-Joshua-
The morning light had already been seeping into his apartment when Joshua had finally crawled into bed last night. He'd been up far too late and felt a little ill. After writing an email to his boss explaining that he was taking a sick day he crashed hard.
It wasn't quite two when he gave up trying to sleep more. Joshua gave himself a thorough cleaning and then his place a cursory one. After a meal of the remaining leftovers, he messaged Brandon. Brandon replied right away and they shared their frustration at their in-game separation. Despite vowing to fix it, Brandon said he couldn't play that night.
Joshua was trying to schedule them meeting on Saturday when Brandon stopped replying. Joshua was left waiting for confirmation as to where and when, eventually deciding to no longer wait for a reply.
Sliding into the recliner's embrace, he powered up the ISR box. He hung there until it caught before slipping into phase with the waves. Joshua surfed the logos, carving with speed towards Life.
-Loader-
The awareness-loading phase was a pulsing stream of familiarity. Known sensations curling over the shore of consciousness rapidly. The same insects buzzed, the same bird sung, the same tree stood sentinel. As with every other time he loaded, he walked to the tree.
He didn’t see it. Not at first.
Leaning against the tree was a dark gray staff. Iron shod and familiar, he started to reach for it but stopped himself. He did not know exactly what this place was, nor what the effect would be if he took it. It seemed safe here. Safe for him and safe for it. It bothered him though, this intrusion upon his world. It didn't matter that it was his missing loot, it had got there somehow besides him. Which meant something else could access his place.
The anxiety seemed foolish, he already knew the system monk had access. Surely it was fine and the mental itch was just paranoia. Not without a few hesitations, he put his hand to the tree and not the staff.
Life let him in.
-Harding-
Harding’s first action was to find Brother Richards. The emotional weight of the last day had lessened, leaving only a few crumbs of anxiety in the corners of his mind where time had yet to sweep. The lingering injuries had subsided too, though sudden facial movements still pulled skin against strangely. The wounds were still red and a bit puckered but they no longer leaked. Though now he had a migrating bruise.
Quality of care mattered.
After a lengthy search, Harding found Brother Roberts on the north side of the temple in the Solar garden. Tufts of tall grasses dotted the garden to add contrast to the display of the mineral diversity. Though the garden was predominantly made from stone, the main feature of the garden was a long and narrow pool in its middle. The water shimmered in the sun between the many large stones that broke the surface. The monk he sought sat in meditation on the flat top of one of these stones, the water flowing slow and silent beneath him. As Harding stood on the edge of the waterwork, he peered down into the water to see shadows slowly prowling in the chest-deep water.
Not wanting to disturb Brother Roberts, Harding stepped across a few stones and mimicked the monk's position in silence on his own stone. He turned his focus to the boundaries of his spirit body once more. Harding practiced pushing his spirit out, each time stretching the edge in an attempt to reach further. Over the many repetitions it developed into a pulse. His spirit slacked and strained rhythmically, shivering within its limitations.
Harding started with a sudden panic.
Something foreign had slid through his spirit, alive and seeking. He was still trying to work out the cause when another shadow passed through. Harding gasped quietly and retracted his spirit body.
"Interesting methodology," smirked Brother Richards. Harding could hear his amusement. "But it's cruel to tease them so."
"Tease who?"
"Whom."
"What?"
"Fish."
"I'm lost…"
The monk chuckled before explaining, "The fish. They sense the light spirit density and investigate in hopes of food."
"Oh, Ok. Spirit density? You mean because I'm weak," he asked.
"Not weak, diffused.” Brother Roberts paused to think before suggesting, “Imagine pulling at the edge of fabric. The weave stretches, opening up space between the threads. You are doing something similar with your spirit body."
"And you can see that?"
"Something like that."
"And if I push less it will be denser?"
"Maybe,” the monk tentatively offered. “It was a simplification. You're pushing hard at the boundary, but not engaging through it with the deeper reserve of your spirit. You clutch tightly onto your core."
"Let me guess," sighed Harding. "I need to loosen up."
Brother Roberts smiled. "That is one aspect of life you have yet to learn. However, it is not the sole factor in this."
"What else is wrong," groused Harding.
"Not wrong, just different," the monk assured him. "You have changed your shaping intent."
"My shaping intent?"
"Mmm, just so. Why must you flex in a uniform sphere?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're pushing a hard edge in all directions at once,” the monk explained, making an expanding sphere with both hands. “But while you do this, you are tightly clutching most of your spirit at its core,” he closed one hand to a fist and hid it inside the expanded other hand.
"How do I…"
"Reach for a specific point," Brother Richards guided. "You did this instinctively when working with the voidseed. In practicing without the focus, you have resorted to uniform expansion."
Harding grimaced. With intent he tried to reach down to the bottom of the pool specifically. It took a couple tries to break his developing habits, but he could feel success taking shape.
