened would never understand. Absolute Apex had never been good. At best, it had peaked at average. It was only now that it truly transcended, as the author lost all the fucks they'd had to give and plunged into insanity. How else would they have gotten that scene where the Demon King forced a waiter to tap dance for fifteen hours? How else would they have received the gift of the main character, never a powerhouse but rather the weak, wishy-washy sort, literally turning into a fly on the wall for fifteen chapters so the characters everyone cared about could have a turn in the spotlight? If the series hadn't become trash, it would have been nothing.

A private message appeared in the corner of his vision. With no hesitation, he clicked it. Did someone still want to argue? Please! He welcomed the challenge.

absolutexistance: you love trash? 

He snorted. Obviously this absolutexistance fellow hadn't been on the forum for long if he had to ask that.

god_of_trash: duh

absolutexistance: I have a problem with trash. can you help me? 

Confused, he tilted his head. A problem with trash? What, like in his house? That was his business. He wasn't talking about cleaning some guy's room, he was talking about literary trash.

A second later, he chuckled under his breath. Why was he thinking of physical trash? Obviously, given the context, absolutexistance was talking about trash like Absolute Apex. So without hesitation, he replied:

god_of_trash: you've come to the right man. lay it on me. what can i do to help you appreciate trash? 

The typing-message animation played, and played, and played. He sat back, knitting his fingers together to wait. At last, the response came back:

absolutexistance: it's best if I just show you

He lifted his hands to type, show me? how? but his fingers never found the keyboard. Bright light poured down on him, blindingly bright. He lifted his hands to block the light—and stared. Squinted. Turned them over, then back again. They were small. Too small. And the skin was tan, and soft, and supple, not pale and cracked from the dry cold. He peered against the bright light, only to find it emanated from one overwhelming round source in a pale blue canvas, instead of a big flat rectangle like he was used to. His arms were short, but something soft brushed against his cheek, and he touched it to find a long, well-kept, not at all greasy ponytail dangling behind his head.

His eyes widened. He sat up, only to find himself in ragged clothes, sitting on the edge of a massive field of rubbish. But not plastic rubbish. No broken cellphones and food wrappers filled his vision. Instead, he faced a mass of rotting foodstuffs, broken pottery, tattered clothes and shattered wood furniture. Beyond it, a medieval village clung to the side of a mountain, where a delicate, white city glistened at its top, impossibly constructed. In fact, he could almost swear some of the buildings were floating.

He took a deep breath. Clean, fresh air flowed into his lungs, cleaner than he'd ever known. He had a child's body, about ten, eleven years old, if he had to guess, and faced a vista totally unknown to him. That could only mean one thing. "Holy shit. I'm in another world, aren't I?"

But why? He delved his memories, but there was only one thing he could come up with. That strange conversation with absolutexistance in the chat room, immediately before he'd arrived. Pinching his chin, he frowned. It made no sense, but was absolutexistance maybe a god of this world? One who had somehow metaphysically connected to the internet, chosen the random forum he frequented, then somehow misunderstood him as an actual god god due to his username 'god_of_trash?'

It was so impossible that it boggled the mind, but he couldn't come up with anything else. He was undeniably in another world, in a brand-new body. No matter how he wracked his brain, he couldn't come up with another reason for him to have jumped worlds. He hadn't been hit by a truck, and if he'd had a heart attack or aneurism, it had come and gone so fast he hadn't felt a thing. It was possible he was in a coma, and this was all some extended dream, but well, in that case, he might as well enjoy it.

It was too late now. However he'd been transported to another world, it had happened. Here he was, in a place that was very much not in front of his computer, in his sad little apartment, up too late chatting on the internet about anime he didn't even like very much, even if Kasser was the absolute pinnacle of catgirl design.

He stood, dusting off his ragged clothes. He wore patched, threadbare brown trousers and a simple sort of robe-slash-tunic, tied at the side. The robe might have been white, once, but sweat and dirt had turned it the same shade of brown as the trousers. His head ached, and when he lifted a hand to it, it came away sticky with dark-red blood. He looked back. A short cliff loomed over him, and under his back had been an expanse of hard, gray stone. A blood splatter marked where his head had been, moments ago.

He pursed his lips, understanding. This kid had been dead. The god, or whatever had brought him here, had seen fit to toss him into this kid's dead body, and he'd brought the kid back somehow. He didn't understand it, but he didn't understand anything about what was just happening. God shit, probably.

As it was, the fierce ache in his head assured him this was no dream. Casting left and right, he looked around for a way back up the cliff. The medieval town was before him, but it was up a somewhat-considerable lip. In fact, all the trash around him had been thrown into the depression that he also found himself in. If he had to guess, he'd spawned in the town's trash pit.

Looking around, he chuckled under his breath. He really was the god of trash, wasn't he? Born in the trash, stuck in the pit…

"Learned your lesson now, Rhys?" a child's voice asked petulantly from atop the cliff.

He looked around. Seeing no one else in the trash pit, he pointed at himself. "Me?"

Two boys, about the same age as his body, peered over the edge of the cliff. One was fat, and the other was thin. A third boy's face joined them a few moments later, burly in comparison to the first two.

The fat one scoffed, and the same voice sounded again. "Hit your head so hard you forgot your name? Yes, you. No one else here named Rhys, is there?"

He considered for a second. Amusingly, although he could remember his username clearly, and most of his past life, his name slipped his mind. It felt like that should bother him, but for some reason, it didn't. Maybe it was because he'd been reborn. His name was attached to his old self, so shedding it felt appropriate in a new world and a new body. He nodded. Rhys was a good enough name. "I suppose not."

The skinny one cleared his throat. "So? Learned your lesson?"

"No," Rhys replied earnestly. How could he, when he didn't know what lesson he was supposed to be learning?

The fat one scoffed. "As if he could. Duller than a brick and smellier than a pig, that's Rhys."

The burly one looked on, a disapproving frown on his face. He crossed his arms and said nothing.

Rhys turned away from the boys, taking in the pit once more as he tuned out their voices. It wasn't as if he cared what they said about him. He wasn't actually an eleven-year-old, and their weak attempts at bullying didn't so much as annoy him, let alone actually sting. Better to focus his energy on escaping the pit.

These boys had probably killed his body. Not intentionally, he didn't think, but neither had they acted in a way that preserved human life and dignity. Putting someone in a position where their actions could accidentally kill them was still manslaughter. He would have to punish them somehow, but he didn't know how yet. Still, he put it on the backburner for later, looking up for just a moment to commit their faces to memory before taking on the pit once more.

There was no real break in the pit's walls. They were almost unnaturally smooth, as if they'd been dug by human hands, but not even modern tools could have left such a perfectly round, smooth-walled bore. It was as if a hammer had struck down once from heaven and left the impression of its strike in the soft earth. Either that, or it was a sinkhole, but he preferred the fantasy answer. He was in a new world, after all. He was allowed to dream.

He twisted his lips. The walls were six feet tall. If he were an adult, he could probably reach up and scramble over the lip. As it was, he barely cleared five feet, and although he could barely reach the edge, he didn't fancy his chances clambering over it. His arms and legs were stick-thin, with barely any fat or muscle on them. If he had to guess, his body came from a poor family, if he still had a family at all. Pulling himself up over the edge of the pit was a pipe dream.

He turned, taking in all the trash. He was god of the trash, wasn't he? Might as well get started. Plenty of raw materials, right here. And he'd watched enough DIY videos to get the gist of basic construction.

Leaving the boys behind, he set off into the pit, picking over the trash. There was a chair with two legs, and a shattered table with a single intact leg. A few rusty nails stuck through a scrap of wood nearby, and those joined the pile. He dragged all of it through the trash, away from the kids and toward the town.

"Hey! Get back here!" the fat kid shouted.

"Yeah! Get back!" the skinny one repeated.

The burly one jumped up and ran along the outside, chasing after Rhys.

Out in the middle of the pit, Rhys stopped. It was a large pit, larger than he'd expect for a town of the size he'd seen on its edge, probably about twenty feet in diameter. Some of the materials in it were far finer than he'd expect, too, richly carved furniture broken into tiny pieces and sumptuous robes stained with red-brown fluids and torn asunder. A small, glittering vial caught his eye. He paused, kneeling to pick it up, and gave it a sniff.

A strong, astringent scent wafted up, strictly medicinal. Blue liquid clung to the walls of the vial, just a few small drops. It looked like a potion. Smelled like one. Could it be? This really was a fantasy world, with gods and the like, and this really was a healing potion?

Only one way to find out. Rhys swirled the vial, collecting the drips into one larger drop, then fished it out with a fingertip and licked it.

