Friday, April 24th. Dark Town.
Fyar opened his eyes. Thin, pale morning light slipped through the single small window, barred with iron, in the corner of the room. From beyond his rough wooden walls, the muffled sounds of light conversation and footsteps could already be heard. The people of Dark Town had begun their day.
The top-eight bracket of the tournament would begin tomorrow, Saturday. The organizers had given the participants two days to rest and prepare.
A week. I've been here for a week, Fyar thought, letting out a slow breath. The air in the room was stale, smelling of dust and old wood.
He pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of his rickety bed. The straw mattress rustled beneath him. His eyes fell on his katana, which was leaning against the small wooden table. On that table, his white mask lay facing up, staring at the ceiling with a vacant expression.
