The Lumashitu is a large, six-limbed creature that roams the jungles to the northeast of the Whispering Wastes. To this day, the feral goblin tribes still revere the creature as a sacred beast.

  This formidable lizard beast has six sturdy legs, powerful enough to carry its heavily armored body across even the most rugged terrain. Its back and flanks are protected by a thick layer of bony knobs and plates that form an almost impenetrable carapace. This natural armor is so durable that it can deflect arrows and withstand heavy strikes from most weapons with ease, making the Lumashitu an invaluable asset in war.

  One of the most distinguishing features of the Lumashitu is its massive, spiked tail. This natural weapon, made entirely of solid bone, is capable of delivering crushing blows to anything unfortunate enough to be within its reach. As well as defense, the lizards in the wild use their tails in mating displays to compete for females. The large animal’s snout bears a single, large horn, which it uses for charging into battle, while its broad, thick, bony frill provides additional protection for its neck and head.

  Indeed, a Lumashitu’s charge is a sight to behold—an unstoppable force, likened to the roll of distant thunder as it surges forward. When ridden into battle in formation, the ground trembles beneath their feet, and the air reverberates with the sound of its pounding steps.

  An extremely long lance is often the weapon of choice for a Lumashitu, the rider resting the lance on the creature’s bony frill. This lance is often called the ‘Second Horn.’ These riders sit just behind its cervical ridge of bone, allowing for a secure perch. Though not essential, a saddle is often used for a more comfortable ride. While it requires patience and skill to master, once bonded, a Lumashitu rider and their mount become an indomitable pair.

  Though the creatures can run and charge quite quickly, it takes a while for the large beasts to build up speed. However, armies that can field these beasts find their enemies scattered before them, unable to withstand the raw power of a Lumashitu’s advance. Its momentum can shatter shield walls, even being able to break up pike formations for the ‘Second Horn’ is often longer than an infantryman’s pike.

  Though immense in size, the Lumashitu is surprisingly docile when domesticated. And, despite their fearsome appearance, Lumashitu are herbivores, subsisting on almost any type of vegetation. They are known to be slow-moving under normal circumstances.

  A Lumashitu makes a mount whose strength, resilience, and sheer destructive power are almost unmatched on the battlefield. Lumashitu cavalry are considered some of the best elite shock cavalry troops in the known realms, only surpassed by expense and utility by the noble Gryphon

  - The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.

  Now it was my turn to maul my way through the loser’s bracket of the Festival. With no healing offered at this stage, many participants chose to retire rather than to struggle on. It was now a became a test of endurance and tactics for those who had already tasted defeat.

  And this stage had another unique rule that suited me nicely.

  Humming, I reminded myself to keep in mind Larynda’s little episode of cheating. It was a stark reminder that not everyone here played by the rules. And more importantly, a reminder that some were able to get with it. Fine, I thought, I have got a few tricks of my own. Not, of course, that I needed them.

  Fate, Destiny, the gods, or the game, really whatever it was, had conspired to offer up a rather intimidating-looking opponent for my first match in this new bracket.

  An orc stood before me—a rare sight in these parts, tusked and hulking, its bestial frame looked as if hewn from olive-green slabs of stone. Half-naked, save for a tattered loincloth that barely covered his manhood, he snarled at me like a feral dog. However, it was not the ferocity of his gaze or the froth of rage on his lips that gave me pause, but the sheer grotesque display of brute masculinity that bulged from between his tree-trunk legs.

  For all of this fearsome display, this one had been defeated by a rather humble and looking plain, unassuming young man. Yet another person I had to keep an eye on.

  I could see that the orc, no doubt humiliated by his earlier defeat, teetered on the edge of berserk madness. A beast cornered by his own shame. His chest heaved, every labored breath coming with a growl, eyes blazing as if he still held hopes of tearing flesh apart.

  With a sigh, I used Identify, the magic coming to me almost as easily as breathing. I wanted to gauge how much effort I needed to make in this round.

  Level twenty. In the past, that might have stirred some unease. He was strong, yes, but no match for me now. His health pool was impressive, four hundred and forty in total, enough to withstand a few blows, but his limited mana told me he was no spellcaster. There would be no surprises here.

  A junior official, the judge of this match, dressed in light ceremonial garb that fluttered in the faint breeze, moved with an air of indifference to the edge of the arena. His eyes flicked between us, bored. He raised the wooden ceremonial sword in his hand and with a swift, almost dismissive motion, brought it down. The signal had been given. The fight had begun.

  “Come now, at least make this entertaining,” I taunted, beckoning for him to come with one hand, sure in the knowledge of my victory.

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  The orc roared, raising his massive fists in response to smash me. I sidestepped, letting the blow crash into the stone. To my surprise, such was the force of the blow that I swore its surface cracked. His fury was palpable, the attack laced with frustration and a need to redeem himself.

  Wanting to keep myself in prime condition, I began to call forth one of my staple spells, Greater Drain. The magic, harsh and hungry, was summoned quickly with the aid of the voices within. Tentacles of void darkness, invisible to the orc, latched onto his body, sapping his vitality.

  Strength through joy. I felt the sweet heady rush of it. Now, my excitement became a mirror of the orc’s, a lust stirring within me for simply more.

  Sog Darkfur growled, his next swing a wild arc that I easily ducked under. His fists were like hammers, but I had no intention of being the anvil. "Come on, big guy," I goaded, my voice slightly muffled by my face covering, as I stepped back just out of his reach.

  Like an enraged boar, he kept coming at me, his massively long arms sweeping toward me in a windmill of punches. I tested blocking a few of the blows, finding it easy even for me to redirect them with ‘Soft Hands’, a style I had never been good at. Much better, and simpler, to meet force with force.