The pain in the back of his head instantly abated. Warmth flowed over the back of his head, and when he tried touching it again, his hand found crusted blood, sticky hair, and smooth, unblemished skin.

His eyes widened. He looked at the vial in his hand, then turned back to the trash. His construction project sat to the side, forgotten, as he dug desperately through the layers of refuse. This, what he held in his hand, was gold. Pure gold! Potions were always worth exorbitant sums in fantasy worlds—at least compared to the money the average mortal could make. If he found enough bottles, who knew? He could even combine all the drips of potion into one whole potion and sell it. Given his destitute state, he'd need that kind of desperate action to make it as an adventurer—obviously his goal. He didn't even need to say it. He'd been reincarnated in another world, so naturally, he had to become an adventurer. But adventuring took money, money he didn't have. Money that was sitting right here, in the trash heap, for anyone to come along and grab. Even the vials had to be worth something, crafted as they were out of fine crystal-cut glass.

Wonder why the original Rhys didn't do this? Then again, Rhys was a kid, scared of silly things. And people tended to look down on picking through the trash. What a waste, honestly, when there was so much good stuff in the trash.

Maybe he was wrong, and no one wanted the vials. Maybe they really were nothing but trash. But in that case, all he'd done was waste some time. He lost nothing, and he potentially gained much. That was the kind of gamble he was willing to take.

"Tam, I think Rhys has finally lost it. He's digging through the trash like a rabid dog," the skinny one commented.

The burly one returned to the other two's side, jogging back without ever breaking a sweat.

The fat boy—Tam—looked up. He chuckled. "We already knew he was a dog. He's only showing his true nature. Bast, watch over him while Den and I check in with the matron. If we don't show our faces soon, she'll catch on that something's off."

"Since when have I been your servant? It was your idea to push him in, anyways. I told you not to. I'm not sticking around to take the fall while you go make an alibi," the burly one, Bast, returned. With that, he walked away.

Rhys raised his brows. Interesting. Bast was smarter than he looked. And not the ringleader. That'd be Tam, the fat one, which made skinny Den… his toady? He watched the two remaining boys over his shoulder. The skinny one, Den, followed at Tam's heel, quietly nodding along with the other boy's suggestions. Now he fretted, looking between the retreating Bast and Tam, who scowled at the burly boy's back.

"What do we do?" Den asked nervously.

Tam scoffed. "We aren't going to stick around to get caught, either. Let's go check in. If Rhys doesn't show up, no one will bat an eye. That empty-headed day dreamer never shows up for lunch, anyways."

Upon learning that he would be left alone, Rhys turned all his attention back to the trash. The spot he dug in was a hotspot of the little vials. It seemed that someone had chugged a bunch of them all at once, then dumped them away all at once. Many of the vials had droplets in them, which he collected into one of the fuller bottles, one that had a whole dreg in it. He gathered the fully emptied vials into a pouch he'd made out of the ragged fabric strewn around the trash heap. Bit by bit, the vial slowly filled. One drop at a time, so little it was impossible to see it grow, and yet, it still filled. He ran out of vials in his original potion well and moved on, searching out more vials. They were easy to find, glittering in the sunlight.

Abruptly, he stopped, holding up a vial to the light. Orange liquid sloshed in the half-full vial. His brows furrowed. That wasn't a healing potion. Healing potions were blue. His eyes narrowed. If it wasn't a healing potion, what was it? Mana? Some kind of strength or speed boost, maybe?

Only one way to find out.

Very carefully, he tipped out a tiny droplet onto his skin. When his skin didn't react, he sniffed it, then delicately licked it and held it in his mouth, on his tongue. The orange liquid had a strange scent—medicinal, but also spicy and mysterious, somewhere between cough medicine and a spice cake. Its flavor was somewhat similar to licking a dry spice mix, as if he'd snuck a taste of dry gingerbread cookie mix before adding the liquid. Very strange, to say the least. It had a powerful clearing effect, too, as if he'd bitten into a pepper, and his nose began to run. He swallowed. The droplet rolled into his stomach, tracing warmth all the way down, and then a message appeared before his eyes.

Mana awakened! 

Less is More 0 > 1

Rhys' eyes widened. It was a mana potion! And not only that, but he seemed to have unlocked something by using it. He poked the floating blue message bubble, and it went away, replaced with a larger one.

Rhys Foundling | 12 | Mana Gathering (Tier 0)

Title: Trash-born

Skills: 

Hunger Resist 5

Survivalist 1

Pain Resist 1

Scavenging 2

Less is More 1

He pinched his chin. After a bit of investigating, most of the skills did about what he'd expect. Hunger and Pain Resist let him overcome those two common troubles, while Survivalist helped him survive the elements and Scavenging made it easier to find valuable items in trash—it was a passive skill that functioned by giving a boost to the same kind of instincts an experienced thrifter might have, when paging through junk in a thrift shop. Less is More was the most mysterious skill, but also the most obvious: when he used items, they became more effective at smaller quantities. In other words, he could gain more mana from a drop of the mana potion than most people would, and more healing from a drop of a health potion.

His eyes drifted to the top, to his name and title. Foundling wasn't a family name. He'd spent long enough delving free encyclopedias to know that in medieval eras, a name like that would be given to orphans. He'd been found somewhere, not born into a loving family. It tracked with his experiences so far, so he didn't dwell long on it. He was twelve, too, and not eleven; never would have guessed, from how small he was, without even a hint of growth. Mana Gathering, Tier 0… was that his strength level right now?

Rhys smirked to himself. In other words, trash-tier. He was in his element. Literally and figuratively.

Finally, he glanced at his title. Trash-born. It was rather mysterious, and one he didn't understand, unless it literally meant he'd been born in the trash. Given that he'd been reborn in the trash, he didn't discount it as a possibility. It suited him, however, so he didn't complain.

I really am the god of trash, huh. Rhys looked around him. Although he'd been talking about literary trash when he'd spoken to that mysterious absolutexistance, he didn't really mind real trash, either. When he'd been a child, he'd enjoyed building things out of discarded cardboard and cans. Even as an adult, he would repurpose materials others would throw out for crafts. Never mind that he used them building cheap armor for his cosplay, the point was—he was a resourceful kind of guy, who had always seen value in every kind of trash, material or literary.

Although others might use the word trash to dismiss a work, to him, it was only the beginning of the discussion. Yes, it was trash, but what kind of trash? And just because it was trash, didn't mean it lacked value, or beautiful moments, or great characters. Just because the overwhelming sentiment of public opinion stood against something, didn't mean Rhys would dismiss it too. No—he refused to. If someone called something trash, to him, that was an invitation to find the diamond in the rough. Sure, sometimes there was a lot of rough. Sometimes there was even nothing but rough. But if no one was willing to polish up the rough and go hunting for the diamonds, they'd never have any diamonds in the whole world.

That metaphor kind of got away from me, but anyways. The point is, I'm not going to overlook the trash just because the townsfolk think it's beneath them. He'd already advanced by leaps and bounds just by crawling in the trash. He'd unlocked a system, and even gained a skill! And in his hands were two half-empty, no, half-fullpotions, one of health, the other of mana, that could either help him advance further or that he could sell for money that he could then use to grow stronger.

There was no doubt in his mind that he needed to get strong. This wasn't the kind of society where one could live a good life as a weakling. Right from the moment he'd entered it, spawned into the poor dead body of weak Rhys who had been killed for no other reason than because the other boys could overpower him, he'd been face to face with this truth. No, the other boys hadn't meant to kill him, but that only made it more frightening. He was in a world where the weak would be accidentally killed by the strong, trampled on with all the more care as though they were insects underfoot. He might love trash, but he didn't want to be a bug, stuck beneath everyone forever. Trash was going to propel him upward, to the top of society, and who knew? Maybe even all the way to becoming a true god of trash, in more than username only.

Rhys kept going, all thoughts of escaping the pile totally forgotten. His potions slowly filled, though the health potion made far more progress than the mana potion. Apparently mana potions were more valuable, which only made him treasure the vial of orange liquid more. Between selling it for coin and using it to advance, his heart slowly drifted toward using it to advance. The health potion he could hold in reserve to sell or use, depending on the situation, but if the mana potion was so valuable that there were only a few in the trash? He couldn't overlook this kind of heavenly luck and toss all his advantages away.

On top of potions, he also came across strange wrinkled papers with powders clinging to their creases. He tasted a few of them, only to be beset by a dozen strange effects, everything from strength increases to a sudden bout of drowsiness. The papers, therefore, he collected separately, carefully tucking each one away on its own for later observation. Whatever pills or powders they had contained, there was clearly a far greater variety of those than the potions, so he couldn't carelessly combine them based on color alone.

