Watching Rose fade out of sight made Alice more than a little apprehensive. She had been looking for her to tell her that she'd just received her own Tutorial quest, only to be pipped to the post.

Shrugging her shoulders, she yelled to Ed. "I got my tutorial, I am going to accept it. Rose just accepted hers and disappeared in front of me."

Silence. He must have accepted his Tutorial without saying anything either. Rolling her eyes she hit accept.

The moment Alice hit "Accept," her vision blurred, her body weightless as the world faded. When the haze cleared, she found herself standing in a dim, rough-hewn stone room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and dirt, mingled with something metallic she couldn't quite place. Blinking as her eyes adjusted, she took in her surroundings: rows of old wooden benches lined the walls, and there were scattered bits of armor and weaponry tossed about in careless piles. Iron sconces burned with dim, flickering light, casting a harsh glow across the room.

Where am I? she thought, her stomach churning with both excitement and nerves. Her heart was pounding, each beat loud in the dead silence. She took a few steadying breaths, running her hands along her forearms to keep herself grounded.

New Quest: Trial of Iron and Ash

Description: Ascend the ladder of warriors, testing your strength, endurance, and resolve in the Trial of Iron and Ash. Each victory carves your name deeper in legend, with rewards—and rivals—that grow fiercer with every step. This quest has been increased in difficulty on request.

Goal: Survive the Trial of Iron and Ash, and fight your way to the top of the ranks.

Rewards:

Gold

Experience

Additional Increased rewards based on ladder placement

For a moment, somewhat short-circuited by all the weirdness, her brain tried to tell her that she was about to take part in a competition to climb ladders. Then, the reality of it set in, a twinge of adrenaline sparking in her veins. A pit fight? This isn't going to be easy. She clenched her fists, a mix of anticipation and apprehension settling in her chest.

The sound of a heavy door creaking open pulled her from her thoughts. A man stepped in, grizzled and dirt-streaked, his face hidden under a layer of grime that made his expression unreadable. His clothes were rough, patched leather, and he carried the worn look of someone who'd spent too many years on the wrong side of battle. He looked her up and down with a slight sneer.

"So," he drawled, his voice rough, "you're the new blood? You ready for your first fight, or are you here to decorate the floor?"

Alice bristled but squared her shoulders, pushing down the butterflies that threatened to consume her. "I'm ready," she said firmly, locking eyes with him.

"Good," he grunted, giving a curt nod. "Follow me, then. Keep up, and maybe I won't be hauling you back in here on a stretcher."

She followed him through a narrow hallway, the walls lined with faded, scratched runes and the occasional rusted weapon nailed into the stone. The hall echoed with the distant roar of a crowd, muffled but unmistakably close. Her skin prickled as they approached a thick, iron-bound door.

The man stopped, turning to face her one last time. "When you're in there, you keep moving, you hear? Don't stop unless you want to be an easy target. And remember… no one's pulling punches."

She took a deep breath, giving a single nod as the butterflies in her stomach twisted tighter. He pulled open the door, and the roar of the crowd hit her like a wave, the sound crashing around her as she stepped into the blinding light of the arena.

As Alice stepped into the heart of the arena, her boots sank slightly into the soft sand, the coarse grains shifting beneath her feet. The cheers of the crowd swelled to a deafening roar, laughter and jeers echoing off the stone walls. She could feel the eyes of hundreds boring into her, sizing her up, waiting to see if she'd if she was a champion in the making, or yet another corpse waiting to die.

From the far side of the arena, a massive iron gate creaked open. Through it strode a giant of a man, his heavy footsteps thundering across the ground. He held a mace nearly as large as he was, its head spiked and chipped from countless battles. The crowd chanted a word, a rhythm like a drumbeat. Huh. Are they chanting 'brighter'? Alice felt a knot tighten in her stomach, but she took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders and focusing.

The announcer's voice boomed across the coliseum. "In the Trial of Iron and Ash, we have our challenger—Alice of Midgard! And opposing her, local favorite Britor the Mighty!"

Alice tightened the straps on the gloves and boots given to her by Sinclair, feeling the material press snugly against her skin. She could feel the faint hum of energy within them, the mana channels within ready to magnify her speed and strength. I'll need every bit of help, she thought, bouncing slightly on her toes, testing her balance in the sand. The familiar jitter of pre-fight adrenaline coursed through her veins, reminding her of her dojo days.

