The common folk wandered the streets aimlessly, as they always did. They lifted their sallow, gaunt faces toward the towering palace, a flicker of anxiety in their hearts. The Grandmaster had fallen, a new sovereign had risen, but none knew if it was a blessing or a curse. Would this morbid society truly change? Or would those without gambling skills continue to rot, waiting for a death that was slow to come?
Suddenly, an armored soldier marched over. The pedestrians paled and scrambled to clear a path, terrified of provoking him. But the soldier caused no trouble; he simply plastered a stack of flyers onto a prominent wall and marched away.
As his back receded into the distance, the crowd swarmed the wall, their eyes fixed on the notice.
"What does it say?"
"Recruit... it looks like he's recruiting people."
"Move aside, you're illiterate, what are you looking at?"
"Is there anyone who can read? Please, read it out loud!"
"I... I can read," An old man leaning on a cane stepped forward. He rubbed his eyes, pressed a finger to the paper, and read it word for word. By the time he reached the final syllable, his expression had turned frantic, his body trembling uncontrollably.
He turned to the crowd. "This... this is a Decree for the Wise issued by Lord Jason. It says Lord Jason is recruiting an army to head to outer space. Because cosmic travel is dangerous and unpredictable, he is looking for talent with specializations. No matter what your skill is, if you pass the interview, you become a fleet soldier..."
"Ha! I knew it! He just wants us to go die on some battlefield!" A slick-looking youth interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain.
His friends chimed in loudly, "Exactly! Only a fool would go!"
"There are so many masters in the Arena, why look among the peasants?"
"Obviously because the masters are all dead! I heard the new King killed scores of them during the coup."
"Really? Then he's even more ruthless than the Grandmaster."
"He has to be! So, don't go. If you go, you're just cannon fodder."
As the youths babbled, the old man's face flushed red with anger. He slammed his cane against the ground. "Ignorant fools! This isn't sending you to your deaths! Lord Jason is giving you a chance to make something of yourselves!"
The youth sneered, "Old man, stop playing us! If this is such a good deal, why aren't you going? Why aren't you sending your son?"
"Quiet. Let him finish." Several brawny middle-aged men spoke up.
"Who the hell are you—" The youths began rolling up their sleeves, ready for a brawl.
Shing. One of the middle-aged men rested his hand on the hilt of his blade. The youth froze, his bravado vanishing instantly.
The old man continued, "The decree says that once you become a fleet soldier, whether you were a commoner or a criminal, you receive a full pardon and are promoted to the nobility—a title that is hereditary. Beyond that, the Lord will grant you a house and wealth. And if you should fall in the expedition, a pension will be paid to your family."
"Old man! Is this for real?" The middle-aged men's eyes lit up.
The old man tapped the flyer with his cane. "The interview locations are written right here. How could it be fake?"
"True," One man said. "Lord Jason just took power; he wouldn't risk his reputation by changing a decree the next day."
"I agree. Want to give it a shot?"
"I'm in!"
The men saluted the old man respectfully and headed toward the interview site. Similar scenes played out across the planet. While short-sighted fools mocked the news as a trap, more people chose to bet on the new King for a chance at a future. If they succeeded, even their descendants would be nobles.
Sakaar's population exceeded a billion, and thousands of interview points were established. In the capital, Jason set the location at the familiar Arena.
Today, the Arena was livelier than ever. Long queues snaked out of the 24 entrances, each guarded by armed soldiers. Applicants had to verify their identities, list their specialties, and receive a numbered tag. Inside, they waited in the stands until a fleet of small airships broadcasted their numbers over the speakers.
Interview Point No. 1 was dedicated to combat specialists. The lead interviewer: Valkyrie.
THUD!
With a high kick, Valkyrie sent an applicant flying out of the ring, startling those waiting outside. "Ugh," She shook her head helplessly. "Failed!"
The two assistant interviewers marked an 'X' on the tag. "Next!"
The selection was divided into three rounds: Preliminaries, Semi-finals, and Finals. Valkyrie's rule for the prelims was simple: survive three moves against her. But after a hundred people, no one had lasted that long.