"Good," his teacher acknowledged. "You're still holding back though. To use the metaphor of the spirit body being magical lungs, you are holding your breath. This will be detrimental in time. Instead, breathe naturally. "
Harding failed.
Harding exhaled in exasperation, "With my lungs or my spirit body?"
Brother Roberts shrugged, ”Control comes from experience. First, you must experience."
Harding playfully sneered. Resetting himself, he tried again. With each exhale he reached out.
"Mmm. Like that, but let yourself sink through the stone instead of combating the distance with your mind," he suggested.
Again, Harding recentered himself and just tried to relax until he sank. It was nearly a minute before he realized he felt lower. He kept going, trying not to become too excited nor focused. The more focus given the exercise the worse the result would become. With each exhale he slipped lower until he felt the bottom of the pool.
"Do not fight yourself," the monk counseled, "Accept."
Harding opened his eyes, having no recollection of closing them. The exercise felt weird. "What is happening when I exhale?"
"Magic."
"I can do magic without a godseed?"
The monk hesitated. "Yes, however, it is unlikely to be what you imagine. These skills are the same actions as what is used to operate a godseed, but without the godseed’s divine authority you have little sway on reality."
This has to be the most frustrating control system ever…
Harding attempted to throw more spirit behind it while trying to not push. It seemed contradictory but he complied.
Brother Roberts knows what he's talking about, I just need to keep at it.
He began repeating the effort. Over and over, just letting it all flow. The fish beneath scattered, their perceived prey having turned to a predator in their eyes as the level of spirit sharply increased.
"You're still holding back," Brother Richards observed.
Harding argued, "But I’ll die if all the spirit leaves me."
The monk snorted. "For all the casters, in all their desperate needs, there has never been a known case of death by self-ejection of spirit. I think you're safe."
Feeling foolish, Harding tried it again. Even knowing it was improbable didn't fully alleviate his reticence.
"A slight improvement. You should keep up your practice, however class starts soon," Brother Roberts informed him, looking towards the entry to the temple.
Harding requested, “Can we do more of this later?” His time in the garden felt more fruitful than all the class time.
The monk smiled. "You are the first of this wave of classes to ask for more work instead of more answers."
That wasn’t an answer…
Brother Roberts walked off but turned to look back from the entryway. "Don't harass the fish too much when you practice. And don't be late."
With that he walked away.
Left alone, Harding attempted to slap the bottom of the pool a few more times and then quit for class. He was unaware of how much time he had sat there, but he found it a little difficult to stand. His legs felt numb and his skin was hot. He suspected it had been longer than he had experienced.
Somehow Harding got to class before Brother Roberts. Sabina and the group were already sitting on the grass in the shade of the great tree. He could hear them chatting from across the garden. The loss of Alina was already diminishing for them.
Maybe she just quit. Someday, we all will.
As Harding walked up Randal waved. Sabina looked up and smiled, then motioned for him to take a seat. "So, like I was saying," she continued, "I think today's class should be short. Let's go to town after."
"I heard there is a Dueling Arena that I want to check out,'' interjected Arnold. "A friend told me that bleacher seats are really cheap but that you can still see well."
Sabina replied, "I was thinking we should explore."
"Like death matches," Ed asked with trepidation, anxiously playing with the grass.
Randal nodded, "The fights are to the death, but they have a giant artifact that rezes them right there."
Arnold looked to Randal with renewed interest, "You've been then?"
"We could shop for weapons too," offered Sabina.
"Yeah, I go down there almost every night," admitted Randal.
Harding hesitated before asking, "What happens when you die, like normally?"
Everyone stopped and looked at him. "That's kinda dark, also that arena sounds gross," declared Sabina.
"I hear you go to hell when you die, like actual hell," murmured Arnold. No one had experience to add.
Sabina turned out to be correct about class. Brother Roberts had them practice and then moved about class observing and correcting. With a voidseed loaned to him from Brother Roberts’ personal collection, Harding demonstrated the first lesson and then the second. He'd been slowly getting it, but the day's work in the Solar garden had been a real breakthrough. He still had to dial in his control, but he was starting to feel some progression.
After going through the exercises appropriate with each student’s learning the monk addressed them as a class. "Classes will resume on Monday at our usual hour. Next week will be the last of this class. From there we will review your many options for further elucidation. Enjoy your weekend."
They quickly ate the bland fare of the temple and exited the grounds.
The arena was called the Grinder. It was a massive brick building that had once served as a mill along the river. Whatever industrial might it once supported had died leaving it a structural corpse. An unnecessary edifice of a past era.
Outside of the entrance was a large bulletin showing when it was open to the public and the price for that night. Friday's listing on the bulletin was ‘Duels Ladder’ in chalk.
Inside there was a foyer that ran the length of the building. It opened the full height of the building, being constructed between interior support walls. Considerable space had been allotted to a grand coffee shop where a crowd loitered. The space smelled of freshly ground coffee which was an appreciated change from the city’s stretch. The baristas were doing rapid sales to both event goers and circulating street traffic. Other vendors filled in the remaining space, offering sundry refreshments and trinkets. These merchants used makeshift stands giving it a feel somewhere between a bazaar and a bake sale.
