The air hung heavy with ash and heat, the earth beyond this grand hall little more than a charred wasteland. Yet inside the cavernous, theater‑like arena, brilliant lights blazed to life, igniting a rush of excitement. Guests of every station poured through the doors—silk‑clad elites brushing shoulders with downtrodden laborers whose tattered garments whispered of hardship. Giant screens loomed overhead, broadcasting both the central stage and the bustling foyer in real time. From hidden speakers, a booming voice reverberated:
"Welcome, everyone, to the most electrifying night of the year: the Faulty Tilt Draft!"
Groups of attendees mingled until attention swiveled toward a crimson carpet, cordoned off by sleek stanchions and guarded by solemn sentries. Flashbulbs popped as a throng of prospective fighters, all clad in black suits and ties—some crisply tailored, others ill‑fitting—emerged through the guarded entrance. Cameras clicked and whirred.
"Behold the prospects!" the announcer continued. "They're en route to the exhibition gym. If you're unfamiliar with the draft procedure, here's how it works: each contender will showcase both physical prowess and mental acuity. They'll be scored—up to 11 points—across nine categories: speed, strength, durability, fighting skill, intelligence, strategic insight, endurance, stamina, and willpower. The theoretical maximum total is 99—though legends have dared to reach 100. Once graded, they'll be ranked, and team owners will select fighters in turn until their rosters are full!"
Inside the sunlit gym, lockers stood ready. One by one, the newcomers shed their jackets and pressed them into metal compartments, revealing a riot of athletic wear—tank tops, tees, shorts, and sweatpants in every hue. A cornucopia of forms filled the space: a lithe carp‑man with golden scales, a sharp‑eared feline humanoid, even a noble centaur and hulking Minotaur. Amid them, a young man with disheveled brown hair peeled off his suit shirt, exposing sculpted shoulders and a flat abdomen. He wore a jet‑black tank and matching shorts.
"I'm never wearing one of those things again," he grumbled, tugging at his stiff collar. Several nearby competitors exhaled in solidarity.
A hush fell as the announcer's voice floated back in: "A room brimming with ambition! Remember, prospects: pick up your name tags from the table at the far end."
The brown‑haired youth spun on his heel—too quickly—and scattered a cascade of potato chips across the polished floor. Heads turned.
"Seems a prospect has dropped... snacks?" the announcer teased.
Without a pause, the youth stepped over the crunchy mess as though it were air. He reached the table, plucked up his badge—"Shade Shaid"—and clipped it to his chest.
"Shade Shaid," the voice chided. "Already making a mess and showing no remorse? Confidence is admirable, but this isn't the best look."
Undeterred, Shade strode from the locker area, slipping past a towering man who scowled but did not block his path.
"Shade Shaid is already ruffling feathers," the announcer quipped. "What an audacious prospect!"
Moments later, all were arrayed in their exercise gear, name tags gleaming against their chests.
"Prospects!" called the announcer once more. "First up: the intelligence evaluation. Follow the signs to the testing chambers."
Most competitors streamed toward the marked doors. Shade, however, marched ahead and collided with the slender, orange‑scaled carp‑man whose tag read "Shi Ji." The fish‑like athlete pitched onto his side, stunned. Shade merely paused, hovering for a beat.
"Oops—sorry, did I knock you over?" Shade drawled, brushing invisible dust from his tank top.
Shi Ji rubbed his arm. "You're Shade Shaid."
Shade's lips curved. "You know my name already? Am I famous?"
The carp‑man hauled himself upright. "You spilled chips all over the lobby and barreled into the biggest guy here without so much as an apology."
Shade shrugged. "Hey."
Shi Ji blinked. "H‑Hey...?"
Shade glanced upward. "Got a hair tie?"
"Um... yeah." Shi Ji fumbled in his pocket and produced a simple black elastic. Shade snatched it awkwardly—his vision obscured by his unruly fringe—and bound his hair into a tight bun, green eyes now uncovered.
"Much better," Shade sighed. "I could hardly see."
Shi Ji frowned. "So you really were blind?"
"Of course," Shade said. "You mentioned spilled chips and a grumpy giant, right?"
Shi Ji hesitated. "Y‑yeah?"
Shade's eyes widened. "DAMN IT—MY CHIPS! I could've sworn I stashed them back in my locker."
Shi Ji shook his head. "You couldn't have been that blind—were you deaf, too?"
