The subsequent rounds did nothing to improve Momo’s impression of Trent. His matches had gone from depressing to complete and utter bloodbaths. In his second round, paired against a former dance teacher, he broke both of the guy’s legs, laughed, and bitterly yelled “those who can't, teach,” as the medics dragged him away into their blue-rimmed tents.
“If there was a score for humanity, he’d be getting a zero,” Momo mumbled. “Watching him fight is like watching someone repeatedly kick puppies.”
“A zero? You’re polite,” Grimli said, chewing on a chicken drumstick. “I’d be giving him a negative ten and hauling him off to the psychiatrist.”
“Wait, so you guys do have therapists?” Momo said with astonishment.
“Nah, the humanfolk don’t,” he said. “Only us dwarves. It used to be common amongst most of the races, but Jarva swore it off as necromancy. Haven’t seen a licensed feelings-person since.”
“Of course he did,” Momo sighed.
The third round was no more promising. He ended the match by breakdancing on the quivering body of his opponent, who he had tramped to near-death with a cast of [Flurrying Feet].
With the combination of Trent’s bloodstained fight streak and his fan’s commitment to recreating all of his signature moves, the medics were starting to run out of tents.
As he neared the final match of the League, Momo’s anxiety only mounted. She knew inevitably they’d be matched against each other. She wasn’t afraid for herself, but she was afraid what a loss would trigger in him. If she didn’t need to win the Recital so desperately, she would have had no problem throwing the match. In fact, she would have loved to pack her bags and send her party straight to the next town, no questions asked.
But, tragically, Sumire’s campaign plan had contained no miscalculations. It was designed to end with a perfect 100 in Control, not a point more or less. The opportunity to win over this many people in one go was a necessity. To fail at this wouldn’t just be embarrassing – it would be potentially fatal to her entire campaign run. And with the Holy Resistance mounting an opposition from the sidelines, she couldn’t afford any hiccups.
And to top it all off – Sumire would be disappointed.
Momo couldn’t have that.
—
“I would never have called Trent a sweet kid, but this…” Momo trailed off, watching as Trent one-two punched a middle-aged White Mage. It was his second-to-last round, and he was showing no mercy. The woman tripped over her own gown, falling off the stage with a squeal. Trent’s fans only jeered at her as she wiped the dirt off her dress, limping to the side.
“It’s never the kid, Momo,” Grimli hummed. “You always have to look upwards. It’s always who they’re emulating.”
Momo’s gaze slowly lifted towards the Judges’ Booth. Indeed, Devola had done nothing to penalize Trent’s behavior. If anything, she was encouraging it. Wide smiles. Claps. Cheers and laughter. Much like the other high-powered necromancers of the old regime – Valerica, Sera, Viktor – success to Devola was defined only by success, and rarely by the means it took to get there.
A remnant of the Dark Calamity, Momo imagined. Momo had seen enough on Earth to recognize the same pattern here. When you’re losing a war, couth and manners fly out the window. You can’t be polite when some pompous, righteous knight is destroying every single one of your precious students under the guise of justice. And no one knew that more than Devola. She used to be a professor back then. Before she lost them all, and replaced them with skeletons.
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Momo’s lip curled downwards.
It wasn’t like Momo was all high and mighty, either. She was Valerica’s mini-me, just the same. Who would she be to try and get Trent to defect from Devola’s leadership? She had tried to separate herself from Valerica’s desires before – make her own, humanitarian mark on the world of necromancy – but at the end of the day, when Valerica was happy, she was happy. It was impossible to inextricably untie the two.
But this – violence for the sake of violence; violence for the sake of enjoyment – wasn’t what Momo wanted life in her queendom to become. She wanted to build a place where people rewarded kindness. Softness. She’d seen what Jarva did to this place. The pestilence of greed and pride and bad character that he soaked into everyday life. It had seeped into everything and everyone, even the people who claimed to hate him.
The lesson was clear: where power went unchecked, life became worse for the majority. In Jarvirium, people were sending themselves up mail chutes. Kids like Nura and Sumire were incarcerated and enslaved by Holy Knights for the crime of being young and naive. Even now, in Mole City, Viktor had left a crater of poverty under his feathery helm.
This isn’t Jarva’s kingdom anymore, Momo thought decisively, curling her hand into a fist. I need to make the people realize that they don’t have to follow Kyros’s shitty morality anymore. Life doesn’t have to be a constant fight to the top.
Momo was drawn from her internal monologue by a deafening crack – the sound of a bone breaking. A scream accompanied it, Trent’s opponent falling off the stage as the medics rushed from the bleachers. Trent didn’t offer to help, he just signaled impatiently to the ref for his next opponent. Not a hint of empathy on his face.
Momo looked towards the Judges’ Booth. For the first time, Momo noticed Devola’s smile fall.
—
Soon enough, the final battle of the Intermediate League had arrived on Bruda’s stage. Trent had cut down the competition like a woodsman with a carnivorous machete, chopping down eager students and their pipedreams like feeble tree branches.
His final opponent was Culver. From what Momo had observed, Culver was probably Trent’s closest friend in the entire academy; the same guy who had tried to convince him against taking the potion just yesterday. He seemed like the honest sort. Modest, from a background of small means. According to Momo’s snooping, he only afforded the academy’s tall tuition with a scholarship from Devola herself.
“I found him dancing for money in the streets of Nam’Dal,” Devola had told her. “His moves were quite rudimentary – but the passion was there. I offered him a seat in the freshman class, and he’s been our second best student ever since. Him and Trent have a bit of a friendly rivalry, one might say.”
Coming from Nam’Dal, not only was he a Dancer, but a dual-classed Rogue. He wielded two daggers with hilts like sunflowers. His armor was light as a feather, but heavy vines with prickly thorns snaked around his hands and forearms. Momo guessed that he was some sort of Druid Thief. A cool class, for sure, but Momo didn’t envy the getup – the way the thorns drilled into his skin was painful just to gaze at.
“Trent,” Culver greeted plainly as the two met on stage. He was barely able to look his friend in the eye. “I don’t even know what to say to you, man.”
“Congratulations, maybe?” Trent said, mischievously lifting an eyebrow. “But that might be a little premature. I might as well give you a fair chance at besting me first.”
From high up above, Momo sighed. This is supposed to be his best friend. The one confidant he had among everybody else. If he treated him just the same as the others, he was more foregone than Momo even realized.
“I know you want to win this, but this isn’t how you go about it,” Culver said, his frown deepening. “You’re destroying people. Going too far for no reason. What you did to Quentin’s staff was just cruel. You know what that thing meant to him.”
Trent shrugged. “It’s a recital, Culver. You have to give the people a show. A show requires drama. I pity you that you don’t realize that.”
Momo could practically hear Devola’s voice in her ear as he spoke. Drama. It was the woman’s sole virtue. Like pious men and chastity, she valued performance and showmanship over all else.
At least, she did. Watching her now, she had a darker expression on her face. Something contemplative. Worried. It was an odd look for her. Entirely too sane.
“Well, it’s a shitty show,” Culver said, finally meeting Trent’s gaze. “And you’re a shitty performer.”
Trent scowled.
“We’ll see about that,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Sorry in advance about your little scholarship.”
Before Culver could respond, the bell dinged.