A few quick stops at vendors found Randal purchasing a warm bag of seasoned nuts while Arnold had bought assorted taffies. Drinks required you to bring your own container, which they happily sold separately, so the group opted to skip it today.
There were two short tunnels connecting the foyer to the main concourse. Both were lined with ticket booths that were little more than barrel tops utilized as tables. They bought their tickets and passed through without event.
Inside the middle expanse was a square, maybe eighty feet per side, of densely packed sand. Bleachers ran from around the square up the walls with only a walkway between them and the arena square. Posts stood every ten feet or so along the edges of the arena, made from little more than a cluster of wire-bound pipes.
High along the walls hung a collection of private suites. They were open fronted, but equipped with heavy privacy curtains. Most were open and vacant. No walkways were apparent from the arena floor to the stands.
The group hunted for good seats in the bleachers. Arnold's excitement was evident. When they were seated, he actively looked about, eyes wide as they soaked in the atmosphere. His enthusiasm was representative of the majority of the crowd, a growing press of eager anticipation. The throng had an energy Harding hadn't felt since first landing in the city. Harding found the concept of the arena interesting and definitely wanted to see how combat-centric people were developing, but he had some trepidation about his possible reaction to the likely level of violence and gore. In contrast to Arnold was Ed, who wore heavy anxiety in place of excitement.
Sabina ignored the setting.
"Class is going to end next week," she lamented to them.
Arnold was huddled with Randal, in their own conversation. "Are there rules," he inquired of Randal.
Harding consoled Sabina, "This is just the introductory course. There will be many more classes and new classmates."
"Really," Sabina asked Harding hopefully.
"Not really,” Randal informed Arnold, “It's to disability or death. Otherwise, the fights are in groups by seed level.”
Arnold had his definite interest, "Powers seem cool, but I heard winning fights is all about establishing solid technique."
Randal leaned forward to look past Harding at Sabina, "It's why our robes are brown."
"What is?"
Harding listened in with interest.
"We aren't part of the temple."
"But we live there."
"We do but we aren't dedicated to Okkor. We haven't even started with the real stuff."
"Oh. You're going to stay right?"
"Yeah, for sure."
Harding didn't know his future, but he was looking to make a change. He couldn't accept inability. His vulnerability felt more of a wound than his face. And he wasn't alone. He knew Arnold was going to start night classes, but he hadn't ever heard him say anything to the rest. Randal being at the arena every night made Harding doubt he was looking for permanent temple tranquility either, no matter what he said.
Harding eyed the pylons along the arena. Randal had said they were part of the magic barrier system and that sitting close was safe. Voidseeds we're supposed to be safe too, however.
Harding harbored skepticism.
"Hey Randal, how effective are these protective barriers really," he asked.
"Pretty good? I've only seen them break a couple times. "
"You're kidding."
"Nah, it can happen. But it's not a big deal."
"How's that not a big deal?"
"Eh, barriers weaken most spells. The distance from the center to the crowd diminishes most spells too, so anything that breaks through is reduced to a tickle."
"... And if it didn't?"
"We're inside the Soul Net. Only way it would be a real problem is if the spell took out more people than the artifact could handle."
“Which is how many?”
Randal shrugged.
A troupe of jugglers in flamboyant outfits ran out tossing all manner of things into the air to amuse the crowd while the arena staff prepared. Harding noted one juggling branded coffee mugs before he switched his focus to watch the staff working with the pylons.
All the while he casually listened to the group.
Arnold shared what he had read of the arena. "I heard some big adventure guild bought out the arena and that they're currently transitioning everything to a new format."
"Yeah, but asymmetrical fights aren't a ticketed event yet," confirmed Randal. “Neither are monster fights. Not sure how they’ll manage that to be honest, I just know they want to.”
The jugglers bowed to mark the end of their routine. The crowd had been filling in all the while and the bleachers were mostly full. The crowd clapped loudly for the jugglers. Some guy started whistling so loud it hurt Harding's ears.
There's always one.
Out came a man dressed in a black formal suit over a rusty sienna shirt. With no apparent device, but through obviously artificial empowerment, the man yelled, "Ladies and Gentlemen. As your humble host, I, Percival Thad, have the pleasurable duty to provide to you the following spectacle of supreme skill. Heroic combatants in harrowing close quarters, giving none!"
The crowd roared. Harding watched the pages as they ran around the combat area in last minute duties. Besides last minute alignment of the metal barrier rods, the preparation seemed to consist of a couple lads affixing flags to the uprights while the others groomed the sandy floor. Some of the flags were solid, others made with highly contrasting patterns.
"What are those for," Harding asked Randal between the end of the crowd roar and beginning of the announcer's next speech.
