The guild hall was unusually quiet for once. No screaming adventurers, no exploding orbs of truth, no knights crying about their marriages. Just the faint creak of chairs and the smell of old ale.
I sat at the counter, tapping my fingers against the wood, bored out of my reincarnated skull. Aryan Gosling sat beside me, toothpick clenched in his teeth like it owed him money. Kevin, of course, was across the room, already psychoanalyzing some poor rookie adventurer until the poor guy broke down about how his dog never barked at him enough.
I turned to the receptionist. "So. Anything spicy happening in town? Quests? Dragons? Maybe a sale on health potions? I need something, or I'm going to start entertaining myself by summoning fireballs in the bathroom again."
She blinked, set her pen down, and gave me the kind of look people reserve for toddlers about to drink bleach. "Well, there is something. Tonight, the kingdom is hosting the Grand Adventurer's Tournament."
I perked up immediately. "Tournament? You mean, like, punching people in an arena until someone cries?"
"Exactly," she said, voice flat. "Teams of four or more. Big prizes. Fame. Glory. A year's worth of dental insurance if you live through it."
I shot a glance at Aryan and Kevin. "We're three people. That's a trilogy, not a party. We need a fourth."
Aryan chewed his toothpick. "I drive."
Kevin scribbled on his clipboard. "I diagnose."
I slapped the counter. "And I—"
"Cause problems," the receptionist cut in.
"Uncalled for," I muttered.
Still, a plan was forming. If we needed a fourth, I knew exactly who to summon. Someone reliable. Someone strong. Someone with the confidence of ten lions and the subtlety of a brick through a stained-glass window.
So, naturally, I summoned… my brother.
With a flash of light, a figure stumbled into the guild hall, blinking at the sudden medieval chaos. Gold chains jingled. His hoodie glowed neon under the torchlight. His snapback was tilted like it held the answers to the universe.
"Yo," he said, striking a pose nobody had asked for. "The name's Lil Diesel."
I buried my face in my hands.
Aryan squinted. "He drives?"
"No," I groaned. "He… raps."
Kevin raised an eyebrow. "Ah. A coping mechanism disguised as an art form. Classic."
Lil Diesel adjusted his chain, which could probably anchor a small ship. "Who dis clipboard accountant tryna roast me? Better chill, Doc Phil."
Kevin smirked, scribbling notes. "Fascinating. Deep insecurities wrapped in bravado. I could cure him in six sessions."
Lil Diesel fired back immediately:
"Cure me, fool? Nah, you can't test me,
Bars so hot they need therapy."
The entire guild hall went silent. Then someone coughed. Then someone else clapped. And suddenly, Lil Diesel had a fan club of drunk adventurers nodding along like hype men.
I groaned. "Fine. But before we enter the tournament, he needs a class. Otherwise, the only thing he'll be swinging are weak punchlines."
The receptionist pointed us to the Ascension Hall. A towering cathedral-like building with stained glass windows depicting famous heroes of the past. Inside, magical circles glowed across the marble floor. Priests in robes hummed ominous chants while checking paperwork like depressed college TAs.
We stepped up. The priest eyed Lil Diesel. "State your name and aspirations, young one."
Lil Diesel tilted his snapback and spat:
"Name's Lil Diesel, flow's untamed,
Aspiration? To be world-renowned and game-framed.
Give me strength, give me fists,
So I can rap punchlines while breakin' wrists."
The priest blinked. "…Okay then. Step into the circle."
Magic ORB flared. The air thickened. Glyphs danced across the floor as the system scanned his soul. Then, a booming voice echoed through the hall:
"A CLASS : BRAWLER."
The floor shook. Chains materialized around his fists, glowing faintly with enchantments. His hoodie turned sleeveless on its own, revealing arms built like he'd fought vending machines for every snack.
Lil Diesel cracked his knuckles. "Perfect. Every punch gonna have a beat."
And so, the four of us—me, Aryan, Kevin, and Lil Diesel—headed to the tournament grounds.
The coliseum loomed ahead, a massive stone structure where banners of past champions fluttered in the wind. The crowd inside roared, the kind of roar that could only come from people who bet their rent money on strangers stabbing each other.
We were ushered into the waiting chambers. Teams of adventurers sized each other up—knights in polished armor, mages in shimmering robes, rogues twirling knives like edgy cheerleaders. And then there was us.
Aryan sat in the corner, sharpening his toothpick like it was Excalibur. Kevin leaned against the wall, flipping through his clipboard like he was about to conduct mass therapy. Lil Diesel? He was shadowboxing to his own beat, mumbling rhymes under his breath.