"My hair's thick." Shade glared for a moment before jumping back. "AH! You're a fish!"
Shi Ji blinked. "You just noticed?"
"Sorry," Shade mumbled, scanning the floor. "I was too busy mourning my snacks. Shi Ji, right?"
"Precisely."
Shade clapped him on the shoulder. "Nice to meet you, fish dude. Good luck on the test!" He jogged off. Shi Ji watched him go.
"He's headed the wrong way..." Shi Ji murmured. But seconds later Shade came bounding back.
"That exit leads outside!" he called over his shoulder. "The test rooms are this way!" And off he sprinted once more, leaving a bewildered Shi Ji to follow.
For the next several hours, the trials pressed on without mercy. First came the intelligence examination: a dense, paper‑bound gauntlet of trivia, arithmetic puzzles, and critical‑reading prompts. Some contenders furrowed their brows, hesitating over each question; others stamped through the pages like seasoned scholars. Shade Shaid stared bewildered at a particularly diabolical math problem, while Shi Ji methodically scribbled answers as though recalling lessons from birth.
Next, the speed trial: a grueling half‑million–meter dash around the colossal track. A few competitors blitzed ahead before flagging halfway; others wobbled then collapsed. Shade found his stride—fast enough to challenge leaders, steady enough not to burn out—yet still watched in quiet frustration as a lithe man with sapphire cat ears overtook him, crossing the finish without a pause. Shi Ji, by contrast, huffed his way to the rear, lungs on fire.
By the time the strength segment began—benches heaving from mere five‑pound dumbbells to monstrous weights measured in the hundreds of thousands—Shi Ji struggled even with the lightest bars, arms trembling like reeds in a storm. Shade, by contrast, breezed through each lift, beads of sweat playing on his brow but never slowing his form.
When the break finally arrived, water bottles clinked and hushed conversations drifted through the air. Shi Ji lay sprawled on his back, muscles quivering, eyes half‑closed against the ceiling's glare. Shade approached, towered above him, eyebrows raised.
"Shi Ji," Shade called, voice echoing slightly. "Long time no see. You okay?"
"I'm... fine..." Shi Ji croaked.
"No way—you look nearly dead!"
"Those... tests were... brutal..."
Shade tapped his temple. "I thought they were easy."
Shi Ji shot him a weak glare. "Of course you did. Have you looked at yourself?"
Shade chuckled. "My master always said, 'You're a coward if all you do is lie on your back and complain!'"
"That's... hardly motivational."
"He also said, 'You'll never get what you want if you don't fight for it!'"
"Who... is your master, anyway?"
"He's— "
A voice crackled over the intercom. "Break's over, prospects! Next up: stamina training. To the chambers!"
Shi Ji groaned. "I barely got rest..."
Shade shrugged. "Man, you're soft. Why sign up if you're not built for this?"
"I made... a promise." Shi Ji reached up; Shade grabbed his hand and hauled him upright.
"Promises, huh? I never make them—too restrictive. But under the right fire, they can forge steel." Shade's grip was firm as he lifted the carp‑man to his feet.
Shi Ji's green eyes glinted with resolve. "Exactly why I can't quit."
They returned to the track, its surface still warm from the earlier dash.
"Endurance test: run until the last person falls. Go!" boomed the announcer.
Feet pounded the asphalt; competitors fanned out in a relentless tide. Shi Ji lagged behind, each stride slower than the last.
I have to be drafted... I deserve this... his thoughts raced, limbs heavy.
I didn't come all this way to give up now... but exhaustion pulled him down, step by laborious step.
I'll find a path to the top, no matter my weakness... His vision fluttered shut.
A montage of memories exploded behind his eyelids: he and his parents by a roaring waterfall—his father, orange‑scaled and mustachioed; his mother, a blue‑scaled beauty with long lashes—laughing as they darted through the spray. Overlaid came his father's gentle baritone:
"We only want a better life for you. One day, you'll enter the Faulty Tilt. Win it all, and your life will be richer than ours could ever dream."
Shi Ji blinked into another scene—his mother's encouraging smile:
"The Faulty Tilt is far away, but you're strong, my son. Even if you don't win, know that we're proud of you."
Then chaos: a harpoon plunged into his father's chest, blood blossoming on stone. Shi Ji's scream ripped free:
"FATHERRR!"