"What are wh…," Randal started, looking around. "Oh, the flags. They tell the fighter where to go. They don't know which corner or who they're going to fight until they walk out," he explained.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
The announcer was ending his next speech, "... in their fight to the death!"
He went on to call out names of combatants, none of which meant anything to Harding, as eight fighters streamed out from the side gate and into the arena as a single group. If he didn't know they'd respawn and that they were probably getting great training from this, the barbarism would be too much for Harding’s sensibilities.
There was a wide variety of equipment being employed. One was wearing a heavily plated lamellar while armed with a greatsword. Another wore a bright argyle tunic and something akin to a kilt, armed with a hammer and stiletto. A third looked to be wearing a leather duster with a saber on his hip. The rest seemed fairly standard fare for the period, wearing heavier than light and lighter than heavy armor.
"Why no full plate or whatever," Harding inquired.
Randal enlightened him, "Fighters get rezed, gear doesn't. Between ladder fights and all their practice, it's too expensive. Even with a lot of fighters having patrons, cost dictates equipment."
"Fighters, ready," shouted the gregarious Percival Thad. The fighters raised an arm.
"Technicians, ready," he shouted next. Each page raised an arm in signal, while the fighters lowered theirs.
"Barriers up," he yelled enthusiastically.
With an audible crack, nearly translucent walls sprang into being. They both enclosed the square and subdivided it into rectangles. Harding realized that until that moment, the fighters weren't sure which direction they'd be engaging.
"FIGHT," screamed the announcer with vigor.
Each fighter had his own pace and strategy, but with four fights going at once even those with slower approaches felt hectic. Spectators had to constantly try to watch for which engagement would explode in action next.
When a fight happened the clash was brutally quick. The heavily armored greatsword caved in an attempt to block it before pivoting and dragging the blade up their opponent's breastplate in a cross-draw. The move opened the defender’s throat. His opponent grabbed at the wound reflexively and Heavy reversed again, hips pivoting back as the blade windmilled into a downward angled strike and decapitated him.
Kilt went up against a helmeted giant of a man in a crude mail over leather who was armed with a spear and shield. Kilt moved fast and managed to get inside the spear, hooking the shield with the hammer and plunged the stilleto up into the Giant’s shield arm while sliding to the outside to avoid the spear. Kilt’s success was short-lived though as the size and strength of his opponent proved too much. Giant, having regained his composure, pushed Kilt backward with the shield. He then rapidly followed up with the flat of the shield into Kilt's face. Even with Kilt defending against it with arms raised, the blow knocked him over. Giant brought the bottom edge of the shield down on Kilt’s chest as he simultaneously dropped to his knee over Kilt. It wasn't flashy, but Kilt convulsed and looked up wide eyed. Giant put the spear’s upper haft against Kilt's throat and dragged the spear away, opening up Kilt’s throat in a bloody wound. The crowd cheered, but Harding noticed Giant wince with each movement of his injured arm.
Harding missed the third fight completely, but both had been longswords, and the exchange had left one brained and the other shaking a gauntleted hand lightly as he looked around.
All attention was on Duster, who fought a mace and shield armed man in a drab gambeson. Duster kept his distance, stretched out his saber as if to point it at the man then rotated, drawing a pistol from his off hand and firing it into Mace from a bladed stance. It hit Mace in the face and dropped him as if he just collapsed on himself. Harding was sure he had seen skull fragments fly as well as a spark on the barrier.
Half the crowd roared, the other half booed as a cloud of smoke drifted indifferently. "A gun," Harding yelled to Randal. Randal just nodded.
"SWITCH," yelled the host and the inner barrier walls crackled as they reformed. The new fights were now set. No break and again no knowledge of which way they were going.
Duster spun towards an already charging Heavy. Harding had always assumed that armor would significantly slow a person. But Heavy didn't lose even half a step. Duster dropped his pistol and drew another, firing in panic just before Heavy reached him. The shot hit Heavy’s chest but appeared to have little effect. Heavy's greatsword slammed into Duster's hasty parry, but Heavy didn't stop. They launched a shoulder into Duster's chest, the follow through bringing fast moving metal into Duster's chin. The impact caused them both to fall. Duster lay under Heavy, weakly batting his saber against Heavy’s armored back. Trapped underneath, Duster beat the pistol against Heavy's helmet frantically. Heavy's head tilted with the blows, but they just laid there on Duster for a moment before rolling off. While Heavy raised to their knees, using their sword as a stabilizer against the ground, Duster attempted his own scramble to get to his feet. Heavy fell forward to plunge their sword into Duster's side with their weight and thrust. Duster folded and writhed in agony until Heavy's brutal work was finished.
Meanwhile, Giant slowly circled with the surviving Longsword, who held it forward with both hands. They clashed with sudden violence, sword chunking loudly on the metal shield. Giant’s injured arm sagged from the blow and Longsword followed up with a low swing into Giant's knee just as Giant pivoted and brought the other knee up into the crotch of Longsword. Some of the vicious blow below was absorbed on his thigh, but enough connected to crumple Longsword.
