9th of Gremlin's Grin
It turns out the Death Tournament is not just a tournament. Oh no, it's a Festival of Misery, which, as I now understand, is a type of event where they encourage you to show up with all your trauma, fears, and emotional baggage - and then hit you with a stick.
Vince, naturally, is having the time of his life. I know this because he's been telling me non-stop about his plans to open a consulting business called "Vince's Shadowy Solutions: We're the Dark Side of Problem Solving." Apparently, "problematic elbows" is a niche market he's tapping into. But I digress.
The arena itself is a confusing maze of ancient ruins, upside-down tents, and a haunted trampoline (don't ask, it was the only event I could actually understand). There are spectators, mostly monks with bad posture and wild hair. They chant something, but I can't hear it over Vince's suggestions for how to "improve your posture and overall life choices."
Then there's Thornax the Undissolvable.
I should've known by the name.
But I didn't.
He is, in fact, undissolvable - as in, his body is made of solid metal, and it's a literal impossibility to stab him. The only part of him that's slightly vulnerable is his toe. Just the left one. Why? No one knows. It's a tournament mystery, and one I'm not equipped to solve.
I approached Thornax with great confidence and zero planning, but before I could reach his foot, I tripped on the cursed trampoline (which, side note, cursed trampolines should be illegal). Thornax, being the undissolvable brute that he is, just stood there, arms crossed, watching me flail.
"You must face the Trial of Tears," said a priest with an allergy to his own robe.
Apparently, the Trial of Tears is where you cry for a solid ten minutes while trying not to think about all your bad decisions. This is fine, I thought. It sounded relatively simple.
Until they handed me the crying goblet.
You're supposed to fill it with your tears, but it seems my body has a tragic flaw: I can't produce tears when under extreme stress. I can produce sweat, snot, and occasionally emotional anger bubbles - but no tears. None. Zero.
So, after several embarrassing minutes of my body malfunctioning, I was disqualified from the Trial and forced to face Thornax the Undissolvable in a staring contest.
I tried. I really did.
But Thornax's eye sockets were filled with mystical oil that allowed him to blink at a rate of approximately one blink per 47 years. And as anyone knows, that's unfair advantage in a staring contest.
Now I'm officially disqualified.
Officially defeated.
And officially covered in sad, mystical oil.
And Vince keeps mocking me.
But it's fine.
It's fine.
The next event is the Feast of Despair, which, as you can guess, is a lot like the Trial of Tears but with food instead of emotions. There's nothing good about that, either. Especially when Vince insists I eat "Emotional Noodles" to regain my confidence.
They're noodles.
With feelings.
Why?
So, anyway, this has been my day. The arena is officially covered in oil, sadness, and noodles now. I just have to survive three more rounds and maybe I'll wish for a new elbow or a proper sock consultant.
Or a less-chatty shadow.
A lot less chatty.