The announcer's voice cut through her thoughts. "Let the Trial begin!"

Britor wasted no time, charging forward with remarkable speed for someone of his size, the ground trembling beneath his feet. Alice dodged just in time, feeling the rush of air as his mace swung past her head and slammed into the sand, kicking up a spray of grit. She circled to his side, eyes narrowing as she assessed his movements.

Stay fast, don't let him close in.

Britor grinned, swinging the mace in wide, arcing sweeps, each swing intended to crush rather than just injure. She ducked and sidestepped, her movements fluid, but the close calls kept her heart pounding. The crowd gasped and cheered, but she blocked out the noise, focusing entirely on her opponent.

Taking a chance, she darted in, aiming a quick punch to his ribs. Her glove connected, and Britor let out a grunt, momentarily thrown off balance. He recovered fast, whipping around to bring the mace down in a devastating arc. She threw herself to the side, the heavy weapon slamming into the ground where she'd stood just a second before.

I'll need to keep chipping away, she thought, feeling her own breath come faster as the sand resisted each step. She launched a low kick to his knee, hoping to unsteady him. Britor staggered slightly but managed to stay on his feet, gritting his teeth as he swung his weapon in retaliation. The crowd erupted as Alice narrowly ducked under the blow, feeling the breeze from the mace as it passed overhead.

Sweat began to trickle down her face, and she could feel her muscles starting to burn. She had to finish this quickly. With a swift pivot, she aimed a high kick at Britor's jaw, her boot connecting with a solid crack. Britor stumbled, blinking as though seeing stars, and she took the chance to follow up with a sharp jab to his side. Her fists flew, each strike landing with a satisfying impact, and she could see Britor's energy beginning to falter.

Just as she was closing in, Britor let out a roar, swinging the mace in a desperate, sweeping blow. Alice barely had time to leap back, her foot slipping slightly in the sand. She caught herself just in time, her heart hammering as she took a deep breath and steadied her stance.

Britor's breathing was labored now, his movements slowing as he struggled to lift his mace. Now, she thought, feeling a surge of determination. She darted forward, ducking under his weapon, and delivered a series of rapid punches to his ribs, each one landing with precision. Then, with a final twist, she spun, putting all her weight behind a powerful roundhouse kick aimed at his jaw again.

So much for chipping away.

Her boot connected, and Britor's head snapped back. His grip on the mace faltered, and with a heavy thud, he dropped to his knees, dazed. She seized the opportunity, delivering a last strike to his temple, watching as he slumped forward, the fight drained from him.

The crowd roared, the announcer's voice echoing through the arena. "Victory to the challenger—Alice of Midgard!"

Breathing hard, she stood over Britor, her chest heaving, sweat trickling down her back. The sound of cheers filled her ears, but all she could feel was relief and a strange sense of exhilaration as she looked down at her fallen opponent, the first rung on the ladder behind her.

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Alice stumbled back into the dim locker room, her chest heaving as she closed the door behind her. The crowd's roar faded, leaving her in the quiet hum of the stone-walled room. She took a moment to steady herself, her pulse still racing, the thrill of the fight lingering in her veins.

Sliding down onto one of the benches, she removed her gloves, flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders. Not bad, she thought, replaying the fight with Britor in her mind. The victory had come close, but she felt strong, focused—a thrill coursing through her as she considered the challenges still ahead.

Her brief respite was interrupted as the locker room door swung open. The grizzled man from before entered, eyeing her with that same unimpressed look. He gave a short nod, clearly satisfied by her condition. "Break's over, Midgard," he said, jerking a thumb back toward the hall. "They're calling you in again. Got another one waiting."

She stood up, fastening her gloves again without hesitation. "So soon?" she asked, though her tone was more curious than complaining. She felt ready, her blood humming with anticipation. If this was the pace of the challenge, she'd meet it head-on.

He raised a brow at her calm demeanor, a hint of something like approval crossing his face. "They call him 'The Iron Butcher'. This one's no walk in the park," he warned, his voice low and rough.