Meanwhile, Heavy got up slowly from their kill and swayed in place slightly. Heavy seemed concussed to Harding, but he was no expert.
Giant took an awkward step forward and dropped his spear. Giant fell into a kneel over Longsword, they took visibly lacking balance. With both hands he pulled the shield back and brought the edge down on Longsword. Longsword's attempt at a pommel strike redirected the shield into his clavicle. Giant tried again and drove the shield bottom into Longswords' helmeted face. Giant beat longswords' face with the narrow bottom edge of the shield three more times before reaching behind himself. Drawing his dagger, Giant thrust it into Longswords' throat between his helmet and gorget. Hot blood on wet sand signaled the end.
Giant looked down right before the announcer yelled, "SWITCH!” The yell and snap off barriers were so loud that it cut through the raucous crowd.
Giant startled and looked up to see Heavy already in a headlong charge, sans sword. The flying tackle took Giant high and twisted him over his injured knee, which gave in a sickening twist. With Giant’s shield trapped between them, Heavy beat their armored fists into Giant's face. There was no finesse, nor was there a quick and artful conclusion. Just Heavy pounding and pounding as Giant struggled and jerked beneath them. Giant couldn't get the dagger's broad blade to find purchase before the brutal assault to their head ceased meaningful function.
Eventually, Heavy took the dagger from Giant's half open grip and began sawing.
"Ugh…" moaned Ed.
Harding glanced over to see Ed looking sick. The crowd roared and Harding looked back in time to see Heavy stand up with the battered-in helmet of Giant in their hand. It drained down Heavy’s arm as they held it aloft. Harding heard Ed lose his stomach into the half eaten bag of nuts. Randal was oblivious to the soiling of his treat as he cheered.
The announcer's voice boomed, "Alexci von Rouin! Champion for the third week in a row!"
There was a large crack and Harding looked back. It took him a moment to figure out what it was, but he realized Heavy had thrown the head at the crowd. It lay on the sand by the barrier, fluids sliding down the nearly transparent barrier. Harding looked over at Randal who was cheering wildly, then back at Ed. He yelled in Randal's ear, "Going to take care of Ed, I'll be back when I can."
Harding led poor Ed out of the crowd and outside. "Why," Ed whined between breaths. Harding looked at him with a soft pity. "You were fine fixing my bloody ass," Harding pointed out in confusion.
"It's not the blood, it's the-," and Ed turned aside and threw up again in the gutter. A couple walking by made an exhaled noise of disgust and took a wide berth around them.
"It's the violence," continued Ed, his chubby cheeks scrunched up, eyes closed and watering.
"I'm sorry," replied Harding helplessly. "Do you think you'll want to go back in," Harding asked dubiously.
"Oh no. Never," vowed Ed.
"Ok, that's fine. I'll walk you home then," offered Harding.
"No. It's ok. I can do it," claimed Ed.
"We are friends. I'm not letting you walk back alone," Harding informed him.
Ed nodded and walked with him. After some time he bemoaned, "I'm not sure I can be an adventurer. Not if it's like that."
"That's fine Ed. You could map the coasts or… write a book on game mechanics that actually made sense. Run a plastic surgery hospital. Whatever, I don’t know, don't limit yourself," encouraged Harding.
"What about you,” Ed asked a little while later as they walked. “What are you going to do?”
Harding replied, "I don't know yet, I’m just following fate until I find an offramp I like."
Ed grunted softly. As they came over the crest of the hill, they saw a familiar figure standing before the open gates looking into the temple.
"Alina," yelled Harding.
She turned and looked at them, then waited for them to approach. Harding ran to her, Ed trailing behind. Harding nearly hugged her, but restrained himself to sincerely professing, "Alina, I'm so glad to see you."
Alina smiled faintly.
"What have you been up to," asked Ed as he arrived. Harding and Alina stared at him. "What, she died like two days ago," he protested.
Meekly Alina mumbled, "I went somewhere."
"That's fine, I'm just glad you're back," Harding told Alina.
Alina shrugged hesitantly, “Maybe.”
"Maybe back to the temple or…" Harding trailed off.
"All of it. I don't know what to do with my life and then I come here and I don't know what to do with my life. Why make a world where you're unsure of what to do? Why make all of… that," she implored in sudden frustration.
"I don't know,” admitted Harding. “Maybe it's the price of freedom? You get to do what you want but that means there isn't some authority telling you what to do. To have quest lines, leveling zones, classes, and that kind of thing you inherently have something telling you what to do. Some people want that and others don’t. Just different needs I guess?”
"What if,” ventured Alina, “I don't know what to want?"
Harding shrugged with a soft frown, “I don’t know? But I suspect that you don't figure it out by avoiding it. Why don't you come inside and see Brother Roberts, he has been worrying about you. Oh, and meet Brother Rent. He went in with the team that finally recovered your body."
