Date: Unspecified Time: Unspecified Location: Myriad Realms, Lil. Red Storm, Seed World, Trophy Section, Duel Realm, Crafting Sector, Venue: Chaos Dwarven Forge.
The Judges noticed the sudden shift in the audience's attitude—it was impossible not to. A shared obsession with uncovering the secrets of the unknown demon merchant's Frosling corpse puppets gripped the crowd. The collective hunger for secret knowledge bound them in an uneasy silence, broken only by the occasional creak of a chair or the faint hum of a codex. Heads tilted, whispers faded into murmurs, and tension filled the Colosseum.
If not for the duel, they would have swarmed the unknown demon merchant, their hands clutching demon codex and theories, eager to share their findings or ask questions. Yet they refrained, restrained by both circumstance and an unspoken rule. All of them were crafters, and they understood the ultimate taboo: asking another crafter about their trade secrets. Respecting this, they found themselves caught between their reverence for his craft and their burning curiosity.
The unknown demon merchant had, after all, made it somewhat easier by openly sharing the ingredients he used to create his Frosling corpse puppets. That small gesture fanned the flames of their intrigue, yet their pride wouldn't allow them to grovel or beg. Instead, they hoped for an intellectual exchange—constructive debates where both sides could gain something valuable. Others, however, were less honorable. Among the crowd, a few unscrupulous onlookers watched with calculating eyes, weighing their options, scheming ways to corner the demon merchant and wrest his secrets by force.
Wyatt stood calm and collected amid the rising tide of admiration and envy, his face unreadable. He had deliberately held back most of his abilities when crafting these Frosling corpse puppets, yet even his restraint hadn't stopped the puppets from drawing the wrong kind of attention. Wyatt didn't spare these petty schemers a second thought. To him, they were insignificant—wannabe crafters with no real talent, seeking shortcuts by preying on the weak. His cold demeanor and steady posture made it clear that their interest, no matter how malicious, was beneath him.
The audience and viewers weren't alone in their shock and awe. Bigold, too, was captivated, though for him, it was bittersweet. His jaw tightened as a painful realization dawned on him: his corpse puppets were no match for his opponent's. His brow furrowed deeply, and a bead of sweat trailed down his temple as his gaze fixated on his opponent's Frosling corpse ling puppets, their massive mechanical armors gleaming under the arena's harsh lights.
A pang of intimidation rippled through him. Even if his puppets somehow managed to breach the daunting armors, he knew it would be futile. The Froslings had already demonstrated their ability to repair or craft entirely new armor in under a second during their practice sessions. Bigold's hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he realized the hopelessness of his situation. It was excruciatingly clear that, even combined, his corpse puppets wouldn't stand a chance against a single one of his opponent's creations.
The weight of impending defeat pressed heavily on him. He scanned the audience, their rapt attention no longer on him or even the judges but on his opponent's puppets. Their anticipation was couldn't more obvious—not for his performance, but for the secrets they might glean from watching the unknown demon merchant's corpse puppets in action. In their minds, he had already lost. Their only reason to stay was the faint hope that the match might offer them more insights into the enigmatic Frosling corpse puppets.
Bigold swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. The bitter truth gnawed at him: the audience didn't care about his struggle or his craft. To them, he was a mere stepping stone in the unknown demon merchant's showcase—a sideshow to the main event. As this realization sank in, Bigold's previous arrogance and pride melted away, replaced by the cold grip of panic. His mind raced as he dived into crisis mode, desperate to think of a way to salvage the duel. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he clenched his fists, his breathing shallow and erratic. He had to act quickly; otherwise, he would lose his workshop.
Regret began to claw at him, his thoughts bitter with self-reproach. Why had he been so stubborn? Why had he been at odds with the Devil Merchant Code over mere spare change? He should have just paid those fines. If he had, he wouldn't be facing this nightmare now. Bigold's lips tightened into a thin line, and his hands trembled slightly as he tried to suppress his growing anxiety.
Just then, one of the Elder Chaos Dwarfs approached him with measured steps, placing a firm hand on Bigold's shoulder. Leaning in, the elder whispered something into his ear. As the words sank in, Bigold's eyes lit up with newfound confidence and arrogance. A faint, almost smug smile crept onto his face as he nodded sharply, his posture straightening with resolve.
"Don't bring shame to our family," the Elder Chaos Dwarf warned in a low, gruff voice, his piercing gaze lingering on Bigold for a moment before he turned and walked back to his seat.
For Chaos Dwarfs, there was no greater disgrace than losing a crafting duel to another race—especially one from a backwater corner of the Myriad Realm that no one had even heard of. The rest of the Dark Realm and Myriad Realm might eventually forget such an incident, but the Chaos Dwarven race would never let it go. Bigold and his family would carry the shame for generations.
Understanding the weight of the warning, Bigold's expression hardened with determination. He straightened his shoulders and declared firmly, "Don't worry, Elder. I would sooner die than bring shame to the family." Without hesitation, he rushed to the edge of his corner of the Colosseum, his steps echoing with urgency as he called out to the Judges, "Judges, I have an appeal to make!"
The Judges, still simmering with annoyance at the unknown demon merchant's audacity in stealing their spotlight and ignoring their authority, turned to Bigold with sharp, irritable expressions. "What is it?" one snapped, their tone dripping with impatience.
"Judges," Bigold began, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. "I propose that for the upcoming match, we have demon and devil merchants from the audience use our corpse puppets to fight. This way, the last standing puppet will not only prove to be the strongest but also the most user-friendly. After all, shouldn't user-friendliness be a key parameter in deciding which of our corpse puppets is the best?"
His proposal hung in the air for a moment as murmurs rippled through the audience. Bigold stood firm, his chest puffed slightly with confidence, as though daring anyone to question his logic.
The Judges' lips curved into knowing grins, their earlier irritation giving way to amusement. As if seeing through Bigold's ploy, they chuckled softly and turned to glance at the unknown demon merchant. Their gaze was sharp, almost taunting, as they grudgingly responded, "Yes, I think your argument has merit."