Myrkas wanted to laugh. They had to be joking. But the two adult men acted all seriously, as if this was a totally reasonable and sane variation. Of course, Myrkas should remember each basket's size and position. Nothing less from such a talented young cultivator! Triple the rewards for double the price! What a deal.

As if on cue, Martine looked up at Myrkas with stars in her eyes. The flower-carved hairpin he had just won her was proudly nestled in her mass of wavy hair. She had already engaged "puppy dog eyes' mode while pointing at the damned "prettiest ribbon in the world." As if Myrkas had any other choice but to keep on trying. With a sight, the youth planted his feet into position, took a last look at the stand and accepted the simple blindfold. At least it looked clean...

Breathe in, breathe out, concentrate. Harder, better, faster, stronger.

One at a time, Myrkas threw the provided projectiles. He extended his senses to the limit, envisioning his target and listening for misses and successes. His skin prickled, fine hair raised, primed to notice any change in the surrounding Qi. The boy became cognizant of the air currents made by people passing by, as well as Martine and Lilac holding both their breath with each of his throws. Myrkas felt... well he felt silly, in all honesty. There was no way he could hope to sense baskets over six strides away. It was too far. What help was it to be aware of passersby?

Myrkas' first try at the new variation ended with over three-quarters of the balls lying on the floor. And, most importantly, without any new prize. Each subsequent attempt was slightly better, but not perfect. After six more tries, Myrkas started to get the hang of it. He gained confidence, and that was his mistake. The eighth and ninth tries had only two missed balls each. Hence, predictably, a new variation–with a price increase–was revealed before his tenth attempt.

"Young Master, I am in awe of your prowess. Truly a talented young cultivator," said Mister Wei. "A fitting disciple for you, Master Ranil. Perhaps one able to conquer the next step in the game? I must warn you, however, it is truly difficult. Do not blame me if I take all your coins."

"But of course, Mister Wei. My disciple can master them all! Don't worry, I have taels to support his endeavour."

A big, intimidating silver tael left Ranil's pocket to tunk on the wooden counter. Myrkas gulped. This was starting to be a substantial debt he was accumulating. But no matter. Myrkas would rise to the challenge and win all the pretty ribbons.

This is an opportunity, not just a scheme to be put in Ranil's debt, the boy reminded himself.

Mercifully, the blindfold was off again. Myrkas could see. He had a free view of the portly stand owner as the man pulled levers on the side. Wood and metal creaked softly. Then the baskets moved, carried on their poles and rails. They went up and down and in circles, accompanied by the symphony of oiled gears. Myrkas was unable to decide if this constituted an improvement or a step back. Vision was important, but the boy wondered how the added momentum would affect the balls. They had trouble staying in place already. The boy feared the round objects would fall out with the motions.

Nothing else to do but try.

The baskets' movements ended up being more of a problem than Myrkas had anticipated. The balls rolled out again and again. Ranil loved to comment on each one that chose the floor instead of remaining inside the nice, perfectly adequate basket it had been thrown into. Such commentary seemed completely unwarranted according to young Myrkas. Did his new Master have to make up reasons as to why the latest projectile preferred to throw itself on the dirt floor instead of staying put? The man was even voice-acting. No ball needed a fake high-pitched voice! It was wrong, it had to be. It was too irritating not to.

With supreme effort and concentration, Myrkas improved. Each attempt was more successful than the previous, until the boy reached an almost perfect score twice in a row. Martine let her joy be known. A small mountain of toys, stuffed animals, and accessories was rapidly growing at her feet. Master Ranil had of course graciously purchased a colourful bag–the price added to Myrkas' debt–to hold her gains. The girl's smiles and gleeful giggles were as numerous as her encouraging cheers. She, obviously, did not care whatsoever–or understand–the concept of monetary debt or interests. Her Young Master was winning prizes for her and that was all that mattered. More was more, and Martine was certain to let Myrkas know anytime the boy suggested it was time to return home.

As Myrkas had logically feared, a new variant made its appearance as he was about to master the latest one. The scam was laughably obvious. Neither Master Ranil nor Mister Wei made any effort to hide their greed, the latter for more shining coins and the former for his disciple's anticipated groans of pain and misery. The thuggish city guard officer was smiling crookedly as he paid the ridiculous price for Myrkas' next bout at the street stand.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He could feel the glee radiating from his Martial Master, Just as the boy tasted phantom blood in his mouth. Nausea rose in Myrkas' throat while thinking about his future in the Underground ring. His ribs ached in advance of the blows, his breathing turning shallow from half-imagined, half-remembered pain. His mind almost escaped his present on the rising wind of panic this situation birthed.

Keep calm, Myrkas, the boy told himself.