Alina looked shocked, her eyes wide as her lips twitched. "They went for my body," she asked after a hesitation.
"There were two big rescue attempts for you. It took them until the next morning to get to you."
"To save me," Alina reiterated.
"Of course. You’re one of us," Harding told her. "Come inside and let them know you're back at least, whatever you decide. Ok?”
Alina nodded and followed them into the Temple in search of Brother Roberts.
It was a couple hours before Harding made it back to the Grinder. He wasn't sure how long the events went for, but he didn't want to abandon the rest of them. Eventually Alina had logged off in her cell and Harding was very interested to see displays of magic. It was weird to him that the world was supposedly full of magic and gods, but he hadn’t seen any after three days. Magic that is, not gods.
Maybe a demon?
The noise from the Grinder was audible nearly a block away. The crowd was standing and cheering while Harding slipped down the row to where he had left the group. Harding could see flashes of light and hear the clash of combat, but navigating the standing spectators took his concentration. By the time he had made his way to Randal, things had ended on the floor and the audience had reseated themselves.
Hmm, Arnold and Sabina are missing…
From a quick glance, Harding could see a couple of pages were dragging off a body. Another page trailed after them carrying half of an arm. A very large man sat on the sand, legs crossed. He was covered in blood but didn't seem concerned.
Harding leaned in to Randal to try not to yell in his ear, "What I miss?"
"Everything," Randal yelled while maintaining focus on the man on the sand. The crowd noise started to die down and the colorful Percival Thad walked back out. "And now, for the match you've all been waiting for," he said with an intentionally dramatic pause. He pointed at the man sitting in the sand, oblivious to the crew grooming the arena. "Cedrick Long, Archon of the Burning Sands against our previous victor…"
Again he paused for effect, as a woman in a combination of copper colored armor and a cape of midnight blue. She was hawkish in features, almost gaunt, and had her raven hair pulled back tight, "Isabelle of the Crippled Heart, reigning Grinder Champion!”
"Seriously, the last fight," Harding miffed.
"You were gone for hours," Randal responded with a skeptical side glance.
"Yeah, well, Alina is back and that took priority. I'm coming back here next week with you though," Harding told him.
Randal nodded towards the arena as the fighters squared off. Unlike the other matches, these fighters didn't rush. Harding could feel little eddies of spirit. There were no grandiose visuals, no arcane hand gestures or shouted chains of words. Just deadly intent.
They're defensively buffing maybe?
Isabelle left her cape outside the arena, revealing that she was carrying a simple arming sword. She drew it and discarded the sheath on top of her cape. Harding could see a dagger sheathed at her waist, but nothing else. Cedrick had a simple staff which had been planted into the sand next to him since Harding had arrived.
Percival went through the fight initiation sequence. Fighters were ready and so were the technicians, but none so ready as the crowd.
Harding was aware of a flash of spirit energies, repetitions of small ones and a few larger ripples intermixed. Yet still nothing was visible except a growing heat distortion coming off Cedrick. It was the first magic duel he had witnessed and if he wasn't trained in being spirit-aware he'd think they were just staring each other down.
There is no way the crowd even knows what's going on…
Perplexed, he asked Randal, "What's going on?"
Randal didn't take his eyes off the fight, his reply a little distracted and distant, "Burn is a tough matchup for Isabelle's Weaken, her powers are just fuel to him. They're both buffing and bluffing."
Worried he was that far behind, Harding asked, "You can see it?"
"Nah. I know the spells and I've seen Isabelle fight."
"So this crowd just stares at nothing?"
"Right now it's all core work. Like two bulls preparing to charge."
Core work?
"Couldn't one just attack at any time," suggested Harding.
"Yep. Exactly. That's why they are taking their time. They could be casting a lot faster if they weren't watching each other for spell eruption."
"Eruption?"
"You know, the way the energy lurches when they are casting. Eruption. Spellsign. Pop. Everyone's got a different name for the invisible flash."
That made sense to Harding, as it felt like they were both pumping spirit energy but not doing anything with it. It was the magical equivalent of competitive heavy breathing. Isabelle started a spell that was clearly more from the way it bulged spirit, but Cedrick didn't bite and she canceled it out.
And then she was gone.
There was almost no eruption, just a little pop of an exhale. With a quick motion, Cedrick spun, grabbing the staff by the quarter and swinging it like a bat as he rotated.
His swing passed through empty air.
She was above him and falling fast in a crouch, feet first and sword in a reverse grip. Cedrick managed to side step most of it from allowing his momentum to carry him but he still took a long cut along the length of his right arm.
Cedrick didn't even inhale spirit, he just breathed it out through his left hand. Spirit spurt out a moment before it turned into a giant gout of flame over twenty feet long. The flame grazed Isabelle, but she had been running sideways and away as soon as she landed. Even as the flames reached out, she teleported again. Isabelle popped into being on the far side of Cedrick but as Cedrick reversed direction she was gone again and then back to her original position across from him.
