As I exited the corridor back to the open space with the pots, I collided with Gideon. We crashed into each other and staggered back. His right arm of his suit was charred and smoking. I wondered what he had been contending with. He didn't seem to have an orb. Had he failed to acquire one? Had Gideon, brutal, stubborn, Gideon, given up on a challenge?

His visored head flicked down to my hand, where I held an orb. I expected a sword fight. Gideon was a brutal, if undisciplined, fighter, exploding with self-confidence. Instead, he considered the orb in my hand, then turned and disappeared down another corridor. I was left standing for a second, not understanding why he hadn't challenged me. Then it slowly dawned on me. He was intimidated. It was a crazy idea, to think that anyone, let alone Gideon, would be intimidated by me. But the last time we had crossed swords, I had managed him handily, and he had seen me upset the universe by deploying the Footfield during the race. He didn't want to challenge me directly if he didn't have to. I couldn't help but swell with pride. I was a big dog now.

As I turned toward the pots, my periphery was blinded by light. It was only this momentary warning that gave me the chance to pulse my SHIELD and not just lessen the blow, but possibly save my life. Lance's stunningly powerful CUT was aimed at the back of my head. The SHIELD dulled the blow, but it was still tremendous. My body flew into the air, snapping in rotation around the point of impact at the side of my helm. The SHIELD had saved me, but the impact was still devastating. I crashed into the far wall, too hurt and dazed to activate my SHIELD.

I managed to retain my orb, gripping it tightly as I lay on the ground, trying to gather my senses. Lance was already moving toward me, confident and calculating. This was a moment of truth. I knew I had to get up and face him, or my chances of surviving the competition could be over. As he closed in, I forced myself to my feet, wincing at the pain shooting through my body, readying myself for the fight of my life.

I understood now why I hadn't seen him disappear down a corridor with the rest of us. He hadn't left the pots. He had stepped back to the pots, waiting for others to bring the orbs to him. And why shouldn't he? It was clear his powers had grown. He was a natural fighter, a trained swordsman, and probably an experienced killer. He had a BEAM that could at least match mine and a CUT that might exceed mine. I had no sense of the state of his other attributes, but his natural abilities paired with an entire free day in the suit to develop attributes, left him far ahead of any of us.

I understood his thinking. Could he gather all 13 orbs and end the Choosing this day before anyone else, especially me, could have the chance to gain attributes and catch him?

We both swung our swords, both used CUT. I think there was a moment of doubt, surprise, as he saw my CUT flare with the fire of a second-level attribute. But he didn't hesitate. His blade crashed towards mine, and as bright as mine glowed, his was brighter. It confirmed my worst fear: his was at least a level 3. When our swords connected, I got a sense of the difference in attribute level. His sword nearly ripped the blade from my hand, my whole arm was thrown behind me by the recoil, my shoulder yanked at the socket.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

As I staggered back, he clasped the orb in my hand. For a moment, it was both of ours, resting in both of our grips. Then, having stepped up for the orb, too close to swing his sword, he drove his shoulder into me, using the full force of the suit to send me tumbling head over heels, leaving the orb in his hand. Lance looked at the orb with pleasure, turned, and tossed it, so accurately and easily, into his pot. Then he turned back to me, sprawled in the dirt, dazed, trying to find my feet.

He stood over me and raised his blade, not content with what was already a substantial win. His sword blazed with the fire of the sun as he drove it down towards me.

This would have at least damaged and wounded me enough to end any chance of competing for the day. At worst, though, it might have ended me. Lance seemed to have no concern about killing and might even have reveled at the idea of putting me down; his hatred for me seemed to know no limit. I was too dazed to find my way to pulsing my SHIELD. All I could do was watch the arc of the blade descend on me, hear the crowd screaming in excitement and maybe in dismay.

Then suddenly, as though materializing from thin air, a double-headed axe blade was between Lance's sword and my form. This is where I can start, only start, to express the difference between a trainee like Lance and me, and a true Griidlord. Lance's CUT, which seemed a power handed down from the Gods, an elemental force, simply ricocheted off the axe. The axe didn't so much as vibrate, as though Lance's blow, so seemingly immense, was nothing but a wayward fly bouncing off a castle wall. Lance's whole form staggered back, and I could see pain ripple through his arm.

Magneblade stood above me, his head turned toward Lance. He spoke with the voice of a Griidlord, a being that exceeded my ability to truly fathom. He said, "That exceeds the rules, youngblood. Taking the orbs from each other, and fighting hard to do it, that is acceptable, but this is not a game of assassination. You can cross swords with this one again when one of you holds an orb. Until then, you can wait here and play your game of sentry."

Lance's expression twisted with a mixture of frustration and anger. For a moment, I thought he might protest, but even he knew better than to challenge a Griidlord directly. He stepped back, sword lowered, and gave me one last look of pure venom before turning away. I got to my feet, shaken but unharmed.

I watched Lance stalk back to the pots, sword ready, his posture cowed. He had been embarrassed and, perhaps worse, scolded by a hero of the city. I could feel the energy radiating from Magneblade; my suit could feel it, responded to it. When I had shared time with Morningstar in my father's house, I had appreciated the power of his being by reputation and observation. But as I stood near Magneblade, it was as if my suit could sense him, sense his suit, sense the power. It was truly something awesome.

My legs trembled for a moment as I tried to imagine the reality of being like that, of being an actual God among men, of being the match of an army of thousands. It went beyond my every mental faculty to conceive of it, all save one: my ambition could envision that reality.