A cloaked assailant stood atop the river's boulder, impassive, before lunging another harpoon. His mother hurled herself between them, taking the blow to her heart. She drifted toward Shi Ji, voice rasping through blood:
"Promise me... you will join the Faulty Tilt... We will always protect you... You deserve more... I love—"
Her words were silenced as a final harpoon pinned her through the skull. Her body went limp, bobbing in the water. The mysterious figure's silhouette loomed, haloed by the waterfall's mist, before fading.
Shi Ji sank into dark water, memories swirling as he blinked through infinite landscapes: arid desert suns burning his feet, icy tundras numbing his flesh, infernal plains scorching him with each step, downpours in dense jungles where unseen predators stalked, and finally crawling on bleeding knees toward a towering spire that pierced the clouds. Then—snap—he awoke.
"Shi Ji!" Shade's voice cut through the fog. A hand waved before Shi Ji's face. He lay on his back, consciousness flickering.
"Shade? Wh... what happened?"
"You passed out. The stamina test ran for twelve hours straight."
"Twelve hours?!" Shi Ji gaped.
"Yeah. Some people—myself included—kept going. I think it ended in a tie." Shade twisted open a water bottle and dribbled the icy liquid over Shi Ji's brow. Shi Ji bolted upright, gasping.
"Better?"
"Needed that," Shi Ji sighed, wiping his face.
"Don't thank me." Shade hauled him to his feet. "You mentioned promises—I won't let yours die here. Enemy or not, I want to see why you cling to it so fiercely."
Shi Ji managed a shaky smile. "Thank you."
Shade grinned. "My master also said, 'You can't do this alone—loneliness is the formula for failure.' Stick with me."
"Your master's... interesting."
"Some call him crazy." Shade clapped Shi Ji on the shoulder. Together, they strode toward the next chamber, ready for the trials to come.
A widescreen monitor in a sleek studio switched away from the draft chaos to a polished debate roundtable. Three commentators sat beneath bright lights: a burly, bald man with a pencil‑thin mustache; a lean fellow with long, silken hair and narrow, observant eyes; and a towering figure whose tousled blond hair framed a sharp, weathered face.
From off‑camera, the show's announcer chimed in: "Now on to our debate segment: THE FAULTY CHAT!"
The bald man cleared his throat. "Good evening, I'm Willis Plum."
The long‑haired host inclined his head. "I'm Devin Fergo."
The tallest of the trio leaned back with a half‑smile. "Ducky Morris here."
Willis tapped the table impatiently. "Tonight's hot topic: who truly deserves the G.O.A.T title in Faulty Tilt history."
Devin sighed theatrically. "Oh boy..."
Behind them, a screen flickered to life, displaying four shadowy silhouettes.
Ducky frowned. "Willis, why are we even rehashing this—?"
"Because you lot won't hear my points!" Willis exploded.
Devin rolled his eyes. "For the last time, Willis—"
"Enough talk," Willis snapped. "Let's break down the contenders."
With a click, the first silhouette resolved into an aging titan: gray ponytail, rippling muscles still taut beneath weathered skin, a grin like a gator's and eyes as unblinking as a charging bull.
Willis leaned forward. "First up—the G.O.A.T: Bryn Foldin. Undefeated in his career, and he dragged that underdog team all the way to the championship. His footwork was poetry, his strikes relentless—absolutely unstoppable!"
Ducky groaned. "Here we go again..."
Devin held up a hand. "Statistics aside, Bryn's era was different. Today's fighters have studied him, adapted his style. He wouldn't breeze through now like he did then."
Willis slammed his palm. "Nonsense—he'd still reign undefeated!"
"Really?" Devin challenged. "You're ignoring evolution. Modern prospects have watched every move he made. They've learned, innovated, surpassed."
Willis huffed. "Show me one flawless run today, then we'll talk."
Devin smirked. "Watch this." The second silhouette sharpened into a younger man, long white hair tied in twin ponytails, a crimson‑pupiled glare beneath a battered eyepatch.
Ducky ventured, "Mid‑Eum—"
"In. The. Name," Willis interrupted, "he's mid."
Ducky blinked. "You sound ridiculous."
Willis snorted. "Mid‑Eum's a joke—five finals appearances, zero titles."
"Stats matter," Devin replied, leaning closer. "He's the all‑time knockout king. Bryn never even came close to his total bouts."
Willis chortled. "Longer career, Devin! Five years versus Bryn's two. Bryn's still the tournament champ record-holder."
