The match loaded at 1400.
His station: apartment desk, tournament headset, CV on the shoulder rest beside him. The Veilstone Cord warm against his chest. The goblin axe materializing in his hand as the arena rendered around him—the tournament's standard competitive environment.
His opponent's profile appeared.
IRONVEIL. Level 49. B-rank. Weapon specialist—flail. Win rate: 79%. Profile image: a fighter in heavy segmented armor with the expression of someone who had never lost a match they considered important and had developed strong opinions about their own significance.
"Dirty Grandpa," IRONVEIL said, reading the name with the specific tone of someone who had pulled an opponent they considered beneath their bracket. "They seeded you in Group C?"
"Apparently," Zeph said.
"I've seen your streams." A pause loaded with implication. "You beat VALKYRIE_PRIME."
"Several times."
"She's been in a slump."
"She beat four other players this week," Zeph said. "But sure."
