It seemed Metz was not to be forced to kill to pass the first round of the tournament, a fact for which he was incredibly grateful, as he was returned to the lobby mid-way through his casting. He took a moment to comprehend his situation, holstering his pistol in bemusement as he left arm hung lifelessly and dripped blood on the stone. His knees almost buckled then, as mana burned out of his system and the pain shot through him and his energy levels flagged dangerously. He wasn’t in great condition for only the first round, and he was down two vials of mana. His right arm clutched his wound, looking around at those who had been lucky enough or strong enough to survive their own conflicts. It was a small bunch, the winged armoured man had unsurprisingly survived, and one of the masked men who was also to be his next enemy. Metz barely comprehended his surroundings as he grew faint headed from blood-loss and his come down from his use of mana. He was led by the arm by one of the Nexus’ staff, taken into some sort of rejuvenating chamber that replicated a spell of his own design. If he had still had any pure mana left he would have been able to heal himself, but only black mana remained to him.

Or so he thought, as inexplicably as his senses returned and his body healed he discovered two pure mana vials at his belt. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he were to look in his pistol he would find it fully loaded, and made a mental note to check before combat. It seemed this tournament indeed followed some unusual rules, and one of those was an element of fair-play that kept combatants like him who burned through their recourses fully stocked. It was an interesting advantage he had gained.

“Thanks.” Metz said to his guide who had helped him. 

“Hopefully I’ll be back, and I’ll be able to get more information from Skallagrim.”

He disappeared in a flash, his mind on thoughts of battle.