As the sun set, he gazed upon his gatherings with the warm joy he usually reserved for his figure collection. Dozens of bottles glittered back at him from the pouch, alongside a stack of wrinkled paper. And his pride and joy, front and center: one full health potion, a second quarter-full one, and a three-quarters full mana potion.

Since his first awakening, he'd not dared to try the mana potion further. There was still a sensation of great heat in his stomach, as though he were on the verge of being overwhelmed by the little mana he had. Besides, the potion was such a valuable and rare resource that he didn't want to carelessly drink too much in one day and overlap the effects. Better to take a drop a day, and experience the full effect of one drop before he went on to try a second drop. Plus, he got the feeling that he could level up Less is More by, well, experiencing that less was more, rather than taking on the whole potion at once.

He tucked the vials with potion in them deep in his robes, hiding each individually. As someone who'd formerly been bullied, he knew the kind of depths kids would go to in order to harm one another. If the three bullies knew he had something valuable, they'd take it from him even if they didn't understand its value themselves. And when it came to potions, he was pretty sure they'd recognize the value immediately.

It almost made him want to drink the whole mana potion, but he held back. Leveling his skill was more important—and that heat in his stomach. It really was on the verge of overwhelming. He'd only taken a drop of the potion, but between the skill and being totally untrained, it was too much for him. He didn't want to die in the trash from mana overdose, or whatever other hazards mana held in this world. Until he knew more about how mana worked, he intended to listen closely to his body and stop when it experienced the least discomfort. Once he knew more, he could start pressing the boundaries of how much mana he could absorb. Start expanding his horizons, as it were.

He was a bit concerned that he ended up full of mana from such a tiny drop, but that was a concern for later. Then again, if he thought about it, he wouldn't be the god of trash if he didn't start with trash-tier stats. The thrill was in overcoming the trash to shine himself into a diamond anyways, not in starting with overwhelming power.

…And maybe that was him coping just a little bit, but who was to say? Who was to say.

In any case, he wasn't afraid of hard work. As long as it meant he'd end up with powerful magic this time around, he was happy to work hard. Back when hard work just meant he weighed a little less, it wasn't particularly appealing. But now… hell, now hard work meant he could fly and shoot fireballs from his hands, or something. That was what he was talking about.

As he contemplated his magical future, he pried the nails out of the piece of wood, then used a nice thick piece of wood to hammer them through the chair's seat and into the table leg. The resulting three-legged chair wasn't the sturdiest, or steadiest, thing ever built, but it held, and when he tested it, it held his twelve-year-old weight. Being twelve was less of an asset when it came to hauling the awkwardly-shaped construct back across the pit toward the town-side to climb out, but he managed it. One step at a time, he dragged it toward the edge. The pouch clanked on his hip, and that heat glowed in his stomach.

Abruptly, he paused. Why was he doing this the hard, non-magical way, when he had magic literally burning a hole in him? He reached out to the mana and called it forth.

The mana leaped out and raced through him, pouring through his body. His strength instantly surged, but so did the heat. A fever blush spread over his cheeks. Rhys huffed and breathed slowly, pushing through it. His body rebelled against mana, and he rebelled against his body.

He was sure of it now: he was trash. Inexcusably, unrelentingly, trash. But the thing about trash, the thing that he really loved about it, was that there was always something that shone in the very bottom of the trash. One joke he could enjoy, even if the rest of the entire series was nothing but a convoluted excuse to display fanservice. There had to be something about this new body of his that shone. Some aspect that it succeeded at. He just had to find it, somewhere under all the trash.

Fever raged, beating against his forehead, but he pressed on. For all that it hurt, the fever didn't constrain his newfound, mana-powered strength. The chair's shape was still awkward enough that his short arms couldn't heft it, but he dragged it with ease and had no trouble lifting it for short times when it snagged on something else in the trash. The encroaching night made it hard to see too much of the details of the trash around him, but he mentally tagged any promising regions as places to come back to later.

And then he froze. Slowly, he turned.

Metal glittered in the darkness. Sharp, pointy metal.

Rhys' eyes shone. A dark chuckle sounded from his throat as his revenge against the bullies took shape. He knelt and snatched it up, sliding it into his robes with the potions. It would be a good time tonight. A good time for everyone, but mostly Rhys.

Chapter 2. Good Time Had By All

Rhys propped the chair up on the garbage at the edge of the pit and clambered up it. It was a short walk from the pit to the town, and dark when he got there. The town had a wall, and the gates were halfway closed, but a woman was arguing with the gate guards.

She gestured at the darkness. "—still out there! He's just a child. We can't—"

"Ma'am, we have to close the gates. We can't leave 'em open because one of your orphans vanished. He probably just ran off to play camp, or something. There's monsters out there, we can't leave the gates open for one kid."

"There's monsters outside—do you hear yourself? You're just going to lock him—"

Rhys cleared his throat.

The woman turned. She was middle-aged, with silver threading her dark brown hair, and dressed in old, modest clothes. At the sight of Rhys, her eyes lit up. "Oh, thank goodness. There you are! Rhys, come here, come on in."

He jogged over, cancelling the mana circulating through his body as he did so. He'd left it active all the way from the trash pit, pushing his limits, but he didn't want anyone to notice anything suspicious yet. He needed to understand more about this world before he let anyone know he'd done something like activate his system or acquire mana. It could be no big deal, or it could be the kind of world-shattering talent indication that would lead to him getting kidnapped by some mad cult of mages. He just didn't know. He suspected it was 'no big deal' rather than a world-shattering talent, given how little mana potion it took to top him up, but better safe than sorry.

The second he was within grabbing range, the woman's arm snaked out and caught his upper arm in a painful grasp. She yanked his closer and hissed in his ear, "You stay out after dark again and I'll see to it you get a whooping like you've never felt before, do you hear me, child?"

Rhys raised his brows. What an about-face. So she wasn't as kind as she looked, just a woman getting her job done, who was angry to be inconvenienced by a trouble-maker like him. He got it—he also didn't like kids—but he wasn't real happy about being treated like shit, either.

Seeing his unperturbed expression, the woman scowled deeper. She shook him, hard. "You hear me, boy?"

"Yes, ma'am," Rhys said. She kept scowling at him disbelievingly. After a moment, he put in the effort to give her a terrified expression.

"Good. And wipe that stupid look off your face," she snarled, dragging him away.

Rhys stared at her back. Did she want him to look scared, or not? He rolled his eyes at the back of her head. No wonder he'd woken up dead in the pit. With someone like this looking after him, of course the other kids had been able to bully him to death. She probably spent as little time around the children as possible.

Over her shoulder, she smiled sweetly at the guards and called, louder, "Thank you so much! I appreciate your help!"

"Yeah, whatever." The gate rattled as it shut.

Rhys shrugged. At least he hadn't been locked out with the monsters. And he had all his loot still, even the decoys.

As if she'd sensed his thoughts, the woman turned back. "What is in that horrid sack of yours? I don't remember giving you that."

"Mhm. I made it. It's full of trash," Rhys replied proudly.

Her nose wrinkled. "Trash? Throw it away!"

Rhys hugged the sack to his chest, as if he'd protect it to the death. In truth, the empty jars were a decoy. Compared to the value of the things hidden in his robes, they were nothing. Of course, he'd be happy to get away with all of it, but well, better to lose a little than everything. If she tried to take them, he'd kick up a fuss until she wore out, but he wouldn't mind if he lost them. A worthy price to pay, to keep what he truly had looted.

To his surprise, she snorted and turned away.

He relaxed a hair, but internally, grew more tense. She hadn't even tried to enforce her will. A woman like her, no way would she give up so easily… unless she knew something was for-certain going to take everything from him, without her having to make an effort. He double-checked all his valuable loot and prepared himself to run. The spark of mana in his stomach was almost gone, but he could probably get one last spurt of speed out of it if he really needed it.

For now, he still needed to go to the orphanage to rest his head and receive food. But if he was treated the way he was beginning to suspect he was treated, then he wouldn't be there for long. His body was young, but his mind was old. He was used to ten-hour shifts and working until he passed out. He could go find a job, if he needed to. Pay his own rent.

Of course, he'd rather not. Not paying rent and taxes was the biggest advantage to being a child. But if he had no choice, he'd do it.

The matron led the way through the cobbled streets and past Victorian-like houses, overhanging their understories and crowding over the street like trees searching for the sun, all the way to the back of the village, where a boxy stone building stood. A large fenced yard encased this boxy construction. At this late hour, no one stood in the yard, but the worn turf and a toy or two hidden away in the longer grass spoke to the building being occupied by many children.

