I only stayed on the dirt for another moment. Even that hesitation was driven more by my emotional injuries than my physical ones. I wondered if this was all Mario's doing. Why was I here again, struggling to make it through, last place once more? I thought I'd left that behind me, I thought I'd announced myself, I thought I was the favorite.

It was funny though, how the competition of the day most closely examined the area of the suit that I might have been least developed in. I had grown far more graceful, far more skilled at moving in the suit. I was certainly better than many of my classmates, but my strength had been attribute acquisition. I wondered at the choice of the race as the competition of the day. Mario, the Bishop, the lords, the powers that be, attempting to test us in the way that gave me the least chance of breaking through.

It was only a second or two that I remained there on the dirt, but as I did, it felt like a storm gathered. All of my emotions—fear, inadequacy, rejection, anger, distrust—swirled like a vortex of hot and cold air until a cyclone of rage consumed me. In the midst of it all, I remembered Katya's teaching, a little trick I would need to practice more. Right now, it crystallized the chaos of my rage into something focused and pointed.

I meditated as Katya had shown me, just for seconds, focusing my emotions. The voice said, "Why are you searching for me? You know I'm here."

Through gritted teeth, rising, I said, "I'm not searching for you, I'm searching for your reins."

The voice, teasing, then excited, said, "What makes you so sure that I have reins?"

I got to my feet, still focusing my mind. "I've done it before, seized control of this suit and directed it. I need it now."

I sprinted to the guard tower, the last flag, my flag, fluttering. The voice said, "I've told you before that you're exciting. You can hear my glee when you enter the suit, the things you can do, the tickle you give my brain. But what you're trying to do now, it's never been done..."

I grabbed the flag, turned, and looked down. The beach and the road stretched before me, and my Sight attribute showed me my competitors—they were almost at the first fence, three miles away.

"I've done things that have never been done before. I was the first to use the Beam."

The voice said, "This is very different from the Beam. The Beam is directed energy, it's very cute, but what you want to do now is play with the fabric of reality..."

I clenched the flag tightly. It felt like the last line tethering me to land.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

As I sprinted down the beach, I thought about the suit, about what I was trying to do. What was it to be a Griidlord? Half of the value of wearing the suit was martial prowess. But the other half, maybe the greater half in the eyes of many a merchant and general alike, was the Footfield.

The Footfield? It might be the most powerful attribute of all. High levels of Order can distort time itself. Tower dwellers and Griidlord hardly seem to age. A Griidlord can manipulate Order in ways that others can only dream of. And if they master it, they can create a Footfield, a bubble of time distortion that allows them to move at a separate pace from the rest of the world.

When a Griidlord moves under the Footfield, they aren’t just faster—they’re in a different reality of time. The rest of the world seems to slow down while they move like lightning. It’s not just a simple speed boost; it’s a complete shift in the flow of time.

And this isn’t just useful for a single warrior. The Footfield has enormous value to militaries and societies. Imagine moving entire armies or merchant caravans across the continent in days, where it would normally take weeks. The Griidlord’s Footfield can extend to cover thousands of men and horses.

A Griidlord can move troops swiftly to outflank an enemy. A suit wearer can bring forces to strike at unexpected locations, or retreat to safety before the enemy even realizes what’s happening. Griidlords can turn the tides of battles with more than just their glowing weapons.

Masters of the Footfield are legend. Tales of crossing entire nations in a single night, delivering crucial messages or supplies in the blink of an eye.

Tutors didn’t train contestants in the Footfield. No contestant had ever masterd it. Why waste the time.

But I had spent a small lifetime confined to my quarters, too sick to walk. I had lived through my books and the Footfield called to me.

The voice was screaming in my ear. "You're doing it, I can't believe it, but I can feel it! Flex!"

I concentrated, gathering the almost imperceptible strands of Order around me, focusing them with every fiber of my being.

The voice babbled on, "This is such madness. It's like watching a baby learn to sprint before it can even stand. This has never been done before, Tiberius, never, never by one so new to the suit."

My HUD flashed Footfield 0.9 across the display. Just this morning, when Mario had dropped the flag, I had managed to flex it to a mere 0.4.

But I’d been pushing. Every moment, every step.

The sensation was overwhelming, like an immense pressure building behind a cork, throughout the suit, throughout my body. It felt as though my brain was ready to explode from behind my eyes.

The voice squealed, excited, "This is it, Tiberius. You're either going to do it or kill us both!"

Footfield 0.9 flickered, replaced by 1.0.

At that moment, the field triggered. The pressure built to a peak, and then, like a dam breaking, the Footfield enveloped me.

I burst forth like a bullet, faster than an arrow loosed from a bow.

The world around me seemed to grow pale.

My heart leapt.

I had the Footfield.