Light hurts, so does noise, and just about every part of her body.
The honourable Soma really doesn’t understand the definition of mercy. She at least took the opportunity to circulate her Qi, even if it won’t do much it will make her tougher, slightly, and she’ll salvage whatever she can after that fight. She never thought she could find a fight humiliating, but having a whole crowd watch as you get absolutely manhandled has a way of defying expectations.
For the first time ever she finds herself with a strange conviction, she wants to beat him up, she wants to beat him up bad. But that would require her to get much stronger than just establishing her foundations, which isn’t the goal. But a not insignificant part of her can’t forget the derisive sneers of the River’s Scale as she kept trying to get back up. She did the cultivatory thing, why did they look at her like that? It’s…humiliating, and she just found out that she really doesn’t like to be humiliated. Which is honestly kind of pathetic, a good merchant doesn’t act on emotions, they act on what makes the most coin. Letting her indignation drive her to actually consider getting stronger to face a boy who’ll likely advance far past where he is now is pathetic.
She’s actually starting to sound like a cultivator.
She shudders.
“I’ve had your fight moved to the end of the week.” Toka says, “on account of your injuries.”
Tantra lets out a sigh of relief, that was something that was worrying her, she doesn’t want to just give up. She has to maintain an image, despite being as weak as she is. So long as she looks dedicated to the path, they won’t kick her out. Then again, they haven’t kicked anyone out in the last four months, so it might be a moot point.
“Gods bless your heart honourable healer Toka,” she says.
Toka just chuckles “don’t invoke the gods on me, I very much don’t want their attention.”
Tantra looks at her confused, “don’t all cultivators seek the acknowledgment of the gods?”
“The insane ones do,” Toka says, “which is unfortunately the majority, I just want to heal people, leave the cosmic bullshit where it belongs, which is nowhere on Testhim.”
Tantra actually finds herself smiling, a cultivator who sees cultivation as a tool rather than the goal? That’s a refreshing change of pace. Whenever she talks about cultivation with anyone it always sounds like they’re happy to condemn themselves to a lifetime of pain to reach immortality.
“We’re of the same mind then,” Tantra says, “truly you are wise beyond your years healer Toka.”
Toka raises a brow, “I don’t know if you're complimenting me or yourself right now.”
“Why not both?” Tantra chirps.
Toka chuckles and waves her away, “off you go little bean, I have other patients that need healing.”
-
Three threads, it’s magnitudes harder than two, taking a significant amount of willpower to keep them all stable. But the results are worth it, she tested her circulation speed and after only one session she was able to complete a cycle in perhaps fifteen minutes, rather than twenty. Meaning she should only take a few hours instead of all day once her Qi stone runs out, and it will run out. Soon actually, it’s been two months since she got the thing, and a generous estimate would have put it at three, but Qi can’t be measured, not in the conventional sense at least. It’s all about feeling rather than precise numbers, and while commercial Qi stones don’t have a large margin of error, it’s still there. If she’s lucky it’ll last longer than the expected three months, she doesn’t like to base her decisions on luck though, so instead she ramps up the training in anticipation.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
She has no way to get merits after all, and she is not going to do well in the tournament so that’s a moot point. Her only option is to increase her control so she wraps the three threads together at a pace that makes a snail seem like a professional athlete and holds her grip on the Qi as best she can.
-
Yorin puts on a wide smile as he enters the centre of the field, his opponent is almost as tall as him, and built like solid stone, he walks into the field with clear confidence in his steps. First match and it already looks like a tough one, how exciting! Yorin stops at the centre and enters his stance, his opponent does not do the same.
“Feel free to surrender and save everyone the time.” He says, “I can already tell this’ll be a boring fight.”
Yorin frowns, that’s a bit rude. He was just getting riled up and the guy had to hit him with that? Whatever happened to just having fun?
“I have a friend,” Yorin says, “She’s smart, knows a lot of fancy words, taught me a few of them even. So I know there's a word for what you're trying to do right now, a pair of words actually. Psycho-something warfare, all about the brain, trying to rattle my thoughts, make me unbalanced. I don’t appreciate the cowardice.”
The boy turns red in the face, “fine,” he says.
Then he rushes to Yorin.
He’s fast, but not so fast that Yorin can’t track him, and certainly not fast enough where he can’t respond. Yorin throws out a jab which hits the boy straight on the nose, but it’s not enough to stop his charge. The boy brings up his arm and throws it at Yorins face, there’s not much technique, and least not that he can recognize. Just brute force and strength, Yorin blocks it by tucking his chin and raising his arm to cover his face. For a split second when the blow hits, Yorin blacks out, then he regains his focus just fast enough to dodge an elbow to the face.
What was that? Yorin thinks as he barely diverts a cross to this sternum, not now, focus on the fight.
His left arm swings and hits the boy in the head, but again he doesn’t relent. But Yorin’s started to notice something, he’s not dodging or blocking, just throwing strikes as fast and hard as he can. Yorin dodges a few blows and his elbow meets the boy's temple, again nothing happens and he continues his flurry that Yorin barely manages to block.
How is this possible? His strikes aren’t weak but no one before foundation should be this durable, or strong.
Yorin weathers a storm of punches and kicks as he struggles to block. Each blow feels like it rocks his whole body, and the bones of his limbs are starting to grow tired from the abuse. But the boy’s getting slower, and Yorin’s finding more and more openings. It’s a dance that Yorin navigates masterfully, dodging and blocking as he delivers his own strikes to the immovable titan. Then, as things tend to, something goes wrong.
Yorin goes to dodge a jab that doesn’t come, and in his moment of confusion he is struck directly in the face with the full force of an overhand.
Blood spurts from his nose and he sees stars, he doesn’t recover fast enough to avoid the ensuing storm of blows. His world is turned to pain as the boy strikes him relentlessly, almost desperate. He can feel parts of his face crack as the hits just keep coming.
But he doesn’t fall.
There isn’t really anything resembling a thought in his brain right now, all those were thoroughly beaten like an anvil, but he knows one thing. He cannot fall, or else he won’t get back up, and that is not a good thing. So he stays standing, and there is just a moment of clarity in the fugue, like a star in the night sky, it shines ever so bright.
He sees the fist coming for his face as though time decided to take a sabbatical. It’s right there, four knuckles and a promise of pain. Yorin sees it, he considers it. This will be the blow that takes his consciousness, like the wind to the leaves of autumn.
Right at the start of the tournament too.
First round.
Fuck that.
He headbutts the fist right in the knuckles and hears a satisfying crunch as it is pulled back maimed and mangled. The boy looks stunned at him, then at his hand, then back at him. Yorin smiles.
The boy, seemingly impressed, smiles back.
Then he vomits a torrent of blood.