Rhys looked around, taking a moment to get the lay of the land. The fence was stone and metal rods, pointed at the tips. It would be hard to climb, but not impossible. There was enough space between the wall and the house to play tag or evade a pursuer, but not forever, and little to hide behind. He twisted his lips. It would be tough, but he could make it work.

A loud clang startled him, and he whirled, but it was only the matron shutting the gate. Chains rattled as she pulled them through the gate's bars and locked them shut. "Hopefully no more of you brats sneak out tonight. I've had enough goose chases for the week."

"I didn't sneak out. I was almost killed by—"

"Hurry inside, or you won't get dinner," she interrupted him.

Rhys shut his mouth. It was worth a try, but as expected, he couldn't get through to her. Rather than risk his loot by pushing things, he scurried into the boxy building.

Its construction was as simple within as it was without. A central hallway, with rooms to the left and right. A staircase dead ahead of the front door led to the second floor, which was laid out much the same. Candle light and conversation came from the rear of the house. Even from here, he could see a large room laid out with long tables, each one occupied by children. Rhys approached it, adjusting his grip on his empty potion vial sack. If there was a real challenge to his ownership of the satchel, it'd come when he stepped inside.

So, with a deep breath, and clutching tightly to the spark of mana in his core, he did just that.

He almost expected the room to fall silent, but naturally, nothing so dramatic came to pass. Instead, the kids went right on eating. Most of the tables were occupied, and none of the kids called out to him. For a moment, he was back in high school, terrified he might sit with the wrong clique and commit social suicide.

In the next, he scoffed. Who cared what a bunch of brats thought?

Rhys retrieved a bowl of thin soup and a piece of rough bread from the matron at the far end of the tables, then sat down at the nearest empty seat. The children near him scowled and withdrew, but he ignored them. With the practiced hand of a born loser, he gulped down soup and bread in a few short moments.

He'd barely finished when a shadow fell over him. A meaty hand landed on his shoulder. "You're not hungry, are you, Rhys?"

Rhys turned, exposing an empty bowl. He looked up at Tam and shook his head. "Not anymore."

Tam scowled. "You ate your bread?"

"It's my bread," Rhys returned.

"Didn't we agree that you aren't that hungry, so you should give me your bread?" Tam asked threateningly.

"Did we? I don't recall," Rhys said lightly. The bullying extended even to this extreme? He supposed he wasn't surprised, but nonetheless, it was shocking just how petty children were. It reminded him why he usually avoided them like the plague.

Tam gripped his ponytail and pulled his head back. His eyes narrowed. "Did you not learn your lesson today?"

Rhys glanced at the matrons, but as expected, they pretended to see nothing. He scoffed quietly and turned his eyes back to Tam. "Oh, I learned my lesson. Did you?"

"What?" Tam asked.

Rhys tapped Tam's hand. "That blood on your hand… did it ever occur to you that you might kill me?"

Tam recoiled, jerking his hand free. He looked at it. There was nothing smeared on his palm—Rhys' blood had long since dried. Turning back to Rhys, he laughed. "Trying to scare me with ghost stories? Do you think I'm five?"

"But I am dead. You killed me," Rhys said, his face dead serious. He stared Tam dead in the eye, unflinching, unmoving.

Tam backed away. He frowned. "What the heck? You just ate soup. You can't be dead."

"Have you never heard of hungry ghosts?" Rhys whispered, and licked his lips, still staring down Tam.

Tam backed away. He scoffed again, but he sounded less certain about it. "You're insane."

Rhys just smiled, slowly.

Rolling his eyes, Tam walked away, making sure to knock Rhys' shoulder on the way past. "Better leave your bread in the morning, or else."

Rhys watched him go and said nothing. Only when Tam had retreated back to his seat did he finally stand and walk away. He'd done what he needed to do. It was time to get the rest of the plan moving.

The trio had killed him. There was no mistaking that. Whatever retribution he visited upon them, they'd brought it upon themselves. But first, he had to familiarize himself with the building. The real Rhys would have known it like the back of his hand, but to him, it was a brand new location.

None of the other kids left the room, even if they were done eating, and the matrons shot him a nasty look on his way out, but no one stopped him. Rhys took that as permission to keep going. The rest of the building he investigated in short time, mostly because there was precious little to see. Upstairs were the dormitories, two long rooms occupying either side of the hall. One was reserved for girls, with beds decorated with flower crowns and the scent of perfume lingering on the air, while the other was reserved for boys, and stank like it, too. He went from bed to bed, trying to identify Rhys'. In the end, he'd eliminated all the beds except one, a dirty, stained mattress with a single tattered sheet. A pair of shoes, tucked underneath, contained his name in small, crammed font, which confirmed it. He snorted. That wouldn't be his for long.

He might be a loser back in his home world, but he wasn't so pathetic as to get bullied by a bunch of children. Nor did he intend to let their crimes go. If it was his world, they'd get sent to juvie for manslaughter. In this world, they'd probably get hung directly. He didn't intend to kill them, but nor was he going to let them get away with it. They'd only escalate things if he turned the other cheek. Being a loser had taught him that much, and he had no intention of getting trampled in his second life, too.

There was little else in the building, save a few lesson rooms and a play room for the smallest children. He couldn't access the kitchen with the matrons there, so he left it. He didn't need the kitchen, anyways.

That night went quietly, and so did the next day. When he had time away from the other kids, he'd take a drop of the mana potion and circulate it until he grew feverish. Slowly, he adapted to the mana. As for the bullies, he avoided them like the plague. With the help of mana, it was laughably easy. At mealtimes, he'd eat fast and run off. During free time, he hid in the trash pit and dug for treasure. When they had lessons, he was the last to enter and the first to leave.

His precious potions stayed on him always, while the empty vials he sold to a local apothecary. The shop's owner asked him few questions, and he provided few answers. Each empty vial was only worth a quarter-penny, but it counted up over time, and by the end of the week, he had almost twenty cents. It didn't sound impressive to his modern ears, used to sums in the thousands of dollars, but twenty cents was a good wage for a day's work, here, so given that he could make that from doing nothing but rifling through the trash, he was satisfied.

The potions he hadn't asked about, but from glancing at the alchemist's board, they wouldn't be less than a full gold coin. For a village like this, that was incredibly rich. There wasn't a single person here who could afford that kind of remedy, and even if they could, they wouldn't waste their money on it unless they were backed into a corner. In other words, he had a fortune on his hands; he just didn't have a place to sell it off.

But that was fine. It just meant he had a guaranteed survival plan, and in an unpredictable fantasy world he barely understood, that was worth more than one gold.

As for his skills, Scavenging grew to level 5, while Less is More hit 6. He hadn't yet developed a skill for handling mana, but he felt as though he were on the verge of a breakthrough there. A few more days of sipping the mana potion, and he'd have a real chance at gaining that kind of skill.

The whole time, he kept his eyes on the bullies, biding his time. A few times, Tam tried to corner him, only to be called away by a matron—not to save Rhys, but because lessons had started or the meal had begun. The more frustrated the boy became, the happier Rhys was. All according to plan.

Unfortunately, he hadn't learned much about the world in general. He'd tried asking the matron some simple questions, only to get knocked back with a generic "Don't you know already?" Not wanting to give away that he knew nothing, he'd simply walked away. The textbooks in the orphanage were dry and smacked of propaganda where they spoke of the world around him at all. Mostly, they covered the basic subjects like math and literacy without branching into anything as complex as history or geography. Peasants like him weren't meant to care about such things—or at least, that was the vibe he got.

Still, he hadn't learned nothing. The people on top of the mountain were mages, and they were incredibly powerful, but bound by a code of honor that included noninterference with mortals, or rather, non-mages. There were also martial artists and adventurers, who lived by their own rules and roamed the land freely. In other words, all his dreams of climbing to the apex could come true, but it was a long way off. And the orphanage wasn't the place to achieve those dreams. The matrons were quite firm about that. He was meant to find a trade and live quietly as someone's apprentice in three years, when he aged out of the orphanage.

Of course, the only part of that he heard was 'three years of free room and board.' He had no intention of playing by their rules, and absolutely no desire to live a quiet life this time around.

On the third day, he set out toward the trash pit only to hear footsteps behind him. He turned. Tam and Den followed him, pretending not to follow him, while Bast stared directly at him, grinning like a hyena. He turned back around and walked on, a small smile touching his lips. Good. 

Rhys kept his pace all the way to the trash pit. The second he climbed in, and the wall obscured the boys' view of him, he sprinted around a nearby nook in the wall and vanished out of their sight. The boys reached the edge of the pit and paused.

"Where'd he go?" Den asked.

"Where else? The trash. Get going," Tam replied. There was the sound of a blow, and a quiet oof from Den.