Devin tapped his notes. "Numbers don't lie. Bryn tallied 1,635 knockouts and 923 wins in two years—600 of those tournament bouts. Mid‑Eum has 10,921 K.O.s and 635 wins, with 214 tournament victories in five years."
Ducky interjected. "And Willis, you always brag about Bryn carrying his team—"
Willis's lip curled. "Yeah—because it's impressive! Mid‑Eum collapsed under finals pressure last year. He's the biggest choker in Faulty Tilt history—pathetic!"
Ducky held up a hand. "Alright—"
Willis leaned back, eyes blazing. "I'd beat him myself. He's just a flashy brawler who can't close the deal."
"Unintentional cheating?" Devin laughed. "He's been outplayed, fooled by trick plays—that's not cheating."
Willis exploded. "Cheating, no cheating—he never delivers! Excuses, excuses. I'm done defending that fraud."
Ducky cleared his throat. "The moment he wins a championship, he can shove it where the sun doesn't shine—"
Willis barked a laugh. "He'll probably die in the ring first!"
The third silhouette emerged: an ancient warrior with a braided beard trailing past his toes and eyes that had seen centuries.
Ducky chuckled. "Dick Paint—"
All three burst into laughter.
Willis wiped a tear from his eye. "Alright, I concede—Paint was G.O.A.T for the old‑timers who don't even tune in anymore."
Devin nodded. "He was legendary in his day. But he'd be obliterated now."
Willis waved him off. "Back then it was hobos and street urchins—no powers. He just got lucky."
Ducky shrugged. "True."
Devin gestured upward. "Which brings us to the fourth silhouette."
On cue, a fresh figure came into focus: a lean young man with short, sky‑blue hair and storm‑dark eyes.
Devin's voice brightened. "Nalcolm Signa."
Ducky's grin widened. "Projected number‑one pick. He's aced every test so far—an unblemished eleven across the board. If he keeps this up, we'll see our sixth-ever perfect 100 overall fighter."
Willis snorted. "In your dreams, Ducky."
Devin arched an eyebrow. "Why the cynicism?"
Willis leaned forward, voice low. "Because I don't see it. At best, he's another all‑star."
Ducky laughed. "Keep saying that—remember how right you've been the last ten times."
A final chime sounded. "That wraps our FAULTY CHAT. Back to the prospects in the draft!"
Cutting back to the gym's lounge, tired contenders slumped in chairs, whispering about the next—and final—trial: the fight‑skill test. Silence fell as each prepared to face the arena one last time.
Shade and Shi Ji settled on a pair of folding chairs at the gym's edge. Shade cracked open a party‑sized bag of onion‑flavored chips, the tangy aroma curling around them.
"Aren't you pumped?" Shade grinned, diving for a handful of crisps. "We're finally at the moment we came here for—fighting."
Shi Ji's shoulders tensed. "I—I'm not exactly the best fighter..."
"Too bad." Shade tossed another chip into his mouth. "Hope you don't draw some mountain of muscle as your opponent."
"Draw?" Shi Ji frowned.
"Yeah." Shade winked. "When I was a kid, the fighting portion was the only thing I watched. It's hypnotic—two prospects, matched at random, throwing everything they've got at each other."
"Two... people actually fight?" Shi Ji's voice cracked.
"Yup," Shade said, crunching. "You'll be fine—so long as you've got a gimmick."
"A gimmick?" Shi Ji's brow furrowed.
"In Faulty Tilt, gimmicks are everything. Special powers or abilities that give you an edge—guaranteed. You either inherit them or get them awakened by a Gimmick Master, those ancient warriors who live only for this tournament."
Shi Ji swallowed hard. "Do you have one?"
"Nope." Shade smirked. "But I don't need one—I've got techniques my master taught me. Still, I'd have to have my gimmick awakened to seal the deal. Folks born with a gimmick are lucky—they can even inherit two!"
"How... how does that work?" Shi Ji's eyes widened.
Shade shrugged, wiping crumbs from his lap. "An inherited gimmick doesn't count as your 'own.' Only the one awakened under your name is truly yours. So you can hold two, but only one is unique."
Shi Ji nodded slowly, absorbing every word.
A voice crackled over the loudspeakers: "Prospects! Prepare for the final test! It may run long, depending on fight durations—thank you for your patience!"
Shade popped another chip and elbowed Shi Ji. "Ready?"
Shi Ji inhaled, chest tightening with both dread and determination. "As ready as I'll ever be."