Small oil bottles, light enough for even Nia's tiny hands to carry two at a time. Nutty oils, oils pressed from plant seeds, fragrant citrus oils, sardine oil, whale blubber oil—there are countless varieties of oils in the world. Used to soak the wicks of lanterns or to cook food, edible and versatile, oils are an essential part of daily life.
The voice of Nia, the oil merchant, echoes through the streets of Ixtarn, calling out to passersby.
"Buy some oil! Long-burning lantern oil! Zesty lemon oil! Rich peanut oil! Mumu bird oil that makes your skin glow!"
"Hey, little Droko! Bring five bottles of lantern oil up here!"
A voice calls out to Nia, waving from an open window high on a tall building.
"I'll be right there!"
Nia shouts back, glancing up at the window before dashing toward the building's entrance.
Moments later, the clinking of oil bottles in Nia's backpack mixes with the jingling of silver coins being counted as Nia exits the building.
'Sold twenty bottles already today. I can go to the Grand Arena.'
On days with extra time, Nia always visits the Grand Arena at the heart of Ixtarn.
The Circular Grand Arena of Rhaud, the Temple of Rhaud, the Circular Arena, the Great Arena—known by many names, it is a sacred place for gladiators. Built over eight years with chiseled stone bricks, this colossal structure can hold 150,000 spectators.
Its outer walls are made of countless limestone blocks, supported by a framework of steel heavy enough to rival the weight of a mountain.
Inside the arena, intricate mechanical structures powered by magical devices abound: elevators, pulley systems, and mechanisms that raise and lower wooden platforms and sculptures to set the stage for various atmospheres on the central combat platform. Connected to Ixtarn's aqueducts, a system of pipes can fill the arena with water. Another device allows cool water to flow beneath the audience's seats during hot summer days, letting spectators dip their feet while watching the matches.
Aside from a few premium seats closest to the combat platform, ticket prices vary, but anyone with coin can receive a small magical token indicating their seat and enjoy the spectacle.
The Grand Arena, built through the rare cooperation of the nine factions that rule Ixtarn, is divided into nine sections. Paradoxically, despite being a place where countless gladiators blood is spilled and rivals clash, it is the most peaceful location in Ixtarn.
Nia's first visit to the Grand Arena is etched deeply in memory. One day, a customer, unable to attend due to sudden business, handed Nia a ticket to the arena.
That day, Nia finished trading early and trudged toward the arena on weary legs.
Upon entering, Nia was met with the thunderous roar of the crowd, like a storm's rumble. Each swing of a gladiator's sword on the combat platform echoed like a clap of thunder. Nia imagined it was akin to the cry of the great red dragon Katadar.
From that day, a small flame of ambition, like the flicker at the end of a lantern's wick, ignited within Nia.
Nia yearned to become a warrior, to stand on the combat platform and be cheered by 150,000 spectators. From that moment, Nia's path in life changed.
While selling oil bottles, Nia's hand now gripped a roughly carved long stick. Without a master to teach swordsmanship, Nia swung the stick blindly. Even in sleep, Nia's mind battled imaginary foes.
In spare moments, Nia slashed and thrust the stick through the air countless times. No one was there to spar, even when new sword techniques came to mind. On days when business was good, Nia sat in the farthest outer seats of the Grand Arena, watching the arena's gladiators—Nia's teachers and imaginary adversaries.
One year, three years, five years passed, and Nia's opponents remained the gladiators in Nia's mind, the large trees and rocks on Ixtarn's outskirts, and the open night sky where Nia could swing freely. Yet, even after all this time, Nia's resolve to master the sword never wavered.
*****
In Ixtarn's Artisan Street, deep in an alley, Nia stood in a small forge. The scorching heat from the furnace blasted Nia's face with every pump of the bellows. The relentless clang of hammers on anvils rang in Nia's ears, mingling with the hissing of heated metal plunged into water—a cacophony that proclaimed the bustling vitality of Artisan Street.
"Hey, Nia! Here to gawk at that sword again? I told you it's too big for you." said a dwarf, his beard, face, and arms smudged with charcoal stains.
"Dwarf Rambadil, I'm not here to look today. Sell me that sword."