It wasn't entirely her fault; the Grandmaster had already hoarded every decent fighter in the Arena's dungeons years ago. Finding a master in the civilian population was like looking for a virgin in a brothel.
"Boring! I'm out of here," Valkyrie announced, ready to quit. Spending time with Jason had rubbed off on her; neither of them liked noob-stomping.
"You can't! You're the lead interviewer!" The assistants pleaded.
Valkyrie didn't look back. "There are no fighters here. If a decent one pops up, you two handle it. New rule: if they survive five moves against you, they pass."
She slipped away to find the Semi-final rooms, where the quality was a bit higher. She found a colleague looking over three applications.
"Any good ones?" Valkyrie asked, plopping into a chair.
"Actually, yes!" The interviewer said excitedly. "Look at this guy—former ship mechanic, expert in various models. He offended a superior and was cast down to commoner status. And this one—a cosmic traveler who got stranded here. He's flown dozens of ship types and has incredible interstellar knowledge. But the best is her: a mage whose magic can heal diseases and exhaustion. She'll make the voyage much safer."
Valkyrie was envious. Jason hadn't let her lead the Semi-finals because he said she lacked culture.
"I object! This is rigged!" A shout rang out from the hallway.
They pushed the door open to see a crowd of about a dozen people surrounding a Semi-final interviewer.
"Why did that nerd pass while we didn't? This is a fix!"
The interviewer, a rather frail-looking fat man, was trying to defend himself, but the crowd was getting physical, grabbing him by the collar.
"Let go," A cold voice commanded.
Valkyrie stood there, Dragonfang in hand, staring them down. The troublemakers flinched and retreated, but then put on expressions of righteous indignation.
The fat interviewer ran to Valkyrie like a bullied child to his mother. "Save me! They nearly killed me!"
"You're a man, stop crying," Valkyrie snapped. "What happened?"
"This fat pig is taking bribes!" The ringleader shouted. "We have talent, yet he failed us all and passed some brain-dead bookworm!"
Valkyrie looked at the fat man. "Did you take bribes?"
"I wouldn't dare!" The man cried. "The kid looks dorky, but he's brilliant. These guys... I don't even know how to describe them. I don't know how the prelim interviewers let them through!"
"Liar! We got here on merit!"
SHING! Valkyrie drew Dragonfang and cleaved the ringleader in half in a single motion.
The crowd froze. The silence was absolute. My God, she just killed him like that?!
Valkyrie flicked the blood off her blade. "If you have a problem with the results, go to the official inspectors. Don't cause a scene here. I won't say it twice."
The troublemakers abandoned their friend's corpse and vanished in a heartbeat.
After two days of selection, 2,835 people made it through the Semi-finals. The Finals were presided over by Jason himself. He first congratulated them on becoming nobles, but explained that the Commodore had space for only 500.
After one last round of grading, the final 500 were chosen. Standing before the stands, they looked at Jason with a mix of hope and lingering fear. Under the Grandmaster, only gamblers and killers mattered. Now, they had a chance—but was Jason just selling them a pipe dream?
Jason proved them wrong. Before the recruitment even started, he had seized 500 houses and the corresponding wealth from the former corrupt elite. He read the names aloud: one name, one house, one fortune.
As the new nobles heard their names, they wept. They had spent half their lives in the dark, many on the verge of suicide or total despair. Finally, the dawn had come.
A middle-aged man with silvering temples wiped his eyes and performed the highest salute of Sakaar toward Jason—not out of protocol, but out of pure, raw gratitude.
The rest followed. Soon, the families in the stands and the crowds of tens of thousands joined in. The sight of hundreds of thousands of people kneeling in unison was breathtaking.
Jason felt a surge of emotion and his voice boomed over the Arena:
"Tomorrow, you board the Commodore for the stars!"
"The journey is dangerous. I cannot promise you will all return alive."
"But I can promise you this: if you fall..."
"Your families will be looked after. No one will ever dare lay a finger on them!"
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
500 power stones.
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