Chapter Five:

  “Firelight and Blades”

  The camp looked like it had grown straight out of the mountainside.

  Wooden structures clung to the rock, shaped by wind and discipline. Lanterns burned in quiet rows. Cherry blossom petals drifted like ash, catching firelight and vanishing into the dark.

  John stepped past the outer banners, RW padding at his side. Her pale blue flames danced low with each step, leaving faint curls of light in their wake. He caught glances—sharp ones—from guards standing at makeshift posts. Some narrowed their eyes at RW. Others looked past her entirely, sizing up John like he was a misplaced piece of armor.

  He didn’t speak. Just walked.

  The camp’s interior buzzed with motion. Players sparred in rings marked by rope and stone, a cooking station hissing somewhere near the back, voices raised in a mix of tension and laughter. Training blades clashed in time with barked orders. Each sound landed with weight—no wasted motion, no noise without reason.

  "You feel it?" RW murmured, her voice low enough only he could hear. "This isn’t just survival. It’s sharpening."

  A Player stepped into his path. Tall, muscular, with a battered breastplate that had clearly seen real impact.

  "Haven't seen you before," the man said. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his blade. "You part of the Tokyo insertion?"

  John shook his head. "No. I came in a... different way."

  The man glanced at RW, who stared back with a look far too intelligent for a fox. "You come in with that?"

  "She’s with me," John said evenly.

  The man grunted. "Rai will want a word. Follow me—and keep that thing close. People around here might start to get nervous."

  John followed him through the camp’s winding paths. More Players turned to watch. A Kitsune with twin tails flicked her ears in interest. A Nekomijin—cat warrior—perched on a rooftop above, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. Somewhere in the distance, someone was singing.

  They reached a central tent—larger, sturdier, lit from within by lantern light and something gentler.

  "In here," the man said, pushing the flap aside.

  John cautiously ducked inside.

  The room held quiet tension. Around a map-covered table stood several figures—one woman, silver-haired and poised in command, another sharp-eyed and lean in a dark hakama and a weathered do-maru chestplate, a third with fox tails and bright red hair, and a few others whose expressions were unreadable.

  And one man in the back corner, silent, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but observant.

  John stepped forward into the lantern light. RW settled at his side.

  No one smiled. But no one stopped him either.

  "So," Rai said, tapping her fan closed, eyes narrowing slightly. "You’re the one they found outside our gates. Let’s hear what tale you’ve brought with you."

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  The tent was quiet enough to hear the wind brushing against the canvas.

  John stood just inside the lantern light, eyes adjusting to the half-circle of people watching him. The silver-haired woman—clearly the one in charge—didn’t blink. Her fan tapped once against her palm, deliberate and soft.

  "My name is Rai, you say you came here a different way," she said. "That’s not something we want to hear. Especially not from someone who walks in without a weapon and with... that." Her gaze flicked to RW.

  RW sat calmly at John's feet, flames dimmed, tail curled neatly around her paws.

  John said nothing. There was too much to explain and too little trust in the room to explain it.

  A man stepped forward—tall, lean, dressed in a weathered chestplate and dark hakama. His voice was rough but clear. "We only had one insertion. Tokyo. Anyone else in Eldoria is either native... or something else."

  "I’m not from here," John said. "Not exactly a Player either. It’s... a long story."

  The fox-tailed woman leaned forward, curious but cautious. "You show up with no class, no stats, and you’re not panicking. That’s what’s odd."

  "I don’t panic well," John said.

  A few of them smirked.

  The silver-haired leader tapped her fan once more. "You want to be part of this camp? You’ll need to earn your place."

  John met her eyes. "How?"

  She turned toward the tent flap. Outside, the sounds of training continued—steel against steel, barked orders echoing against the cliff face.

  "The circle," she said. "Every Player has to step in. Not to prove strength. To prove control."

  "He doesn’t know the system," the fox-tailed woman added.

  "Then let’s see how fast he can learn," said a quiet voice from the back.

  John turned slightly. It was the man in the corner, the one who hadn’t moved or spoken until now.

  "Akira, you can't be...?"

  Rai nodded once. "You’ll get a weapon from the rack. Nothing enchanted. Just steel and instinct. If you last, you’ll get a seat at the table. If not—"

  "Then I’ll know where I stand," John finished.

  RW gave a soft yip, but didn’t argue.

  The leader turned to one of the others. "Clear the ring."

  They moved as a group. The tent emptied around him.

  John stood alone for a moment, then followed them out into the firelight.

  Outside the tent, firelight crackled, and steel met steel in sharp, rhythmic bursts. A training circle marked with weathered rope and stone—each darkened by countless duels—held the camp’s center.

  John stood at the ring’s edge, under the gaze of the gathered Players. Warriors. Mages. Half-formed legends. All watching with folded arms and narrowed eyes, waiting to see if the stranger would crack—or rise.

  "Standard rule," said the man who’d led him in—his voice raised, for the crowd. "Sparring only. Stamina drain active. No lethal strikes. Drop your bar, and you're out."

  RW padded to the edge of the circle, curling her tail neatly around her paws. “Try not to embarrass me,” she said lightly.

  John pushed past the tight ache in his chest and moved to the weapons rack. Swords, spears, and staves hung in neat order. He chose a short blade—light, balanced, long enough to guard.

  His opponent entered—compact frame, quick steps. No words. Just a nod, and a stance that said he’d done this a few times before.

  A voice called from among the gathered Players: "Begin!"

  John moved on instinct. His opponent closed fast—blade flashing toward his ribs. John parried. The clang rang in his ears. Energy dipped.

  Another strike. Block. Each movement drained him a little more.

  His stamina bar ticked down, each movement shaving energy. He felt the system nudging him—faint cues at the edge of vision. A shimmer here. A shift there. Follow. Watch. Adjust.

  RW’s voice threaded through the noise. “You’re doing fine. A bit stiff, maybe. Try not to die.”

  The opponent spun into a sweeping slash. John jumped back—legs faltered—then dropped low and rolled through the next strike. The dodge hit harder than expected.

  The crowd murmured—interest rising, judgment pending.

  His blade spun out in a mirrored arc, catching his opponent off guard. The hit landed clean.

  The technique burned through his reserves.

  The other fighter staggered. His own SP bar blinked red, then dropped to zero.

  He fell to one knee and raised a hand.

  The circle erupted in noise—some approval, some surprise. A few Players even clapped.

  John lowered the blade, panting. His muscles trembled, but he held his footing.

  Rai drifted into the circle’s edge.

  "You adapt fast," she said. “We’ll see if that holds when things get real.”

  John nodded once.

  From the back of the crowd, a quiet voice added, "Not bad."

  John turned. It was the man from the corner of the tent.

  "Akira."

  He said nothing more. He turned. He walked away.

  The circle cleared. John stepped out, the blade still in hand.

  RW walked beside him, her tone dry. “Well. You didn’t die. That’s encouraging.”