Nia replied, holding out a pouch bulging with gold coins toward the blacksmith Rambadil.
"What?! You crazy Droko, you actually gathered that much money? How?!" Rambadil dropped his hammer, eyes wide and mouth agape, as he rushed toward Nia. He untied the pouch and peered inside.
"Sold oil bottles and ate less." Nia said.
"No way… that's not money you can just scrape together like that…"
"I saved 180 gold coins. I'm buying the best sword you've made, Rambadil."
"Alright… I'll sell it. But listen to me first, Nia." Rambadil said, raising both palms to calm Nia down.
"Then I'll leave this gold pouch here." Nia replied.
"Fine, fine. You worked hard to save this much. I know you want to grab that sword and run out right now, but give me ten days. It seems we'll need a special mechanism for you to wield it, and I need time to finish it for its new owner."
Rambadil calmed Nia, who was ready to bolt with the sword, and glanced at the long two-handed sword hanging behind the display.
The unnamed sword, both cherished and resented… Years ago, driven by some whim, Rambadil had scoured ports to buy Bareil steel ingots from a metal merchant, vowing to craft the finest sword of his life. Bareil steel softens at higher temperatures than ordinary steel, so Rambadil modified the forge, used premium Banya wood charcoal, and even employed a magic stone device to intensify the flames, hammering the red-hot Bareil steel into the sword now before them.
Yet Rambadil felt it was incomplete. The blade's balance, sharpness, and the harmony of its hilt were close to perfection but not quite the ultimate sword. For reasons he couldn't pinpoint, it stood on the edge of greatness, nagging at him.
'Better to sell it and at least recoup the material costs.' he had thought, hanging it on a corner wall of the forge. But the exorbitant cost of Bareil steel and the forge modifications meant the sword's price—180 gold coins—was steep.
It wouldn't sell. Perhaps due to lingering attachment, Rambadil never actively promoted the sword's quality or expensive materials to curious customers, only stating its price: "180 gold coins."
Time passed, the sword's significance fading into a foggy corner of Rambadil's mind—until Nia presented the pouch of gold coins. Suddenly, the sword's image sharpened in Rambadil's eyes.
Not as a blade hanging on the shabby forge's wall, but as a weapon journeying with its true owner across unfamiliar lands.
Fearing the vision might vanish, Rambadil handed the gold pouch back to Nia, asking to meet again in ten days. He retrieved the sword from the wall and thrust it into the furnace.
Rambadil pulled out Banya charcoal from the warehouse's corner, where it had waited for its moment. For ten days, he didn't leave the forge. He hammered, polished, and adorned the sword, striving to create a blade worthy of the blacksmith god Kroomgadi.
When the time came, Rambadil named the sword Little Red Dragon(小赤龍), symbolizing its owner, and engraved his heart into the blade before placing it in Nia's hands.
"This sword was forged with what might be my last spark, Nia. Keep that in mind and wield Little Red Dragon well!"
Rambadil's voice, tinged with reluctance, carried to Nia along with the sword.
From that day, Little Red Dragon never left Nia's side. Even in imaginary battles with closed eyes, Nia no longer held a stick but Little Red Dragon. For a short time, Nia wielded the two-handed sword, larger than Nia's own height, and fought in the arena, dancing on the edge of life and death.
Reflecting on those moments, Nia slowly lowered the raised sword, gazing at it.
"I have to win today's match. I must fight without shame before my god Katadar and your god Kroomgadi, 180 gold coins!"
Under the lantern's light, the sword named Little Red Dragon gleamed an even deeper red.
Nia steadied quickened breaths and sat, calming a restless mind before the match with Doaju. Countless arena battles Nia had witnessed flashed through memory.
Slash, thrust, parry, counter, dodge, retreat. In Nia's mind, an imagined Doaju and Nia clashed, wielding the long two-handed sword, when a sound interrupted.
Creak
"Nia Calagon, please prepare. The combat platform is almost ready." said a member of the Trea caravan, clad in a dark robe, peeking through the waiting room door.
"I'm ready." Nia replied, opening eyes wide with determination.
"When your name is called, the large door over there will open. Walk toward the combat platform."
"Got it!"