The tournament began with a bark and a burst of color.

  Across the courtyard, the largest hovering screen flickered once, then burst to life in a wash of light. Lines and names assembled into a neat lattice — the tournament bracket, glowing faintly against the overcast sky. A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd as contestants found their pairings.

  Then came the true opening act.

  Tish and Tosh burst onto the stage, their tiny claws scratching against the wood as they bounded toward the center, satin ribbons fluttering, signs clutched proudly in their teeth.

  “Match #1 – Top 16 Qualifier,” the cards read in bold blue ink.

  Stella jogged behind them, laughing as the camera drone swooped low to follow their parade. The hovering lens caught the pair perfectly — two bright smudges of fur prancing in sync beneath the arching ash branches. The feed broadcast across every suspended screen, and a chorus of delighted cheers rolled through the courtyard.

  Jeremiah couldn’t help but smile. The way Stella coaxed the pups into a twirl and a hop, their little costumes bouncing with each step. It was ridiculous and absolutely perfect.

  Then Stella lifted both hands, and the puppies reared up on their hind legs, spinning in awkward little hops, signs wobbling but never falling. The crowd melted — a roar of laughter, applause, and awws echoing off the brick.

  Jeremiah shook his head and chuckled.

  When did she teach them that? he thought to himself.

  It had to have been during one of the garden lessons — he thought he would have noticed them practicing during shop hours.

  When the pair finally dropped back to all fours, they bounded offstage at full tilt, barreling toward him and Milo, who sat at his side. Jeremiah crouched to meet them, ruffling ears and praising them until both tails wagged hard enough to blur. Milo, ever dignified, accepted their excitement with a slow blink and one approving chuff.

  And just like that, the first matches began.

  On each of the tables to either side of center stage, eight arenas lit at once, their miniature landscapes expanding on their respective screens until they seemed to contain their own worlds — bark hollows, stone ridges, sand pits, and moss beds, each tailored by the Arcadium’s controlling AI system to perfectly replicate the dueling insect’s natural environment.

  Above each, a hovering screen broadcast the fight to the crowd. Beyond the walls, other projections mirrored the feed down Market Street, for those who hadn’t wanted to cram themselves into the courtyard.

  Jeremiah watched the chaos of the opening settle into a steady rhythm as matches began. He lingered for a moment, waiting to see if he would be needed for anything else. When it looked like everything was in order, he rose and drifted from screen to screen, letting the festival’s energy carry him.

  Most of the contestants were children from the neighborhood. Faces Jeremiah recognized from the café or the school groups that had stopped by for garden lessons. Their beetles were sturdy, ordinary things: Greenback Diggers with dull emerald shells, River-line Bombards whose wing covers glistened like old copper, one jittery Fireflicker that kept trying to leap out of its owner’s hand before the match even started. Nothing exotic, just the kind of hardy creatures the neighborhood kids had managed to wrangle from the green belts around town.

  Yet, under the Arcadium’s light, even they seemed transformed, each motion or clash magnified into spectacle. Jeremiah could already see groups forming, crouched along table edges, voices rising with every scrape and shuffle, cheering the beetles as the creatures butted heads or dug tiny trenches in the packed soil.

  At one arena, two boys shouted encouragement to their beetles, faces red from excitement. One of the insects rolled onto its back and kicked helplessly, and the crowd laughed as its handler frantically blew on it. Another feed showed a pair of broad-shelled lumber beetles locking mandibles and pushing in slow, grinding arcs, their movements deliberate as sumo wrestlers.

  On the table closest to him, one match stood out for the sheer comedy of it. A boy barely taller than Sam stood behind a lumbering Dune Scarab, urging it forward with both hands. The beetle’s smooth amber shell gleamed under the courtyard lights. Nearly the size of Jeremiah’s own Goliath Bark Beetle, it moved with the weight of a miniature boulder, each heavy step kicking up faint clouds through the fine sand of its arena. Opposite it waited a smaller opponent — a sleek, obsidian beetle more than half its size, its shell polished to a smoky shine.