Alice's eyes narrowed slightly, her resolve hardening as she nodded. She slipped her boots back on, squared her shoulders, and followed him down the narrow hall, each step deliberate, her mind already focused on the next fight. The crowd's noise grew louder as they approached the iron-bound door, the weight of the arena waiting for her once more.

Just outside, the man stopped, casting her one last look. "You held your own last time," he muttered, his voice rough but almost respectful. "But remember—this isn't a friendly duel."

Alice smirked, a flicker of confidence in her eyes. "I'm counting on it."

With a final deep breath, she stepped forward, bracing herself as the door swung open and the crowd's roar hit her like a wave. She strode out to meet her next opponent, her eyes set and her mind clear, ready to face whatever the arena threw her way.

Alice stepped into the ring, eyes narrowing as her opponent emerged from the opposite gate. The Iron Butcher was a hulking figure, though not quite as massive as Britor. His balance of speed and strength was evident in the way he moved, steady and sure, his eyes cold as he studied her. In one hand, he held a massive meat cleaver, far larger than any weapon of that kind had a right to be, its edge gleaming wickedly under the arena lights.

The announcer's voice rang out, "Alice of Midgard, challenger! Versus… The Iron Butcher!"

The crowd's cheers turned to a low, anticipatory rumble as the announcer stepped back, signaling the start of the fight.

Alice barely had time to steady herself before The Iron Butcher lunged forward, his cleaver sweeping low and fast. She sidestepped, the blade passing within inches of her thigh, her heart pounding with adrenaline as she countered with a swift punch to his ribs. He barely flinched, shifting his stance with surprising agility as he brought the cleaver back around. She blocked it, feeling the impact reverberate up her arm, her breath catching in her throat as she adjusted her footing.

The Butcher didn't relent, pressing her with a relentless flurry of swings, each one dangerously close, forcing her to keep her movements sharp. She darted around him, landing quick punches and kicks whenever she could find an opening, but his speed made it almost impossible to get a solid hit. She took a glancing cut across her forearm, feeling the sting of it, but ignored the pain, her focus locked entirely on her opponent.

A sudden, calculated swing grazed her side, and she gritted her teeth against the burn. He was fast—faster than she expected—and his strikes were becoming harder to dodge. Blood trickled from her wounds, but her determination only sharpened. She needed something to break his rhythm, something that would let her land a decisive blow.

Then she remembered the gloves.

With a steadying breath, she activated the skill they held. Her hands glowed with a fiery red energy—Hot Hands, as the System had labeled it. She felt the power coursing through her fists, each pulse of heat adding to the strength of her next strike.

The Iron Butcher stepped back, momentarily thrown off by the sudden glow of her fists, but only for a moment. He swung the cleaver at her head, and Alice seized the opportunity. She focused all her energy into her feet, feeling a rush of momentum, her body blurring forward in an intense surge of speed.

New Skill: Focused Charge (Uncommon)

Description: Concentrating your mana into your legs propels you at great speeds.

Effects:

Charge in a straight line for 15 yards (cooldown 5 seconds)

Alice's vision narrowed, the world sharpening around her as her charged fist connected with his jaw in a blinding red flash. The Butcher staggered back, his cleaver slipping from his grasp as he fell, his massive frame crumbling to the sand with a dull thud.

The crowd erupted, the air buzzing with shouts and applause as Alice stood over her fallen opponent, her fist still glowing faintly. She drew in a deep breath, the satisfaction of victory tempered by the sharp stings of her cuts and bruises. The announcer's voice boomed through the arena once again.

"Victory to Alice of Midgard!"

She clenched her fists, feeling the warmth fade from her gloves, and allowed herself a small smile. She had done it—overcome the Iron Butcher with skill, grit, and a touch of fiery determination.

*****

Alice sank onto the bench in the locker room, wiping the sweat from her brow as she took a few desperate gulps of water. Her muscles burned, her hands were raw, and a dull ache radiated from her side where a particularly nasty blow had caught her ribs earlier. For the past five hours, it had been a grueling climb up the ladder, each opponent stronger and more cunning than the last. She had started to rely on every scrap of skill and instinct she had, her focus honed to a razor's edge with each new round.