"I don't wanna go in the trash," Den complained.

"Oh, come on, Den. We've been in the trash a billion times before. What, are you afraid? Do you think he's actually a ghost? Gonna let him keep making fools of us? He didn't learn his lesson. We gotta make sure he learns. We agreed on this, Den. Now get moving."

There was a grunt. "You go first," Den insisted.

Tam sighed loudly. "Alright, fine. Bast, you go first."

Bast laughed aloud. "This is your fight. I'm just here cuz I'm bored. If you wanna catch Rhys, you catch Rhys. It's none of my business."

"Don't you like beating people up?" Tam whined, annoyed.

"I like fighting. I don't like beating on the weak. That's your thing," Bast replied flatly.

"Oh, come on." With one last complaint, the three-legged chair creaked, and Tam climbed down. There was a short pause, and then Den scrambled down after him. Bast hopped from the ledge, forsaking the chair entirely.

"So… where'd he go?" Den asked.

Rhys grinned. Just like he'd wanted. Hidden in his nook, he pulled a thread. The cans he'd found in the trash yesterday toppled, making a loud sound.

"Ha! You thought you could hide? Filthy little rat," Tam shouted. He ran toward the cans, with Den at his heel. Bast trailed slightly behind them, head high and hands in his pockets.

In the nook, Rhys tensed. He leaned into a sprinter's stance and activated the mana inside him. He could handle two drops of the potion now; not a huge improvement, but better than nothing. Watching the three boys, he counted slowly in his head.

Three. Two.

Tam yelped as the ground gave out beneath him. Den jumped back, and for a split second, Rhys thought he might have to deal with him, but then Tam latched onto Den. His weight was more than Den could handle, and so he pulled Den down into the pit Rhys had dug for them, rather than saving himself. Bast jumped back, suddenly on edge.

Now. Rhys shot forth, running as fast as his tiny amount of mana would allow. Bast started to turn, but too slow. Rhys latched onto his shoulder and drew that final prize from his robes, holding it to Bast's throat.

Three inches of blade glittered in the sun. The sword had snapped not far after the hilt, making it useless to any swordsman, but more than enough to threaten a kid like Bast. Bast struggled, and Rhys tightened his grip, pushing the cold blade into Bast's neck—not yet hard enough to cut, but close. "Hold still, or else."

Bast froze. He put his hands up. "Huh."

Down in the pit, Tam and Den screeched. Small, dark forms crawled over them. Rats, mice, ants, cockroaches, spiders, and all kinds of other horrific creatures roamed in the pit. Whenever he'd encountered one, Rhys had caught it and tossed it in his pitfall trap, then seeded the trap with bits of his breakfast and dinner bread so the pests would stay. The trap wasn't exactly crowded, but he'd at least made sure the two bullies wouldn't have a good time.

"Wondering why you aren't in the pit?" Rhys asked Bast.

"Little bit, yeah," Bast said, far calmer than Rhys had expected.

"I could have pushed you in, but I didn't, because I have a proposal for you. When Tam killed me three days ago, pushed me off that cliff and let me knock my head on the stone, you watched, is that correct?"

Bast nodded. He frowned. "What do you mean, you died?"

"So you're only accessory to murder," Rhys continued, ignoring Bast's protest. "Which means I have a lighter sentence for you. What do you say you leave those idiots behind, and take my side?"

Bast considered. For a child with a knife to his throat, he was startlingly calm. It was honestly starting to worry Rhys a little bit. Did Bast have the skills to back up his calm demeanor? Or was he naturally relaxed under pressure?

His skin brushed Bast's, and a shock of mana leaped between them, almost like a static shock. Rhys' eyes widened as he suddenly understood. Bast, too, had some small amount of mana. Not only that, he seemed to be better at controlling it than Rhys. He might truly feel no pressure from someone like Rhys threatening him.

"I like fighting," Bast said at last. "I don't really care about those two. I could get into lots of fights by following them around, but I don't enjoy bullying the weak the way Tam does. It's just kind of boring to me. I'd rather take on a more powerful opponent and challenge myself than hammer someone I already know can't win. If you can offer me the opportunity to fight, then sure, I'll swap sides."

"You're awfully calm for someone with a knife at his throat," Rhys commented.

"Well, it isn't the first time. And you're weak, and you don't have any killing aura. If it makes you more comfortable, you can go on pretending to threaten me, but I won't be scared," Bast replied.

Rhys snorted. Bast had basically confirmed everything he'd wondered. He lowered the sword and stepped back, keeping it between him and Bast. Bast turned and looked at him, without a single ounce of fear in his gaze. Slowly, Rhys put the sword away.

"I can't guarantee fights, but I can guarantee you I intend to climb to the very top of this damn world and stand at its apex." Rhys' eyes shone. Utter conviction sounded in his voice, and he rested his hands on his hips, gazing to the horizon.

Bast raised his brows. In Tam, he'd only seen a bully and a pig, a close-minded person grunting his way to his next meal. Rhys, though, Rhys had vision. Vision he'd never known the small boy to have before. He nodded. "That sounds more interesting than bullying kids. Take me with you."

Rhys offered his hand. "I hope this is the start of a wonderful partnership."

Bast took his hand, and they shook. "I hope I get to fight a lot."

"Bast! Help!" Tam shouted.

Rhys motioned for Bast to stay back and walked up to the edge of the pit. He crouched there, looking down. "Bast is on my side. How do you feel now, murderer?"

"What? Let me out of here! You little bitch. Let me out right now, or I'll beat you so hard you'll feel it next week!" Tam snarled.

Den clawed at the walls, his eyes big with panic, shivering with his whole body. At the sight of Rhys, though, his eyes narrowed. "Fucking rat! Let us out, shitstain!"

"No, I don't think so. I don't think you've learned your lesson at all. You know, pushing people into pits is very bad, don't you agree? In fact, it can even kill them. You've experienced the pit, but you haven't experienced near death. So why don't we make that second one happen? Bast, can you grab that piece of wood, there?"

Tam tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Sending you to hell," Rhys said evenly. He took the wood from Bast and laid it over the mouth of the pit, eclipsing the sun.

"No, no, no, Bast, don't you dare! Don't you dare! I'll—"

"Bye," Rhys said, and with one final wave, he shut Tam and Den in the pit.

Bast dusted off his hands. He nodded at Rhys. "Sorry about earlier, by the way. I told Tam not to push you, but you know Tam."

"If you really feel sorry, then follow my orders from now on," Rhys replied.

Bast nodded. After a beat, he cleared his throat. "Are you actually possessed by a ghost?"

Rhys paused. He looked back. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you aren't Rhys. I know Rhys. He's a scaredy-cat that quavers and wavers over every little thing. Rhys wouldn't have the guts to lock Tam and Den in a pit, or to threaten me with a sword. In fact, even avoiding us is more than I'd ever expect Rhys to be able to do. So who are you? And what happened to Rhys?"

Rhys stared at him. He said nothing, but internally, his mind raced. He'd been found out, this quickly? What was he supposed to do now, run? Did this world have exorcists and the like? No, for that matter, what did he even qualify as? A possession? A reincarnation? He himself didn't know, but he didn't want to find out. Especially not at the receiving end of someone vastly more powerful's spells.

Bast met his gaze. For a few moments, they stared at each other in silence, both of them wearing their best poker faces. Bast broke first. He laughed and waved his hand, shaking his heat at Rhys. "Your face! Ha. No, don't worry. I won't report you. Whatever you are, you're far more interesting than Rhys was. I'll follow you to the ends of the earth."

"I'm Rhys. I just matured a little," Rhys defended himself, a few beats too slow.

"Sure, sure." Bast grinned, not even a drop of belief on his face.

Rhys sighed. Ah, well. It seemed Bast didn't want to report him. Though even if the boy did, it would be one boy's word against another's. And who took twelve-year-old kids seriously? No, Bast was no threat to him.

"What have you been doing in the trash, anyways?" Bast asked.

"Preparing the trap."

"You've been doing more than just that," Bast muttered.

Rhys cut him a look. Or maybe not. Bast was a little too perceptive. "None of your business."

"Yeah, yeah."

They reached the town again. Rhys beelined for the orphanage without a second's hesitation. He needed an alibi, in case Tam decided to rat him out, and there was no better alibi than the matrons themselves seeing him quietly study for almost the entirety of free time. If things worked in his favor, they'd forget that he vanished at the very start of free time, or simply assume he'd been studying the whole time.

Abruptly, he paused. Bast almost bumped into him, dodging to the side at the last second. "What is it?"

Rhys pointed. A poster on the wall advertised a tournament for martial artists, adventurers, and mages of all stripes, winner-takes-all. His heart raced, and adrenaline instantly surged. The opportunity was too good to pass up!

