The roar of the crowd choked on itself, then erupted anew, a surge of incredulous shouts crashing against the grand dais. Tariq, still glowing faintly with the void’s stolen power, stood amidst the scattered petals and stunned Sultans, his gaze fixed on the gleaming tournament bracket. Before an elder dignitary could stammer a protest, a golden-armored Imperial herald, face pale as bleached parchment, stammered, “By the sacred protocols of the Shard-Seeker’s Blade… any who reach the dais may register for the Grand Weave Tournament.” He gestured weakly towards the colossal arena that stretched beyond, its sand-dusted floor already humming with latent magic. “Provided they can meet the entry criteria.” [“Aha! Observe, dear Zariyah. Even *you* cannot argue with ancient bureaucracy. Though I suspect you’d try. My recordings indicate a 97% success rate for your defiance.”] Zariyah flicked an imperious hand at the peacock, who had landed on her shoulder with a terrified squeak. “Silence, Pavan. And you, Echo. His criteria is *me*.” She swept a gaze over the aghast nobles, her lips curling with a disdain that could freeze desert dunes. “My champion’s criteria is that he has chosen to grace you with his presence.” Her tone dared anyone to argue. No one did. Tariq, for his part, offered a curt, unceremonious nod to the herald. The man nearly fainted with relief, fumbling a registration slate and a stylus into Tariq’s hand. Tariq scrawled his name, the void-fire in his eyes momentarily flaring, before stepping off the dais and marching directly into the arena, ignoring the gasps and frantic whispers. “The audacity!” Faridah al-Masri shrieked, her voice thin with fury from her VIP box overlooking the main stage. “That’s *my* apprentice! He’s an invalid! He cannot compete!” Zariyah’s head snapped towards Faridah, a glacial smile stretching her lips. “Your apprentice, you say? How strange. My champion has no recollection of such an inferior tutor.” She took a slow, deliberate sip from her jade teacup, the scent of rare spice drifting delicately. “Perhaps you should consult a memory weaver, al-Masri. The years have clearly not been kind to your intellect.” Faridah’s face contorted, but she was cut off by the booming voice of the Grand Vizier announcing the first round. “The Challenger Tariq al-Rhasad, against Lord Nazir of the House of the Gilded Scythe!” The lord, a man whose paunch preceded him by a full foot, strutted into the arena, his robes embroidered with shimmering threads of wealth. He wielded a ceremonial loom-staff, tipped with a massive, uncut sunstone. He sneered at Tariq, who stood with his bare hands, utterly devoid of equipment. “Look at this wretch! Beggar’s rags! He’ll be lucky to conjure a dust bunny, let alone a weave!” Zariyah took another theatrical sip of tea, relishing the moment. “Oh, Pavan,” she cooed, stroking the peacock’s head. “Such poor taste in opponents. He looks like a particularly rotund sand-midge.” Pavan trembled. “But Mistress, his family controls the Oasis of Qadir! His gem-dust weaves are said to be… quite substantial.” “Substantial as a pile of camel droppings,” Zariyah scoffed. “Watch.” Lord Bakhar began his weave, a complex sequence of hand gestures, chanting in a deep, guttural tongue. Veins of golden light began to trace intricate patterns in the air, forming a colossal, snarling sand-lion, its eyes burning with amber dust. It roared, a sound that vibrated through the arena, and lunged towards Tariq. Tariq simply raised a hand. No chant, no elaborate gestures, no gem-dust visible. Just a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist. A ripple, like heat haze off a summer road, emanated from his palm. It touched the magnificent sand-lion. The creature didn’t crumble, didn’t break apart. It *vanished*. Instantly. Vaporized. Like it had never existed. The golden light, the intricate patterns, the snarl – all gone. The only thing left was the faint smell of ozone and a bewildered opponent, his jaw hanging open, his loom-staff clattering to the ground. A stunned silence fell over the crowd, heavier than a sandstorm. Then, a solitary, wild cheer erupted, quickly followed by a thousand more. The sound was deafening, a tide of pure, unadulterated shock and delight. Zariyah smiled, a triumphant, self-satisfied curve of her lips. She took a dainty bite of a crystallized date. “Mediocre,” she declared to Pavan. “Truly, what was he even trying to achieve?” [“Your performance review for this scenario: ‘Crushing it with casual disdain.’ Progress towards Alpha-Zariyah override: 0.00001%.”] His next opponent, the elegant Lady Sora, renowned for her 'Siren's Whisper' weaves that charmed and disoriented, stepped forward. She began weaving, and the air around Tariq began to ripple with seductive, glittering mist, forming phantom figures that danced and beckoned. Tariq didn’t even look at her. He simply tilted his head; a solitary strand of void-infused energy, thinner than a spider silk, shot out from his ear, sliced through the mist, and vaporized the entire illusion. Lady Sora stumbled back, her face aghast, her reputation in tatters. The crowd’s excitement intensified, a fever pitch of adoration for this unknown combatant who so effortlessly shattered the established order. Zariyah clapped once, sharply. “A wasted effort. Her weaves were about as convincing as Faridah’s tears.” The third contender, Master Javid, a stout scholar from the Loom’s most ancient house, tried a defensive weave – a fortress of diamond-hard crystallized air. It shimmered with ancient runes, designed to absorb and deflect. Tariq simply walked towards it. As his hand approached, the entire fortress, a bulwark that had repelled countless attacks, buckled, cracked, and then imploded into nothingness with a soft hiss, leaving Javid blinking in utter confusion. “He didn’t even *touch* it!” a Sultan’s consort shrieked from the royal box. The arena was a maelstrom of cheers and scattered, terrified applause. Zariyah, however, had turned her attention to Pavan. “Pavan, my feathery friend,” she murmured, her voice laced with honey. “A little birdie tells me our dear Faridah has some… misplaced property. In her VIP tent. I believe it would be most beneficial if you were to retrieve it. Quietly, of course.” Pavan’s clockwork eyes whirred in alarm. “Mistress! That’s… that’s Faridah’s private tent! It’s crawling with guards! She’ll have me dismantled!” “Nonsense,” Zariyah sniffed. “You are a master of stealth. A silent shadow. Besides, think of the tea. Premium, rare vintage. If Tariq clears this tournament, you’ll be swimming in it. And a fresh supply of polished gears for your… delicate constitution.” At the mention of fresh gears and premium tea, Pavan’s fear warred with avarice. His head feathers drooped, then perked up. “Fine. But if I get caught, you owe me a lifetime supply of… candied rose petals!” With a nervous flap of his wings, the clockwork peacock zipped off, a blur of polished bronze, heading towards the elaborate, heavily guarded tent of Faridah al-Masri. Pavan slipped through a gap in the tent’s rear flap, his metallic claws making barely a sound on the plush rugs. The tent was opulent, overflowing with embroidered cushions, silver hookahs, and stacks of documents on a low table. Guards stood ramrod straight at the main entrance, but the rear was momentarily clear. Pavan, quivering with terror, darted towards the table. Among the scrolls, he spotted it – the distinctive seal of Tariq’s original patent designs for the ‘Sun-Jewel Filtration System.’ He carefully hooked a claw around the scroll, trying to pull it free. It was stuck beneath a stack of other papers. He tugged, harder. The stack shifted. Beneath it, an unsealed parchment, its script frantic and bold, caught his eye. The words 'Sultan’s Demise' and 'Frame al-Rhasad' leaped out, emblazoned over a detailed blueprint of the Zarand Imperial Loom’s core. Assassination. And a frame-up. For Tariq. Pavan gasped, a tiny metallic clatter. This wasn’t just about patents! His claws, suddenly clumsy with panic, snagged the edge of the table. A towering, antique suit of ceremonial battle armor, standing silent sentry in the corner, swayed precariously. Pavan tried to steady it, flapping his wings wildly, but it was too late. The heavy gauntlet arm swung outwards, then crashed with a deafening clang against the polished tent pole. The sound reverberated through the tent like a thunderclap. “Intruder!” a voice bellowed from outside. Heavy boots pounded. Pavan froze, documents clutched tight. Footsteps rushed towards the tent flap. Faridah herself, her face a mask of rage, burst through, her eyes narrowed onto the fallen armor, then directly to Pavan and the incriminating documents. A chilling smile spread across her face. “Playing hide-and-seek, little bird?” she hissed. With a swift, almost imperceptible motion, she pressed a hidden button on a gold-encrusted side table. Deep within the arena, a section of Tariq’s fighting platform hissed open, and a torrent of blinding, toxic black gem-dust erupted, instantly engulfing him. The sudden cloud swallowed Tariq whole. The dust was thick, choking, and as it settled around him, his eyes, those vibrant, void-fire orbs, flickered, then went dark. He was blind.

Vaporized Egos