After all that, they were back to where they started.
They both loaded up again, heavily inhaling spirit.
How much spirit do they have to be pushing for me to feel it from here?
Cedrick was faster and a double stack of fire rings shot out from him in a forward arc. It crashed over Isabelle and she was so bathed in fire that even her metal armor seemed to be burning. And yet that immolation didn't disrupt her longer spell which splashed back at him less than a second later. Two visible spikes of dark blue light formed and raced towards Cedrick, slamming into him before he could react. They buried into him, pulsing dark light and waves of spirit.
"Oh wow, brutal," Randal.
It looked bad, but so did the fire. Cedrick reeled, his face a mask of pain and anger. He was staggering back as a still burning Isabelle rushed in, sword flashing. As mentally impactful as her attack had been though, Cedrick deflected the slash and then partially turned away her responding back draw. Still, she cut him across the chest.
Cedrick stuck the staff out, using the end to keep Isabelle outside of her striking distance. After a couple of fast and firm buttend jabs at her, she backed off to circle once more. Cedrick was casting a quick spell over and over as he watched her, while Isabelle kept her breathing deep and regular while pacing slowly around him. The spikes in Cedrick dissolved revealing no physical holes. The flames on Isabelle extinguished, but smoke still wisped from the joints between the plates. The two fighters hovered a moment, like time had frozen to leave them on the edge of violence.
Isebelle disappeared.
She was to his side, just out of staff range with her sword raised. Isabelle was stepping into a lunge when Cedrick blew his giant flame at her. Isabelle wasn't there though, she had teleported again even as she lunged, using her actual attack as a feint.
From his left, still out of his reach she flashed her dual spike attack but without the long cast. Cedrick was struck and reeled. He fell to a knee gasping as the spikes embedded in him throbbed their dark light waves. Wracked with pain, he held up shaking hands and a sphere of fire grew to encompass him.
Isabelle launched another flash-cast spike attack but the cruel projectiles hit the sphere and burned up. She backed up a few steps and stood watch, occasionally casting her spikes. Cedrick held the shield bubble and Isabelle tentatively probed it as they both stood still. Soon she was bent over gasping for actual breath as much as she was sucking spirit. Cedrick was just an obscured shadow in his burning cocoon.
It was a stalemate.
She kept launching the spike attacks at irregular frequency and he maintained the shield. She was burned and wounded, not nearly as unscathed as he had originally thought as her body posture was visibly flagging.
"She's got him and they both know it," Randal commented.
"How can you tell," asked Harding, very confused by the whole display of powers. He had expected fireworks and while there had been fire, most of what he was picking up seemed to be through his own developed sensitivity to spirit energy.
Isabelle maintained the stalemate while slowly closing the distance between her quick attacks. She paused to self-cast something, then stepped into reach of Cedrick and began to physically beat on his shield. Even though she was being continually burned by it, she ceaselessly pounded away at him. The flame bubble held, wavered, then released with a pop loud enough to be heard by the crowd.
Cedrick had lost his strength.
He was on his knees, facing her, and looked up as the bubble burst. His weak one handed swipe failed to redirect her thrust. Isabelle's sword pushed through his throat, off center from his defense but not enough to ultimately matter. Blood pulsing out of the wound smoked and sizzled for a moment as magic baked off. She yanked her sword outward, cutting it free of him.
Cedrick’s body just remained there in a sagging kneel as the crowd went crazy. Randal and Harding were on their feet, as much in ovation as just trying to see. The body fell over, an empty shell abandoned.
Isabelle sank to her knees, bent backwards and stared up at the ceiling as she fought for air.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, your continued Champion, Isabelle of the Crippled Heart,” Percival announced just as the noise had started to fade.
The applause renewed.
Without the artificial amplification, no one would have heard Percival. Harding wondered if he'd sustained hearing damage. The bleachers themselves physically shook with concerning vigor from the cheering.
My first death in-game will be this place collapsing.
It was nearly half a minute before things started to settle. Pages came out and started dragging the body off. Percival approached a now standing Isabelle for an interview. "Champion Isabelle, four times in a row you've come out on top. What do you have to say," he asked in dramatic fashion.
Obviously still winded from the fight, she leaned in and with a husky voice, "I'd like to thank Cedrick for the good challenge, it's my privilege to have such fine competition.” She gasped audibly and then continued, “I'd also like to thank the Eight Blossoms for getting me the opportunities to elevate myself to this point. People can talk to the guild reps about admissions tonight."
"Any plans on the purse money," asked Percival in a conspiratorial tone.
Isabelle laughed slightly, leaned into whatever must function as a mic and whispered loudly, "Burn ointment."
Then she turned and walked off the arena, waving to the crowd. "Burn ointment, a wise investment," Percival Thad sagely observed.
People were starting to leave. Harding looked at Randal, "Can you explain what happened?"