Bast gave him a look. "I'm not that strong."

"No, that's not it. Listen…"

Chapter 3. Tournament Time

Tam and Den crawled back to the orphanage by nightfall, covered in filth and bites, and none the happier for their stint in the depths of the pit. They glared death at Rhys, and Rhys ignored them. Tam tried reporting what had happened to the matron, but she gave him as much time as she'd given Rhys, and simply clapped him on the ear for not listening to her when he wouldn't stop whining. Injured and filthy, Tam tried to get back at Rhys in the usual petty ways. Rhys came back to a filthy bed one night, full of food scraps, and all the kids in the orphanage laughing and pointing as if he'd soiled the bed. Instead of reacting, he'd simply nodded at Bast. Bast carried Tam into the filthy bed, while Rhys claimed Tam's clean sheets.

After that, no one laughed and pointed any more. The message was clear: the balance of power had shifted. No longer was Rhys everyone's butt monkey, and Tam the feared school bully. Now it was Rhys who was feared, while Tam was derided as little more than a paper tiger.

But children's politics were the least of Rhys' concern. Instead, all his energy was focused on the tournament, coming up at the end of the week. He scrubbed his clothes, and Bast's too, making sure they were as clean as possible, replaced all the miscolored patches with matching-color ones, and even shone their shoes. With the sword, he managed to give Bast's unruly mop a bit of shape, though he refused to let Bast try cutting his hair.

In between his efforts, he chatted with Bast about mana. Bast had a slightly better grasp on the stuff than him, though his grasp seemed to be entirely instinctual. Most of their conversations ended with Rhys mulling in frustrated silence, while Bast displayed the results of his instinctive mana gathering through punching the bark off trees or blasting a brick into dust with a kick. Still, their conversations weren't fruitless for Rhys. Slowly, he was starting to understand how to manage his mana, and circulate it without breaking a fever. He could handle three drops at once, now, and his face barely flushed when he used it to strengthen his body. He couldn't punch the bark off trees or obliterate bricks, but if Tam tried to get physical revenge on him now, he could simply laugh it off. Under the influence of mana and not having to sacrifice parts of his meal to the older boy, he began to build muscle on his malnourished body, as well.

And of course, he didn't stop visiting the trash heap, either. His twenty pennies grew into thirty-five. Bast followed him around everywhere, and thus figured out what Rhys was up to in the trash heap. Rather than trying to take his money or strongarm his way into controlling the operation, though, Bast simply fell in and helped him gather bottles.

"Why didn't you take control? You're stronger than me," Rhys pointed out one day.

Bast simply shrugged. "You're the brains of the operation. I never would have thought of this if you didn't do it first. I could steal this from you, but what would that get me? I'd end up in hell, like Tam. Instead, aren't I better off sticking at your side and continuing to benefit from your future plans?"

Rhys could find no fault in that logic, so he nodded and went back to gathering potions.

Between the two of them, only Rhys had the fine motor skills required to tease drops of potions from the bottom of vials, so it fell to him to continue filling his health and mana potions. He offered Bast a drop of the mana potion one day, half out of curiosity, to see what someone who instinctively gathered mana would think of its quality. Bast had licked his lips, then frowned.

"That's… hmm. Like an hour's worth of gathered mana? Are you really practicing on that little? You should try absorbing mana from the air instead."

An hour's worth of gathered mana was enough to fill his core? Three hours, now, but still! Rhys managed a fake smile, a little embarrassed. He really was reincarnated with trash stats, wasn't he? Though, to be fair, he didn't know the full effect of Less is More. Maybe it doubled the effect of the potion, though even with a doubled potion, that still meant two hours of mana gathering was more than enough for him to start out with. He shook his head at himself. No, he couldn't let Bast know. He wasn't bothered to learn his stats were as trashy as he'd thought, but he didn't want the other boy knowing. Bast might not be as appreciative of trash as Rhys was.

He did follow Bast's advice and attempt to gather mana from the air. Doing it like Bast, by simply walking and breathing, was outright impossible for him, but when he laid in bed at night and focused on nothing else, he could guide a tiny scrap of mana into his core. It wasn't much, not even comparable to one drop of the potion, but it was better than nothing. Any extra mana counted in his book.

His mana manipulation skill hadn't taken shape yet, nor had a mana gathering skill, but he leveled up Scavenging and Less is More to 10 each. Survivalist hit level 3, and Pain Resist hit 2, just from spending so long outdoors, scrambling over the trash heap. Hunger Resist didn't level at all, but he didn't mind that so much. Right now, he needed to focus on eating and growing. He could worry about leveling such a low-tier skill later.

At last, the day of the tournament arrived. He scrubbed his and Bast's clothes one last time, and forced the other boy to bathe in the river, even if he had to do it at swordpoint. Once cleaned, Bast's hair turned out to be a middling chestnut, while his skin turned out to be fairer than Rhys'—it was only the dirt that had darkened it. Only his dark, near-black eyes remained the same shade.

A bit curious, Rhys glanced in the river he'd forced Bast into, only to discover his eyes were a green-brown hazel. Taken together, they reminded him of the color of garbage, with dirt and plant matter mixed in alike. He snorted. Mousy-colored hair, green-brown hazel eyes. He really was perfectly colored to blend into the trash. Indeed, this body couldn't have been picked better for a god of trash.

With both of them squeaky clean, their clothes as nice as they'd ever looked and their hair neatly brushed, he led the way to the arena.

The other children had started chattering about it as well, and a few of them crowded around the outside, climbing trees and perched on balconies to peer over the walls. He led the way past them, moving with the assured confidence of someone who belonged. A few of the kids cast him funny looks, but with Bast at his heel, no one dared say a thing.

The arena was small, compared to the arenas Rhys was used to in his homeworld, but compared to this village, absolutely enormous. It was a large, empty field surrounded by a tall wall, with stables on either end and a small hut in the center. Stadium benches lined the outside. Most of them were rough and wooden, and occupied by travelers or townsfolk, here to see the spectacle. However, at one end of the arena, a stone platform stood, tall and noble. It hadn't appeared until a few days ago, when a team of four men had carried it in and installed it in their arena. This stone platform held fine seats, with three chairs in its center almost ornate enough to be considered thrones. This seating was empty for now, but based on the men who'd carried it in, with their supernatural strength and fine robes, it was reserved for mages. True mages, the kind who lived on the mountain and refused to interfere with mortal lives.

Rhys eyed it now. For people who didn't interfere with mortals, they sure were interested in the tournament. Then again, even mages had to recruit, surely, and where better to recruit than a battle tournament? He turned away, uninterested. As much as he wanted to become a mage eventually, his stats were still too trash to catch a mage's eye. His purpose here was entirely different.

"This way," he muttered to Bast, and led the way around to the back of the arena. The contestants gathered here, a ragtag group. From leather-bound, sweaty martial artists, to adventurers dressed in armor forged from the rare monsters they'd killed, to mages, in their ornate and soft robes, all types of powerful sorts grouped at the arena's rear entrance, waiting to be organized in the tournament. Rhys and Bast breezed past all of them, entering the tournament's stables directly. One of the organizers glanced at them, but when Rhys showed no hesitation and didn't even glance the woman's direction, she simply turned her eyes away.

"Wow, you were right. All we had to do is pretend like we belonged," Bast murmured.

"We do belong," Rhys replied, absolutely sure of himself.

Bast chuckled. "That's right."

"Remember the plan. Even if we only get one before we're thrown out, it's still worth it."

"Understood." Bast glanced around, then picked a clean spot to sit and wait.

Rhys stood at the edge of the stables, watching the combatants gather. Even from here, he could feel the pulse of their mana beat against his skin. Different combatants had different types of mana, from the raging, brutal power of the martial artists to the gentle, yet powerful flow of the mages. Bast's mana most reminded him of the martial artists, strong and straightforward, while his was more akin to a mage's or adventurers' mana, without the aggressive edge, but with a softness that allowed for subtlety and strategy alike.

His eyes sparkled. This was what his future looked like. These powerful beings, strong enough to slaughter this village without breaking a sweat—that was what he longed for. Magic. Strength. Power.

"Admiring the crowd?"

Rhys startled and spun. Behind him, Bast jumped to his feet. Both of them stared at the man who seemed to have materialized in the stables.

There was nothing remarkable about the man. His messy, straw-colored hair was covered by an equally messy straw hat. He wore a tattered outfit, and rather than a sword, a birch stick hung through his belt. Bright blue eyes, as clear as the midday sky, smiled at them. Both his body and clothes were covered in dirt, making both Bast and Rhys look like refined noble children in comparison. Looking at him, Rhys couldn't help but feel that rather than a human, he looked more like a scarecrow.