  The crowd expected a quick victory. So did the Scarab, judging by the way it turned lazily, dismissing the smaller beetle entirely. But the black-shelled insect darted low, moving with surprising speed. In an instant, it was under its opponent, and then, with surprising strength, pushed up, flipping the heavier creature onto its back in a single, decisive motion. The scarab’s legs kicked frantically as it tried to regain purchase, but only managed to spin itself in circles for several seconds before dissolving into motes of light as the arena determined the match was over. The courtyard burst into delighted cheers, laughter spilling through the air.

  Not all the duels were that neat, though. Some were just clumsy fun — beetles bumping heads, rolling sideways, or simply refusing to fight at all while their handlers squabbled over rules or whose fault it was. One boy tried bribing his bug with a sugar flake; another scolded his bug like an errant pet. Jeremiah chuckles all the way; the noise and energy were contagious. The entire scene radiated a kind of honest joy that reminded him of adoption day at the shelter.

  Jeremiah grinned at that thought. Things were finally starting to fall into place.

  He took another slow sip of his drink, scanning the lines of active arenas. Each table told a different story: quick matches ending in friendly laughter, longer duels that drew small pockets of onlookers leaning over the rail. Most of the beetles were familiar species. Common, maybe even unremarkable.

  Still, a few creatures made him pause.

  Jeremiah moved with the slow drift of the crowd, weaving between tables as the chorus of cheers and chatter rose and fell around him. Matches blurred together into a pleasant rhythm — sand scuffing, shells colliding, laughter cresting like surf against brick. Then, amid all that noise and motion, a particular match caught his eye.

  At first, he couldn’t say why. The two beetles circling one another were unremarkable at first glance — hardly the sort of pair that drew attention in a courtyard full of duels. One was a speckled River-line Bombard, compact and square-set, its shell a dull green sheen beneath the lamps. Large jaws meant for catching tiny fish and tadpoles snapped threateningly.

  Across the arena, its opponent moved… strangely.

  It wasn’t faster, and it didn’t look stronger. But its every step landed with a weird precision that didn’t seem natural in an insect.

  Jeremiah slowed, the rest of the courtyard fading to a background hum as he leaned closer to the nearest railing. Under the white of the lamps, the smaller beetle’s shell caught flashes of uneven light — dull, bright, dull again — like sunlight scattering off metal. Not the sleek, uniform organic-metallic shell of a Ferrospark Beetle, though. If anything, it looked like a mismatched mosaic of rusted scrap.

  Patches of mottled keratin met plates of burnished metal, fused together in crooked seams. One side shone like polished aluminum, the other like weathered brass.

  The beetle’s opponent lumbered forward, all muscle and confidence. The patchwork creature simply tilted its head and sidestepped with eerie grace.

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  Its handler — the woman in oil-smeared overalls he’d noticed before — grinned as she noticed Jeremiah staring. She turned toward him. “Picked him up behind my garage,” she said. “Little scrap-thief had been gutting an old drone for a week before I caught him. Guess he figured out how to wear it.”

  Jeremiah raised a brow and turned back to the beetle, narrowing his eyes as he tried to figure out what was pricking the back of his mind until it finally clicked.

  The thing moved less like an insect and more like a machine. As it turned, he saw a patch of exposed mesh glimmer between its shell segments — woven copper strands fused directly into the chitin, sparking faintly as it moved. Tiny gears, the color of oxidized brass, clicked in time with its legs.

  He called up a System-scan with a thought.

  ——————?——————

  Scrapforged Beetle

  Grade: G – 1.05

  Mental – (G): 0.20

  Physical – (G): 0.60

  Supernatural – (G): 0.25

  Rarity: Uncommon

  Pedigree: ★★☆

  Ecology:

  A naturally occurring mutation of the common Ironback Scavenger, the Scrapforged Beetle can often be found in ruins and industrial waste zones, and straddles the line between where machine and biology blur. Over time, these beetles ingest and incorporate metallic debris into their carapaces and internal structures, strengthening their exoskeletons and, in rare cases, developing partial mechanical function.