"Yeah, sure.” Randal looked up a moment and then started, “Like I said, Cedrick is a shitty matchup for Isabelle. His burn counters her cripple and he’s a better technical fighter. She was losing until he panicked and threw up that shield. Super impressive as it was that he had a whole other spellform, it’s just too energy intensive. It was over then unless he had something he hadn't shown, and he didn't.”
Harding stared.
What the fuck, how do they see this stuff and I don’t?
Randal further elucidated, “He couldn't let up to eat the debuffs with her constantly probing. My guess is she let up on the intensity too, basically shorting her attacks in power to keep him going and thinking she was wearing down too.”
What am I missing?
Harding cautiously asked, "She won by tricking him?"
"Yep,” he chuckled. “She tricked him into an endurance contest and then faked her side of it. And even then she still almost lost. Cedrick might be stronger and better skilled, but she's devious and has more experience in the arena."
Harding looked at the blood on the sand.
"Are there ever just straight magic fights, or is it always going to come down to…" he waved his hand at the arena.
"Martial combat here is almost always part of an even match." Seemingly understanding Harding, Randal confirmed his thoughts, "Eventually, we have to learn if we want to be able to fight. It's just what order you learn things."
Harding nodded to himself, glancing around the emptied bleachers. He observed, "You seem to know way more about this than anyone I've talked to."
Randal got up and stretched his large frame. "I hang out here most nights. I've seen her fight like six times, plus some of her private practices since she's an Eight."
Eight? She said something about that…
Harding stood too, ready to go.
"You're coming with me to the party, right," inquired Randal
"Uh, party," Harding responded with his usual eloquence.
"Yeah. An after party. Backstage. Free food. Meet the fighters. Whatever you want to call that stuff.” Randal explained, “I have permanent access.”
Randal laughed seeing Harding's shocked response, "Yeah, you're coming with me."
How is he so far ahead?
"Lead the way," Harding requested. He'd missed a lot of fights, but he had still learned so much. This place could be the opportunity to figure out his path. Randal led him down the seats and along the square to the tunnel where the fighters and pages came in and out onto the field. Several burly bouncers leaned against the doors, quietly chatting.
"Hey Howie, how's it," called out Randal as they approached.
The largest living mass of muscle Harding had ever seen turned to them and grinned, "Randal! Heard you saw some action finally." Laughing, Howie shadow boxed a few jabs.
"Don't say it like that, Howie,” Randal complained. “Besides, I didn't. It was this guy here that got the kill."
It feels like a lie.
Everyone looked at Harding and Harding had no idea what to do. Howie looked over his face and winced, "They messed you up pretty good, huh kid?"
Harding blinked before he realized the man's conclusion. "This," he pointed at his face, "was a training accident. That stupid furry creature stabbed me in the ass with a spear."
The other guard cringed and Howie roared, "I like this guy.”
Harding said, "I only got one, the other two got away. I'll get more next time."
"That's the spirit," grinned the gregarious Howie. "See you later Randal, we got training to do."
Randal slapped Howie on his meaty arm, "Wouldn't miss the pain for the world."
Randal trains with Howie?
And with that, they walked into the tunnel. It was a bit surreal to Harding, to walk into the dark tunnel that was the same passage as the victors walked after fights. And the corpses of losers were carried down. Two sides to the tunnel, two outcomes and two ends. Both ends glowed white in bright light, but for those couple moments it was all just a quiet darkness.
Through the tunnel Randal turned off through a partially open door and led them down a flight of steps. They came out into a narrow hall with equally spaced doors. Down that hall and through another set of doors they entered a giant room, somewhat reminiscent of a warehouse. Harding realized they were under the foyer.
The room was populated with training dummies and crudely made fitness equipment. However, chairs, tables and several kegs had been scattered around. On a side table a spread of some kind of cheese and meat topped bread that was neither pizza nor sandwich.
People clustered in classic party fashion, little orbits of socializing that occasionally exchanged people from their fringes. Harding saw people in the crowds he was sure were fighters. Randal, though, led them on without pause though until he broke into the edge of his targeted circle.
"Yeah, Maddie was pissed about it and clocked me but Anders was cool," said a broad shouldered, muscled blonde as she licked a fresh split of her lip. "It's the kind of thing the guild is pushing though, they want us to add more hype to the unseeded fights. Next time she hits me she should do it on the sand."
Harding thought she was moderately pretty, but her poise and assertiveness dominated the circle.
"Randal,” she squealed and stepped forward and hugged him, lifting him off the ground for a moment. "Did you see it," she asked excitedly. Harding realized that, for the moment, the rest of the crowd didn't exist to these two.
"Was cheering you the whole way," smiled Randal once he was on the ground again. "Want you to meet someone, this is my classmate Harding. He's a lost cause, but I'm taking care of him."
She looked over at Harding and smiled, amused by Randal and gauging him at the same time. "Harding," said Randal, "this is my big sis, Alexci von Rouin."
"Sister?"