Rhys nodded. Instantly on guard, he eyed the man warily, but put on a smile as if he had no cares in the world. "We've never seen such powerful people before."

The man chuckled. "Powerful, huh? And yet they'd be considered weaklings, even by the standards of that tiny school up the mountain."

"School?" Rhys asked, legitimately curious.

"Mages organize themselves into schools, much as fish do. There's no deeper meaning to it, although a young mage could receive a decent education at a school, as he or she could at any gathering of mages. Ah, some prefer the term sect or clan, or even house or tower. It simply depends how they're organized."

Bast frowned. His brows furrowed. "Mages are like fish?"

Rhys, on the other hand, nodded. He understood what the man was saying. "Then, are you here to take part in the tournament?"

The scarecrow-like man let out a cawing laugh, as if he had swallowed the very crows he was meant to scare. "No, no. It wouldn't do to let one such as me take part in such a tournament. Could you image? Filthy old me, fighting against these bright young upstarts?"

"You look young. And not only that, you called them weak moments ago," Rhys pointed out.

The man chuckled. "Aren't you a sharp one. I might look young, but look closer. This old man has wrinkles on his face." He pointed to the corners of his eyes, which crinkled with crow's feet, just as he'd said. Nonetheless, there wasn't a single line on the rest of his face.

Unconvinced, Rhys nodded slowly. There was more to this man than he was letting on, but as long as he wasn't here to kick them out, he didn't mind sharing the stable with a mysterious stranger. He stepped forward and offered his hand. "I'm Rhys, and this is Bast."

"It's rude to offer to shake with a weapon concealed in your shirt," the man countered, pointing directly at where Rhys had stashed his sword.

Rhys drew the sword and showed its broken blade to the man before stowing it once more. "I'm no threat to you, sir."

The man chuckled. "What a polite young man. Indeed, indeed. And Bast, was it?"

"Short for Bastard," Bast replied, lowering his head just an inch. Unlike Rhys, a glow of challenge glimmered in his eyes, daring the man to take offense.

For his part, Rhys stared. He'd always thought Bast was a strange name, but he'd never been interested enough to ask. Short for Bastard? Even if Bast's parents didn't want him, what kind of monster would name their own child a slur?

Laughing again, the old man nodded. "I like you. There's some fire in your eyes. Good. Keep it that way." He looked the boys over and offered one last nod. "I'm known as The Strawman, or sometimes the Birch Boy, or when they're feeling less generous, the Birch Bitch. I wouldn't mind if you called me Straw or Birch, but forgive me if I'm a little too weak willed to own my derogative the way your friend does his."

A glow of approval appeared in Bast's eyes. "Birch it is."

"Mr. Straw, are you here to watch the tournament?" Rhys asked. Quietly, he probed the man's aura. Unlike the contestants, it didn't roil off of him, but was instead so weak he could barely feel it. Still, when he pressed his mana to its absolute limits, he could sense the man's aura anyways. It had a strange feeling to it, unlike any of the contestants' auras, as slippery and hard to grasp as an eel. From the look on Straw's face, he was very aware that Rhys was probing him, but the man made no protest whatsoever, nor did he retract his aura.

"Mr. Straw? How polite indeed! Yes, yes. I'm here to watch. And much like you boys, I also prefer not to pay entry." Straw's eyes glimmered, and a small grin appeared on his face as his eyes flicked from one boy to the other.

Rhys held his head up high, showing not the least bit of shame. "We're the tournament's official cleanup boys."

"Oh? The tournament has cleanup boys? I didn't know," Straw said playfully.

"Neither does the tournament, yet," Bast replied.

Straw chuckled. "Well, I've never been the kind of guest to be invited either, so why don't we share this stable together until the tournament starts?"

"I was just thinking the same," Rhys replied.

The three of them sat quietly for a time, waiting for the tournament to begin. Rhys glanced at Straw. He had no idea what the man's intentions were, but they didn't seem negative. In fact, he'd approved of the boy's plan, if only tacitly. Still, he hadn't given his name, just appellations, and his strange scarecrow-like appearance and odd mana signature spiked Rhys' suspicions. This man was powerful, maybe even dangerous, but he seemed positive toward them at the moment.

He shrugged to himself. That would have to be enough.

Contestants and viewers alike filed in. The contestants took a series of benches in front of the first row of seats, while the watchers, mostly mortal, filled the stadium seating. The stone seats remained empty, except for one slightly ragged-looking mage, who sat at the very edge. Of course, compared to Rhys, Bast, or Straw, that man seemed the epitome of fine dressing. It was only when Rhys compared him to the mages he'd glimpsed up on the mountain, or even in the contest that he looked shabby. Still, the aura that rolled off of him was far stronger than anyone Rhys had met yet… maybe with the exception of Straw. He eyed the man beside him yet again. The aura he could sense was only at the level of the contestants, but the way the man dismissed them and the mage school up the mountain alike suggested he wasn't revealing his whole strength.

Straw caught his gaze and waved. "Hello."

Rhys quickly looked away. He didn't need to annoy someone who might be very powerful. Better to leave him alone, as he preferred.

An announcer strode forward and cleared his throat, and his voice boomed forth, as if he spoke through a loudspeaker. He wore the clothes of an adventurer, although the brightly-colored leather of his armor was slightly faded, and the bear claw on his hip was colored with dust. Lifting his arms, he turned slowly, addressing the whole crowd. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the tenth Varian Regional Mixed Tournament! No holds barred, no attacks outlawed. Magic, sword energy, See the might of the sword up against the mystery of a mage and the tricks and traps of an adventurer! Remember, the winners of this tournament can move on to the country-wide tournament. We thank our generous hosts, the Snowdrop Mage School. Thank you!" He gestured up at the almost empty stone seating.

A smattering of thin applause sounded. For his part, the only mage who occupied the seating had the good graces to look embarrassed.

The announcer lowered his arms, turning back to the crowd. "So, without further ado, your first match!"

Two figures stepped forward. A muscular woman in simple robes cut for easy movement and lightweight leather armor stood on the far side, one hand on her sword, her eyes gazing straight at her opponent, while on their side, a slender man in purple robes stroked a thin beard and smirked back.

"In the left corner, the swordsmistress rumored to be next in line to inherit the Abyssal Depths Sword School, Analiis Rovaire!"

Some applause, mostly from the other martial artists in the crowd.

"To the right, the potion master of the Purple Mysteries Sect, Primm Horage!"

A few scattered claps, even less than there'd been for the empty stone seating.

Rhys looked at Straw. "Are potion masters not respected?"

Straw chuckled. "No, no. To the contrary, potion masters are some of the most respected mages."

"Then… is this Primm fellow disliked?" Rhys guessed.

"He certainly isn't well liked."

Rhys glanced at him. "Why would that be?"

Bast inched forward as well, curious.

"One can do a great many things with potions. Heal wounds and replenish mana, yes, but paralyze, poison, and injure as well. Primm has… shall we say, a reputation for toying with his opponents? He prefers to steal opponents' free will, then torture them to death at his leisure. Crippling someone or savaging their mana passages with a potion is all fair game to him. And you can only imagine the kind of damage a man with that kind of mindset could do, selling his potions to those who would do harm." Straw spread his hands. "But then, what would a nobody like me know about that?"

"A nobody," Rhys scoffed. He eyed Primm in a new light. No wonder no one had wanted to applaud for him. Even if there was someone in the crowd who approved of his actions, who would announce their approval for a sadist in broad daylight?

At the same time, excitement stirred in his chest. He glanced at Bast, who nodded back. A potion master. This was the kind of guy they needed!

The announcer blew a horn, and the battle commenced. Rhys watched, enraptured. The two combatants traded blows at a blistering pace. Even though Primm was a potion master, he could still match the swordsmaster's attacks blow for blow. Or he could… at first. The swordsmaster laughed, and her blade moved faster than before. Blood flew, and Primm staggered back, a gash rending his body from shoulder to hip.

"Damn," Rhys muttered.

Almost before the wound could bleed, Primm tossed back a blue potion. The wound began to heal, and he tossed the vial away carelessly.

"Bast!" Rhys snapped. He was too far away. He'd never make it in time.

Without hesitation, Bast darted out. He flashed up to the stage and lunged, snatching the vial in both hands. Prize secured, he retreated to the edge of the stage.

Rhys nodded to Straw. "We'll be back." He jogged up to the edge of the stage and crouched beside Bast, elbowing the other boy until he took the same stance.