  Specimens at this level exhibit limited internalized machinery — rotary joints, fused cogs, and conductive mesh that allow for enhanced torque and heat resistance. The process is self-sustaining: when injured, the beetle will scavenge additional parts to replace old ones.

  Scrapforged Beetle exhibits unusually high object memory — returning to profitable caches over long intervals — and will “tend” favorite sites by clearing insulation and soil to expose additional metal. Territorial displays involve clacking armored seams and short, low-angle shoves rather than head-on charges.

  Warning: Improperly handled individuals may attempt to “harvest” shiny buckles, buttons, or tool edges.

  ——————?——————

  Jeremiah had to pause for a moment and read the scan for a second time.

  It was a G-1!

  He almost laughed aloud. That grade was usually reserved for far more complex life — cats, dogs, the occasional large reptile. Even the Ferrosparks and his own Goliath Bark Beetle sat comfortably below that line, and he’d had to cross a dimensional threshold to find those.

  He scrolled through the readout once more, eyes narrowing. Granted, given its spread, most of the grade likely came from its ability to incorporate mechanical parts into its body and its object memory. Maybe it made sense in a strange way. The creature had built itself from junk, scavenged its armor plate by plate, and somehow, it remembered the function of what it absorbed.

  Even so, not even the Ferrospark Matron was a true G-1, even if she was close.

  He turned toward the beetle’s handler, curiosity gnawing at him. How lucky did you have to be to stumble across something like that in the middle of the city?

  But while he’d been caught up in the scan, the woman had turned her attention back to the match.

  On the stage, the Scrapforged Beetle lowered its head and drove forward with surprising force. Its shoulder met the Bombard’s chest in a clattering impact that sent sparks skittering across the arena’s sand. The larger beetle bit back, mandibles clamping down hard against the patchwork shell, but all that followed was a hollow metallic clang.

  The blow slid harmlessly off the mismatched plates, as the Bombard staggered, stunned, while the Scrapforged pivoted on jointed legs and flipped the Bombard on its back.

  The woman barked a triumphant laugh. Her opponent’s expression soured immediately.

  There was no way a jaw meant to crack fish scale was getting through refined metal — even if it was stolen scrap.

  He moved on, the crowd’s noise thinning and swelling around him as the Arcadium’s feeds shifted angles. Another odd shape caught him at the far end of the left table — narrow as a finger bone, its body segmented like a stick bug’s, its carapace dull brown streaked with faint green. The insect perched along the edge of its arena, just out of range of its opponent, antennae weaving slow arcs through the air. At first, Jeremiah thought it was a stick bug, but it couldn’t be. Those twig mimics weren’t in the same Order, and this was the Coleoptera Battle League.

  Then it moved.

  Every joint twisting in a seamless ripple, like a rope untangling itself. The motion was too graceful, almost eerie. Its forelegs coiled around a branch above the simulated forest floor, and then around themselves, finding purchase the way a small snake would. Chitin plates along its length overlapped like scales, and where the abdomen met the thorax, the seam opened slightly — flexing far beyond what a normal hinge should allow — before closing again without strain.

  Jeremiah’s scan came alive before he even realized he’d triggered it.

  ——————?——————

  Coiled Willow Beetle

  Grade: G – 1.20

  Mental – (G): 0.55

  Physical – (G): 0.50

  Supernatural – (G): 0.15

  Rarity: Rare

  Pedigree: ★★★

  Ecology:

  These highly intelligent insects possess a remarkable degree of flexibility. Instead of rigid plates, their exoskeletons consist of interlocking chitin rings bound by thin, fibrous tissue, each segment capable of bending and coiling in seamless succession. The result is a creature that moves less like a beetle and more like a living vine.

  This adaptation allows the species to mimic the movements of snakes or creeping vines, its sinuous body swaying with a deceptive grace that makes it nearly impossible to predict in combat — or to catch at all. Specimens display unusual spatial awareness and a degree of tactile learning uncommon in insects, with many being able to repeat complex maneuvers after witnessing them only once.

