Chapter 234

The Mantle Training Facility was split into three major sections: one for the low rankers, consisting of the first and second advancements, one for the mid-rankers, consisting of the third to fifth advancement, and one for the high rankers, sixth and higher. Of course, the number of sixth advancement wayfarers was vanishingly rare, but of any place in the world, Mantle was where they would congregate.

Zoey’s team of four walked down polished tile hallways, headed for the mid-ranker public arenas. Even during the short trip, Zoey caught people outright staring at Rosalie—and the rest of them—as they passed, conversations cutting off mid-word. Rosalie might not be recognized on the streets of Mantle, but here, she was. Her reputation preceded her. Likely, some knew her personally.

Rosalie always walked with squared shoulders and her chin up, but today, it was with an even more imperious grace than usual. She was treating her first public outing seriously. For all she’d said that the d’Celestins were out of reach of other noble families, she intended to set a good first impression. How much of that was her father’s insistence, and how much was it Rosalie wanting to foster such an image herself?

It was a short walk before they exited the main building and entered a sprawling courtyard. Elevated platforms were arranged in a spacious grid, some small, meant for one-on-one fights, and some large, presumably for team combat.

Interestingly, the largest of the arena platforms was centered in the courtyard, and it was changing shape. Where the platform had been covered with a dense thicket of trees, Zoey watched as the environment shifted: trees shuddering and disappearing like an illusion going out, before dirt was replaced with rolling dunes of sand and trees with cacti and other desert foliage.

An arena that could emulate natural terrain? Considering the sheer variance in shards, that would be a useful tool to train with. Such a thing had to be an amazing undertaking of magic, but if any training facility would have such a feature, it would be Mantle’s.

Even for a place as rich as this, though, there only appeared to be one of those—terrain morphing wasn’t a feature of every arena, only the largest and centermost. The rest were standard stone platforms surrounded with magical energy shields, which became visible only when stray attacks or an unlucky flung body slammed into them.

The mid-ranker public courtyard teemed with activity. Engagements surrounded them. Most, though not all, of the sparring platforms were occupied with frenetic fights. And frenetic they were. These weren’t first- or second-advancement wayfarers, but third at the minimum, up to fifth. Men or women flitted around with daggers, disappearing and reappearing in untrackable bursts of speed; huge explosions of arcane energy exploded toward hunkered-down warriors in full plate armor; skills of a huge variety went off. She watched as a bare-chested, tattooed man slammed his foot into the floor, and the entire arena rippled with force, the energy only not leaking into the courtyard thanks to the magical shield encasing him.

Back in Treyhull, advancements three to five were rare. Globally speaking, even third advancement was a fair accomplishment—the end-point for many people in a years-long wayfaring career, and wayfaring wasn’t a run-of-the-mill occupation to begin with. Fourth was where status began, and fifth, the beginning of local or regional prestige.

So these weren’t typical, everyday fights. Zoey watched the flurry of activity with amazement. The magical fields dampened the racket being created. The courtyard was filled only with the chatter of its inhabitants, oddly calm for all the visual display.

There was quite a bit of chatter, too, not a small amount. More even than combatants, wayfarers stood in clusters, talking amongst each other. Some weren’t dressed in combat gear, but the finery expected of high nobility: suits and dresses of various styles. As if they’d come here with no intention to spar and simply to speak instead. Though, Zoey realized, they could throw on armor at a moment’s notice via their inventories. So maybe they just preferred staying formal until they stepped into the arena.

Regardless, Zoey intuited this courtyard was for political mingling as much as combat practice. Hence why Rosalie’s father had encouraged them to show their faces, for Rosalie to make her introduction not at a gala, but at a training facility. For a society structured around strength and advancement, where direct power determined a pecking order, that made sense.

They attracted attention mere moments after walking in. Zoey wasn’t the first to notice their approachers; Rosalie did. When Zoey saw her posture stiffen slightly, she turned her own eyes. Sure enough, a group of three—two women, one man—were headed for them. Several others were looking, but they made no move to come and speak. Zoey could only assume that while Rosalie might be a major point of interest to everyone present, that didn’t mean she was approachable to everyone. She was this world’s version of a princess: and not just a princess, but the heiress-apparent.