It was a very specific crouch, one leg up, the other back, both hands curled in fists on the ground. He'd borrowed it from tennis tournaments' ball boys, though Bast wouldn't know that. It was, however, a very official-looking crouch, and one that was less likely to get them questioned by the authorities.

The announcer frowned at them, but said nothing. Rhys gazed ahead with clear eyes full of conviction.

Beside him, Bast leaned in. "There's some good dregs in this."

"Good," Rhys replied. And it was made by a potion master. Doubtlessly it'd be more effective than an ordinary health potion.

In quick succession, Primm downed another three bottles. Both Rhys and Bast darted forth, snatching the vials before they hit the ground. Primm glanced at them, frowning slightly, but said nothing.

Primm's body swelled. Muscle covered his frame, and he hunched forward as his robes tore from his might. Mana roiled around him, suddenly empowered. Letting out a fearsome roar, he charged the swordsmaster. She darted back, shocked, and defended desperately against his blows.

Rhys nudged Bast. "Keep those three separate." They didn't know which one of the three caused such overwhelming muscle growth and the burst of mana. Maybe they even needed all three together. Either way, he'd be investigating these later.

Bast nodded.

The battle raged on. Primm pressured the swordsmaster until her eyes abruptly began to glow red. Her sword glowed red in concert with her eyes, and she stepped forth, forcing Primm back. He screamed, taking her blows with his overgrown body and struggling to land a hit, but there was no blasting through her bladework with brute force alone. She forced him back, then raised her sword, poised to land a killing blow.

Primm's body shriveled back to its usual size. He raised his hands. "I surrender!"

The red light dimmed in the swordswoman's eyes. Her sword returned to its usual luster. She stepped back and sheathed her sword.

The announcer lifted his arm. "And there we have it! Analiis takes the victory. Primm has been disqualified!"

Primm stepped back. Instead of looking concerned, though, there was an easy smile on his face. He turned to the crowd and bowed. Again, almost no one clapped, but a few of the crowd's nobles pinched their chins, thoughtful looks on their faces. Rhys could all but read their thoughts. If a weak potion master could be boosted to stand on even footing with a swordsmaster like Analiis just by drinking a few potions, what could that same boost do for them? Or perhaps, their loyal knights? Primm hadn't participated in the tournament to win; he'd participated to advertise his wares.

On the far side of the arena, Analiis' nose wrinkled in distaste as she realized the same. She harrumphed and turned away, marching back to her seat.

"She entered the tournament. She can't be mad that she was pressured by a filthy potion master. It's not her fault that this is all the Abyssal Depths Sword can amount to, but she shouldn't be angered either that the path she chose to walk is so shallow. It's ours to accept the end of the path we choose. To rage impotently against it is to choose the route of deviation and death."

Rhys whirled, clapping his ear. Straw had all but whispered in it. "Could you warn a man before you sneak up behind us?"

"But where's the fun in that?" Straw returned with an easy grin. He sat back, watching the tournament and the boys alike. "I like this plan of yours. Do you need my help?"

Rhys eyed him. "I can't spare a cut for you." As strong as Straw was, he could demand to take all the spoils. Allowing him any reward would mean giving it all up, if he meant to recompense Straw based on his relative strength to Bast and he.

Straw chuckled. "I have no interest in such things. I only offer to help out of boredom."

Rhys considered for a moment, then shrugged to himself. At the end of the day, if Straw wanted his potions, he could easily take them. And as the man himself had said, why should he want them at all? They were incredibly valuable to Rhys, but to even the competitors in the arena, they were trash they had discarded, not valuable items. If Straw was more powerful than them…

He shrugged to himself. "Sure, why not? Bast and I have this end covered. You can go catch items on the other side of the field."

"Empty potion bottles?" Straw asked.

"Potion bottles, pill wrappers, anything they discard is valuable to me."

Straw touched the brim of his hat. "Consider it done." With that, he vanished.

Bast shivered. "That guy gives me the creeps."

"He's got to be crazy powerful, right?" Rhys asked.

Bast nodded. "That's the impression I get. Stronger than the contestants, for certain."

"What's he doing here?" Rhys asked, half to himself.

"Passing the time?" Bast suggested.

Rhys snorted. "Who knows. I don't even understand normal mages, let alone mysterious experts like him."

He peered over to the other side of the arena. He saw no sign of Straw, not his figure nor his shadow. Rhys shrugged to himself. He and Bast had their hands full catching potions on this side. He'd originally planned just to grab the potions from one side, then collect the rest after each match, and of course, if the matches were too dangerous, he'd simply wait for the end. If Straw did nothing, then he'd revert to his original plan.

He could have gone to the other side, and left Bast alone on this side, but he figured the two of them together looked more official and imposing than two of them apart. They weren't actually part of the tournament, after all. Better to risk losing a few potions than to risk getting kicked out entirely. The more official they looked, the longer they'd be able to stay in the tournament.

The next contestants took the stage. These two were both adventurers. One wielded a weapon that looked more like a grappling hook than a blade, and the other carried a dagger formed from the enormous tooth of some monster. More evenly matched than the swordsmaster and the potions master, they sparred for some time, both of them sucking down mana and health potions. Rhys and Bast caught the ones on their side, while the ones on Straw's side mysteriously vanished, with only the flicker of a pale form appearing from time to time. The grappling-hook equipped man moved on, and the next pair took the stage. This adventurer barely faced their mage opponent for a single moment before the mage drew a sword and, with some mysterious attack too quick for Rhys' eyes to follow, took the adventurer to his knees, sword pressed against his jugular. The adventurer surrendered without using a single potion.

Rhys sighed. "How unfortunate."

"Drawn-out fights are far better," Bast agreed.

"We get more potions," Rhys said.

"And they're fun to watch."

Rhys nodded at the field. "I didn't expect mages to be swordsmen as well."

Bast stared at him, confused. "How are they meant to best martial artists and adventurers if they don't know how to handle a weapon? Of course they use the sword. Mages pursue perfection. To lack in martial skill would be to expose a glaring weakness to everyone they fought."

Rhys opened his mouth, then shut it. Now that Bast had pointed it out, it was glaringly obvious. If mages really were squishy, unable to defend themselves against melee attacks, then how would they survive in a world where people could equally empower their bodies and weapon attacks as put mana into fireballs? "But then, what's the difference between mages and martial artists?"

"Mages pursue magic primarily and martial skill secondarily. Martial artists invert that. They pursue strong bodies and powerful weapon skills, while putting ranged magics secondary. Of course, a sufficiently skilled mage can defeat a martial artist with the sword, and a sufficiently skilled martial artist could defeat a mage with magic, although… I don't think any martial artist would be happy with that kind of exchange," Bast explained.

"And adventurers?" Rhys asked. "All-rounders?"

"Basically. Though they often pursue monsters for the inherent advantages monster materials have over basic, or even enchanted materials. Really, what sets adventurers apart is that they walk alone. A mage belongs to a school, a martial artist to a sword school. Adventurers belong to no one and nowhere. There are guilds, but the guilds are more… er, friendly gatherings rather than hierarchical organizations. Guilds cannot control their members and have little political might, and little ability to recall members to defend the guild, for example… they're more tavern halls than schools. And many adventurers don't belong to guilds at all."

Rhys nodded. "Makes sense." Those who favored physical attacks, those who favored magic, and those who favored freedom, at the cost of the strong support a mage or sword school might offer. He glanced at Bast. "How do you know all this?"

After all, Bast hadn't questioned his asking questions, which suggested it was something reasonable for someone of this world to ask about.

Bast shrugged. "My father was a high-ranking member of a sword school. Unfortunately, my mother was his favorite whore, and I, therefore… well, you know my name. I grew up hearing about their world, until she beat me too hard and I ran away for good."

"I'm sorry," Rhys said earnestly.

"Don't be. I'm sure not," Bast replied with a laugh. There was only a hint of bitterness to it, buried so deep as to be almost entirely hidden.

Rhys glanced at him, but said nothing. Even if he pretended like it didn't matter, getting rejected by his parents still had to hurt. Bast was surprisingly mature for a twelve-or-so year-old kid, which spoke to what he must have had to have gone through. He wasn't going to ask. Now wasn't the time, and they didn't yet know each other well enough for him to pry so deeply. But he made a mental note to be careful around any parenthood topics.

Another battle began. Rhys and Bast turned back to the field, leaning forward in their crouches, ready to burst forth. What everyone else threw away, Rhys would pick up. Whether it was items… or even people, he was determined to find the value in what everyone else called trash. That Bast's mother had tossed him aside only made Rhys more determined to polish the kid into a valuable ally.

That's it. I've decided. I'll become a mage—no, the most powerful mage. But I'll make sure Bast becomes the most powerful martial artist.