  Some have even been trained to respond to rhythmic tapping, adjusting their positions in time with the pattern — a behavior likely evolved from surviving storms and forest sway. Their responsiveness makes them popular among street performers, who showcase them as “dancing insects.”

  In the wild, the Coiled Willow Beetle is a patient ambush hunter, indistinguishable from a fallen twig until the moment they strike. They feed on bark mites, moss larvae, and other small detritivores.

  ——————?——————

  Jeremiah cursed under his breath.

  Another G-1?! And this one’s apparently far smarter than any insect has a right to be!

  What was going on here?

  The crowd’s cheers were still echoing through the courtyard when Jeremiah turned back toward the match, eyes narrowing.

  The Coiled Willow Beetle hung suspended from a thin branch of simulated bark, its ringed body swaying in slow, hypnotic arcs. Across from it, the lumber beetle — a squat, flat-backed driller type — shifted uncertainly, antennae twitching.

  Jeremiah turned to look at the Coiled Willow’s handler and was surprised at who he saw.

  The old man from earlier — the one with a gap-toothed grin and a cane crookeder than his back — sat comfortably in a folding chair that looked one bump away from collapse. His face was a roadmap of sun and years, skin bronzed and creased from too many days spent outdoors. His hat hung crooked on his head, and the end of his cane rested lightly against the table’s edge, tapping a steady rhythm that carried just far enough for Jeremiah to catch.

  The man wasn’t even watching the screens. His gaze stayed fixed on the arena, following the beetle’s movements while he tapped and hummed to a song only he could hear. Every few beats, his head bobbed, as though marking the tempo. His foot joined in — tap, tap, tap — thumping against the flagstones with cheerful disregard for the tension building around him.

  Jeremiah leaned against the railing, brow furrowing. At first, he thought the man was just humming to himself. But something felt off. Slowly, as he watched the match progress, he put it together.

  The old man’s foot tapped once. The beetle coiled, muscles flexing beneath its chitinous rings. Tap-tap. It swayed, slow as a pendulum. Tap. It shifted its weight, a hunter tasting the air before the pounce.

  Jeremiah’s chest tightened.

  The teenage boy on the opposite side was sweating bullets, one hand clutched into a fist on the table, the other periodically wiping his face. His beetle — slow, lumbering, blissfully unaware — continued to trundle through the miniature forest, nosing at a fallen twig. The crowd leaned in, murmuring, sensing something but not sure what.

  Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

  The old man’s heel struck down on the final beat, sharp and decisive.

  The Coiled Willow dropped.

  It fell like a striking vine, body uncoiling in a blur of motion. Its forelegs lashed forward, catching the smaller beetle square in the thorax. For a single frozen heartbeat, Jeremiah swore he saw the glint of sunlight off wet steel — then the arena’s safety field pulsed, and the lumber beetle dissolved into harmless motes of light before impact.

  The holographic barrier shimmered once, resetting the field.

  For a breathless second, the courtyard was silent. Then applause broke like a wave. The crowd roared approval, laughter, and whistles echoing off the brick.

  Jeremiah exhaled, then turned back toward the old man.

  The elder sat there with his cane balanced across his lap, the very picture of contentment. His eyes, however, were sharp as glass. He caught Jeremiah looking, and his weathered face cracked into a grin that was equal parts warmth and mischief. He winked.

  Jeremiah blinked.

  The next instant, the man tipped his hat, tapped the cane twice against the arena’s frame, and leaned back in his chair.

  Jeremiah frowned and was going to speak, but before he could, a burst of noise rolled down the line — shouting, the scrape of chairs, and a low bay Jeremiah instantly recognized as Milo.

  The crowd at the far end of the table surged inward, voices rising in confusion.

  Jeremiah straightened. His pulse spiked. Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the show.

  He cast one last glance at the old man. The elder caught his eye, still smiling as if none of it concerned him, and lifted his hand in a friendly wave.

  Jeremiah sighed, shook his head, and turned, pushing through the gathering bodies, following the sound of the disturbance.