  Each of his labored attempts to crush me grew weaker with each attack, the energy draining from him, unnoticed in his blind fury. Slowly, the orc's breathing grew heavier, his strikes slower. He tried a clumsy swipe, and I merely tapped his naked forearm using Lotus Palm. His response was immediate, attempting to grab me in retaliation with his ham-sized hands, but I spun away with ease.

  Against all expectations, my newly acquired Lotus Palm skill had only inflicted seven points of Health damage for the cost of ten Stamina, a horrible ratio. A vast difference compared to when I had used it on the armored ape. Why indeed? For what nonsense reason was this so?

  Another punch came my way with all the force of a bull’s charge. This time I chose to take it on fully, bending my knees and taking on the full force of the blow.

  Why did Lotus Palm inflict only seven points of damage? I wondered, grunting as I felt the impact. Was it perhaps it was only level one? No, I felt there was more to it than that. It might have been because my target had been armored, I posited. Ruddy typical convoluted game logic.

  In casual reprisal, I struck at the orc for the first time, testing his defenses. My fist smacked against the meaty biceps of his arm, and I felt it shudder beneath my knuckles. He grunted, pulling back in feral pain. I grinned, the cat toying with the mouse. This ‘normal’ strike inflicted fifteen points of damage, more than double that of Lotus Palm. I made a mental note to test Lotus Palm on a more armored subject in the future.

  Another strike to the same spot. Then again, this time on the other arm. The rhythm was so steady that to the spectators it must have looked as if I were merely practicing, the beat in time to a metronome I could only hear. With each hit, his arms grew heavier until finally, they dangled uselessly at his sides, as if bound by invisible chains. His snarls of anger turned into confusion, his once-powerful limbs no longer responding to the signals from his sluggish brain.

  It was a point of humor for me that his manhood, too, had wilted and became limp.

  I circled him, watching the orc sway on unsteady feet, my Greater Drain weaving its insidious magic. His Stamina was draining fast. He would fall soon, but not before I had my fun.

  “You are a disgrace to your people,” I taunted, smiling and baring my teeth.

  “Z..sog… rip you limb from limb…” he declared, the fire dying in his eyes. “I will… take your females… burn your houses of stone…”

  Ignoring him I held up both hands to the watching crowd. Slowly, I made the thumbs-down gesture. The crowd watched silently unsure.

  It was time to explain the meaning of the gesture.

  Using Dash, I circled around the lumbering orc and kicked at the back of both knees forcing him to ignominiously kneel. I wrapped my hands around his stinking, sweaty head and twisted. There was an audible, satisfying snap and Sog became limp, all protest and resistance leaving him.

  There was a hush of silence before the crowd took up an applause that resounded through the arena. I drank it all in, basked in the adulation, knowing that in a shaded box close by that the Lady Aelayah was watching my victory. More, I wanted more.

  The notification of his death had not been enough!

  I almost looked up to where Aelayah would be watching, but refrained at the last moment. I had to stick to the plan. Here in the loser’s bracket, I had another twenty or so idiots to pound into the paste.

  *****

  “You want to leave the Festival after choosing Vindication?” one of the Festival guards laughed in a surprisingly pleasant baritone.

  “Seriously, you saw that, right? That wasn’t a fight that was an execution…” quavered a young man, looking in my direction.

  “The price of another chance at the greatest of competitions, to prove you are the strongest, a life must also be wagered,” explained the guard again, his expression becoming cross. Other guards, as if sensing a potential rule breaker converged upon this location.

  There was a unique rule at the Festival regarding the loser’s bracket, or as the locals liked to call it, Vindication—a second chance at glory. Once you chose Vindication, there was no retiring. No quitting. These bouts, designed for the crowd's entertainment, were fought to the death. Originally as a show of one’s determination, literally putting one’s life on the line, Vindication’s purpose had over time been corrupted into something else. Now, the gambling and heightened interest surrounding these lethal matches went a long way in replenishing the Council’s coffers.

  For many up there watching, it was Vindication, and the not finals, that were the highlight of the competition.

  And, that’s precisely why I had chosen to lose and take the path of Vindication in the first place. It was lots of free experience, practically served to me on a silver platter.

  None of these people were worthy of any respect—after all, they were losers by definition. These useless vermin would be nothing more than appetizers before the later stages of the competition. By my estimation, I could easily farm another four hundred experience points without consequence.

  I looked at my next opponent—a boy, really—no older than myself, but taller by at least a head. He was trembling in his boots just from standing near me. His eyes darted nervously around, clearly weighing the foolish idea of fighting his way past the guards. Foolish indeed, especially for someone with no weapon or armor.

  Smirking like a wolf eyeing its prey, I pointed my thumb down at him. His face drained of color. The boy was a dead man walking, and he knew it. His fear was intoxicating, like sweet nectar. As I surveyed his muscular frame, I couldn't help but wonder how I would cook him in our next fight.

  I looked over the other fighters in this bracket. All of them, to the man, were all sullen and glum. The lizard Beastkin in the corner was the only one who did not look totally subdued. His thick meaty tail whipped away at the stone floor on occasion, either out of habit or annoyance as he bit down on a hock of meat, tearing away at it with his sharp teeth.

  Now, the lizard would be an interesting proposition. It would give me time to familiarise myself with somewhat different anatomy. Still, no matter how alien he looked, I was sure the basics were the same. I briefly wondered if the overgrown lizard was cold or warm-blooded, not that it would make a difference of course, in the greater scheme of things.

  Rubbing my chin, I knew I had to develop a very special concoction for that one. Something to get more of a rise out of the crowd. Wholesome entertainment for the whole family.