He was stuck. Cornered. His debt was approaching two entire silver taels: enough to feed a small family for a complete season. And Ranil was smirking ever wider, oh-so-pleased.

Enough, Myrkas thought.

Anger rose from Myrkas' core to replace his panic. Its tendrils travelled along the boy's limbs, nearly reaching his head before Myrkas was able to calm himself. Undirected anger was foolish- It never helped anything. Didn't make medicines work better or change one's genes. Raging against fate didn't make you six months older either. It only added to the despair, hurting one's self. Fury toward the inevitable left one exhausted, drained, and just as powerless in the end. Better to quash those pesky feelings. To roll them in a ball and bury them deep inside, forgotten for a time. Wait until the flames burned out and the embers died, suffocated. Get rid of any distractions.

Myrkas slowly resigned himself. His new Master was petty, no two-way about it. All this for one tiny interruption. A disproportionate response.

"Risk your life once in search of greatness and eat the consequences forever more," the boy murmured under his breath.

Myrkas took his place at the stand. The mechanisms activated, letting the baskets dance their choreographed patterns. Luckily, their movements had stayed the same. Next came the blindfold. Obviously. What an easy feat it should be for a talented cultivator youth! Ranil would not accept failure from his first-ever disciple. Only someone of Myrkas' calibre could memorize the patterns and conquer the game. As it should be. No matter the cost!

The three first tries were pathetic, with less than five balls ending in their wanted positions each time. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered to watch around the stand. The street was filled, with only a narrow passageway left behind the gawkers. The cutest little devil was beside herself with excitement. Martine chanted Myrkas' name from atop Master Ranil's shoulders, the two rabbits similarly perched on the imposing man. When or how the adorable trio had ended up there was of no consequence to the concerned boy.

The growing cacophony bothered him. Noises drew his attention away between throws. It disrupted his rhythm, throwing off his aim. It was making it harder to keep up with the baskets' movement sequence. Too many things swirled in Myrkas' senses.

The debt kept on rising. Another silver tael had already been added to the first two. The amount had reached beyond the point where Myrkas could dare think about asking his uncle to lend him the money to repay Ranil. Myrkas feared the large sum would frighten his uncle, resulting in the old man forbidding Myrkas from ever going out again, or altogether cancelling his martial training with Master Ranil. That training remained Myrkas' best chance to leap forward in his fighting ability. And Myrkas refused to stay weak, at the mercy of life and others.

By his thirteenth try, Myrkas' aim had become awful. The balls hit the rims and rebounded out. His anger had risen again, making the boy's limbs stiff and unprecise. The memorized patterns had muddied in Myrkas' mind with all the nearby distractions and the boy's own concerns. He had stopped progressing, his best attempt stuck at half his throws remaining in their basket.

Enough. Time to refocus, he thought.

Myrkas was better than this. He would show them. Show his petty Master how his disciple could rise above this challenge. Above all challenges. Halt the climbing debt. Astonish the crowd. Win all the prizes for Martine. Prove his worth once and for all to everyone, including himself. His latest attempt done, Myrkas stopped moving. He removed the blindfold, taking in the scene in front of his eyes. He concentrated on the baskets only, relegating everything else to the background. The only motions he took notice of were those of his targets.

The three farthest on the right moving up-and-down on a vertical line. The next four turning clockwise in a circle. Two above sliding over and off the large wheel. Three under moving up-and-down. And the last three on the left oscillating on a crescent.

As he memorized, Myrkas regulated his breath. In, out, slowly. He took the time to look inside. He observed as his silvery-Qi moved from his middle dantian to his limbs. Myrkas directed a thread to his eyes, his inner ear, and his left hand, momentarily transformed into a metronome. Each strand helped him to remember. Up, down, turn, left, right. Again and again, the baskets danced on their rails.

The boy's anger was back to being locked away. He thought he saw a hint of red in his lower belly, surrounded by Myrkas' silvery-white Qi. Myrkas tried to grab it at once. To see if he could use whatever it was. But without success. The flickering red dot in his lower dantian was too elusive to get a hold of. It bubbled on and off, never big enough to shape or mould. And so Myrkas let it be for now. Something to explore at a later time, when all his concentration was not spent on unruly balls and baskets.

Instead, Myrkas focused on his Qi. He helped it circulate throughout, infusing his muscles, and enhancing his control. Each cell, each fiber drank the silvery energy like desert sand. Myrkas had to limit the amount he let seep through his tissues, afraid he would run out of Qi in his dantian. The boy did not know how long it took, but he achieved a point of equilibrium when as much Qi was replenished with his respiration as his muscles stole in a cycle. It was a tricky state but oh-so-great. Myrkas felt more real somehow. Every detail was sharp. His body was honed, on edge. Primed for victory.

All Myrkas had left to do was win.