The announcer's voice boomed through the arena. "WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO THE GRAND TOURNAMENT! FIRST UP—TEAM… uh…" He squinted at our registration form. "Team Traumavengers?"
I fist-pumped. "Hell yeah!"
Kevin muttered, "Pathetic name."
We were shoved into the sunlight, the roar of the crowd nearly shaking the ground. Across the arena stood our first opponents: a group of armored thugs calling themselves The Iron Fists. They flexed so hard I thought their veins would declare independence.
The announcer yelled, "BEGIN!"
The first Iron Fist charged at Lil Diesel. Fist raised, teeth bared.
Lil Diesel sidestepped and countered with a haymaker that cracked the man's helmet. At the exact same time,
he rapped:
"Steel on my fist,rhythm in my soul,
Breakin' your jaw while I'm takin' control."
The crowd went wild.
Another thug rushed him. Diesel ducked under the swing and uppercutted the poor bastard into the stratosphere.
"You swing swords, I swing bars,
Punch so hard, you see stars."
The guy actually saw stars. He hit the ground twitching.
Meanwhile, Aryan revved up the summoned Drive car like it was Last & Curious: Medieval Drift. He calmly drifted in a perfect circle, scattering enemies like bowling pins. The crowd screamed as if Rin Diesel himself had reincarnated.
Kevin? He didn't throw a single punch. Instead, he pointed at an Iron Fist and declared, "You only fight because your stepdad never hugged you."
The thug froze mid-swing, started sobbing, and walked out of the arena.
The Truth Orb may have been destroyed, but Kevin didn't need it. His words were the orb now.
As for me? I conjured a massive fireball, and launched it. It fizzled into a giant, flaming rubber chicken that smacked into the last thug's face.
The crowd erupted into laughter. Even the announcer choked. "WHAT—WHAT WAS THAT?! Did he just… summon poultry?!"
"Don't question my methods!" I shouted.
But the highlight was Diesel. Every punch, every kick, every grapple was accompanied by a freestyle rap.
"Left hook heavy, right hook insane,
Droppin' bars harder than medieval chain.
Your mama in the stands, she screamin' my name,
After this fight, y'all won't be the same!"
He knocked another guy clean out mid-rhyme. The audience clapped in rhythm. They weren't watching a fight anymore—they were watching the world's first rap concert/bloodsport hybrid.
Aryan parked the car mid-field, folded his arms, and muttered, "He drives… fists."
Kevin scribbled furiously on his clipboard. "This man is unhinged. I approve."
By the end of the round, the Iron Fists were all unconscious, crying, or questioning their life choices. The referee raised his hands. "WINNERS: TEAM TRAUMAVENGERS!"
The crowd exploded. People threw coins. One guy threw his pants. Nobody questioned it.
Lil Diesel raised his fists and shouted:"Y'all thought I was playin', y'all thought I was soft,But I'm the beat-droppin', jaw-poppin' Brawler of the Loft!"
The stadium chanted his name: "DIE-SEL! DIE-SEL! DIE-SEL!"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Oh God. We've created a monster."
Kevin smirked. "No. You've created a cultural icon."
Aryan muttered, "I drive."
And just like that, round one was over. The Traumavengers had made their mark—not through tactics, not through skill, but through sheer chaos, therapy, and rap-infused violence.
But the tournament was far from over. Stronger teams awaited. Darker enemies prepared. And somewhere in the shadows, I swore I saw someone watching us. Someone whose eyes burned with the promise of… beats.
Round Two – The Elemental Quartet
Our next opponents floated into the arena. Four smug mages, each glowing with a different element: fire, water, earth, and air. They posed like a discount boy band.
"Prepare to be humbled!" the fire mage yelled.
Diesel spat bars immediately:"
Fire and flame? Boy, that's cute,
I'll snuff your torch, then steal your loot!"
He dodged a fireball, tackled the mage, and pounded him into the sand. Sparks flew. The mage wailed.
The water mage summoned a tidal wave. Aryan calmly drifted his car sideways, cutting through it like a cinematic commercial for waterproof tires.
Kevin pointed at the earth mage. "You overcompensate by lifting rocks because you can't lift emotional weight." The mage crumbled before the orb wasn't even there.
I hurled a lightning bolt that turned into… a glowing ferret. The ferret bit the air mage's nose. He fainted.
Round Two: victory. The crowd was now fully invested. Vendors sold "Lil Diesel Punch Mixtapes" made of rocks he broke mid-fight.