Between fights, the gruff man who had led her from the locker room each time now appeared more regularly, carrying bread, strips of dried meat, and water. He'd say nothing, just give her a single approving nod as she wolfed down whatever he brought. They had developed a silent understanding, though he never looked quite convinced of her decision to keep going.

This time, he lingered longer, watching her with an expression that hovered between admiration and concern. "Next one's the last," he said finally, his rough voice softened just a little. "You don't have to do this, you know. He's…" He cleared his throat, looking down at the ground, then back up at her, his face hardening. "This guy's never lost a fight. Killed more of his opponents than have survived. They say the man's more animal than human."

Alice met his gaze, the hint of a smile touching her lips despite her exhaustion. "I've made it this far," she replied, her voice steady. "I'm not stopping now."

He looked at her for a long moment, his mouth pulling into a tight line, then nodded. "If it gets too much, you can yield. Throw up three fingers, and they'll pull him off."

Alice nodded, though she knew in her heart that she wouldn't yield. She would see this through to the end.

A few minutes later, she limped back down the narrow stone corridor, her breath steady as she mentally prepared herself. Her wounds stung with every step, and she could feel the stiffness in her muscles from the hours of relentless fighting. But as she neared the arena entrance, her adrenaline kicked back in, dulling the pain and sharpening her focus. Once more, she told herself. Just one more time.

When she stepped into the ring, she sized up her final opponent, a towering man with a cruel scar tracing down his face. He looked equally battered, with his own collection of wounds and a slight limp, though his eyes held a brutal intensity that sent a chill through her.

The gruff man's voice cut through the air behind her as she took her position. "Remember, three fingers to yield," he reminded her, his tone unusually somber. Then he backed away, leaving her alone to face her final test.

As the crowd's roar swelled around them, Alice steadied herself, ready to finish what she had started.

Alice barely registered the thunderous crowd around her, their roars muffling into a distant hum as she struggled to hold her ground against Helbrand, known to all as The Blood-Soaked. His strength was overwhelming, each of his blows a brutal force that rattled her to her core. She had managed to land several cuts along his arms and a deep gash on his leg, her attacks quick and precise. But his ferocity seemed endless, his resilience monstrous. She could feel herself slowing, her own wounds sapping her strength, but she fought on, refusing to yield.

Her last memory of the fight was the giant hammer he used swinging toward her, her vision narrowing as her arms tried, and failed, to bring up a block. The blow struck hard, and everything went black.

When she came to, she was lying on a worn leather bench in the dim light of the locker room. Her head pounded, and her body ached as if she'd been ground to dust and reformed. She blinked, eyes adjusting, and the first thing she saw was the gruff man sitting nearby, his gaze heavy with worry.

"You're awake," he said, his voice gruff but softened by relief. "Lost the fight, but not your life. That was more than some could say against him."

She took a shaky breath, the sting of disappointment settling in as his words sunk in. Lost. She had given everything, pushed herself beyond what she thought possible, and still, it hadn't been enough. But as her hand moved to her chest, she felt a small token of consolation—the familiar weight of a second-place medallion hanging from a thin leather cord. What a weird thing to find in a fantasy world.

"Second place," she murmured, her voice hoarse, but the corners of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. "Guess that's something."

The gruff man nodded. "More than most ever reach." His eyes drifted to the health potion at her side. "You can use that now. No one will stop you."

Without hesitation, she uncorked the vial and drank, feeling the familiar warmth spread through her wounds, knitting her battered body back together. She could feel her bruises lighten, her cuts close, and the ache in her bones ease. But as the potion's magic faded, she realized it couldn't completely erase the exhaustion from the relentless hours in the arena. The feeling of weariness still clung to her, a weight that even magic couldn't lift.

She capped the empty vial and leaned back, allowing herself a deep breath. She had faced a gauntlet few could endure, and even though she hadn't claimed the top spot, she'd come far, farther than she ever thought possible.

The gruff man looked down at her with something almost like respect. "You've got guts, Midgard. Earned every bit of that placing. Rest up. You've more than earned it."

With that, he turned and left, leaving her to the quiet of the locker room and the slow, steady realization of how much she'd overcome.

She lay there for several hours even dozing for a bit. Yeah, this is comfortable. I think I can nap a little.

So she did.

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