Myrrir’s next fight began only a day after his previous. With the pool of contestants dwindling, the fights were coming with greater and greater frequency.
He marched out into the center of the arena and faced his next opponent: an average man in a sleeveless shirt. He wore a necklace with chunks of plain granite hanging from it, and wielded nothing but his fists.
Behind him stood an enormous hedgehog golem with spikes of similar granite and composite eyes that looked more like an insect’s than a hedgehog’s.
A quick scan of his spirit revealed his low spiritual potential. The beast had probably contracted its stone manipulation abilities out, allowing him to aspect-bend his abilities in such a manner.
The man had no sponsor or important family, but he’d fought his way up through the ranks via rigorous practice, likely some elixir theft, and hundreds of years.
Just to reach Commodore, and with a pathetically little well of mana.
Myrrir was almost tempted to blindfold himself. The Velaydians had made a name for themselves by doing it, and everyone in the contestant quarters had been talking about it. Then, later, at the Grand Continental Inn, they’d whispered about how Vayra and Glade had defeated their opponents even while blindfolded.
They wondered about the power of the Velaydians. They wondered what resources the old kingdom had access to.
They never said anything to their faces.
Myrrir was tempted. Of course he was. To have people talking about him like that? For his father to see him like that? But truly, such an act wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need to force himself to refine his perception. It was just…there. He restored himself to the Commodore stage and his senses returned.
He’d already practiced them, and he’d already grown to trust them. It would prove nothing.
So, looking down at the sand, he approached his opponent. The man took a fighting stance, and his hedgehog let off a low growl. Its spines rattled, the sound like two rocks clacking together.
A barrel of gunpowder waited to Myrrir’s right side, provided for his use, and a large granite brick lay to his left—perfect for the granite-wielding Commodore.
Karmion announced their names, but Myrrir didn’t pay attention. He hauled his jade sword out of its sheath, letting its heft settle into his hands, then spun it around. As soon as the trumpet blared and the battle began, he advanced, closing the distance between the granite-wielder and himself.
He drew up the gunpowder and manipulated it into spikes, lashing out at the granite-wielder and the hedgehog. With a flurry of blows, he wore them down. The more Wards he forced them to make, the more mana they’d use up, and the sooner they’d crumble.
The granite-wielder hammered him back, of course, but that’s what Myrrir’s sword was for. Conjuring a wedge of gunpowder along the blade, he strengthened the weapon and slashed through chunks and shards of stone. He whirled the blade fast enough to create a pale green bubble around himself, all while launching spears of gunpowder at his opponents.
A spear bashed against the man’s gauntlets of granite, sparking, and Myrrir let the gunpowder ignite. The explosion sent both the hedgehog and its master skidding back.
And they were both out of mana.
Myrrir shook his head and approached. He begged them to keep fighting, to force him to finish them off and spare the second round, but they didn’t. The granite wielder lowered his fists and the hedgehog backed away. They couldn’t drop their techniques; they already weren’t using anything.
Myrrir could say he saw the man twitch, maybe. He could say he thought there was a risk. Even if they didn’t buy it, there was no risk to his honour—he really had nothing to lose at this point.
But the tighter he gripped the sword, the louder Tye’s voice nagged him.
It didn’t really say anything in particular. Wisps of the man’s placations and reassurances, him begging Myrrir to not do anything rash.
Or to just do the right thing.
Myrrir lowered his sword. “Go. Refill your mana.” He shook his head and swatted his sword through the sand, kicking up a wave of dust. “Be quick about it.”
Myrrir didn’t have any retinue or observers anymore. No one to meet with him and discuss the strategy after the fight, nor to check him for wounds. He just had a barrel of Stream water, dragged along straight from the contestants’ quarters, full of spirit water from which he could refill his mana.
He dipped his hands in and absorbed it, and waited for a half hour until the next round began.
The next round progressed the exact same way as the first. He didn’t alter his strategy, and there was nothing his opponent could do about it. The granite wielder didn’t have the speed, and even with two of them, they couldn’t outmaneuver him.
In less than a minute, he drained their mana reserves and forced them into surrender once more.
Unsatisfying. Again, he had almost been hoping his opponent would fight to the bitter end, if not for his ease, then for the satisfaction of a killing blow. His opponent had made his slog through two whole rounds of a fight—he deserved some sort of punishment.
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Again, Tye would have advocated against it. He’d have reasoned with Myrrir. Even though it wasn’t official, if Myrrir slaughtered a defenceless opponent who’d clearly surrendered, he might be removed from the tournament himself as punishment.
It was for that reason that Myrrir lowered his sword once again, and he hated that.
This was unsatisfying. It wasn’t right.
Why couldn’t he just be better?
He rolled his lips inward. Maybe…maybe there was a way to force himself in the direction he needed. In the right direction.
Something more satisfying.
As he marched across the arena, back to the gate and his barrel of Stream water, he contemplated what he was going to put in his letter.
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Glade won the first round of his next fight with ease. He fought a Commodore, a human woman with a wood-based Path.
If they thought a wood-based Path would be extremely effective against him, they might have been right. His enemy didn’t have any extra metal or sharp object he could draw on, and she mustered hundreds of seed-pod-shaped vessels of wood, each with a sharp tip. She launched them at Glade from every angle possible, every angle imaginable, and with incredible precision.
And he blocked them all.
She had vastly more mana than him, and she was trying to wear him down with a barrage of attacks—like Myrrir had done in his fight an hour before.
Problem was, Glade knew how to fight people with wood-based Paths. He’d dealt with Wren, and he could deal with this, too.
“Protect my back,” he whispered to the swordwyrm, and the blade obliged. It whirled around behind him, smashing through chunks of wood and guarding him against any heavier attacks. He kept it locked in his perception, keeping tabs on the creature, but that was just a contingency.
In three seconds, he hacked his way through the barrage and charged at his opponent. In five seconds, he had his sword at her neck. She raised her arms in surrender.
The second round proceeded almost the same, if only a little longer, but he still won easily. Tracking the wooden shards in his spiritual perception allowed him to insert his sword into the precise position it needed to be to block the attack.
His opponent drew more wood shards back toward her body, using them to Ward herself, and she withstood three attacks before Glade and the swordwyrm broke through. They stopped the blade with its tip pointing at her heart, ready to stab through, but she raised her arms in surrender and backed away.
Glade offered her a bow, and with a soft exhale, she extended the same courtesy. They both retreated to opposite sides of the arena, with Glade declared the victor.
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Vayra’s fight was the last of the day, and it took place during the evening. The sand glowed gold and orange, and lanterns lit up all through the crowd.
She faced a young man with silver hair and wolf ears. As soon as he saw her step out into the light, his ears flattened against the back of his head and he growled. He whirled a saber around and pointed it at her, all while extending a Reach technique down the blade. Vines crawled down from the crossguard and wrapped around the sword, protecting it and forming thick barbs.
Not a sword-Path, but a plant-Based Path. Understood.
‘That’s Dannel Lee Taupher,’ Phasoné provided. ‘He was near the top of the ratings, and he’s from a prominent family under Frayne’s authority—that’d be the Goddess plants and trees.’
“Remember what his Path does?”
‘He’ll try to ensnare and trap you, then finish you off with that sword. Don’t let the vines touch us, and we’ll be good.’
“They’re assuming we’ll falter against someone who can lock us up and negate our speed.”
‘If he can catch us.’
As soon as the fight began, Vayra activated the Astral Shroud and lunged into action. Upon reaching Commodore, her mana well had expanded, and she’d had plenty of time to fill it, not to mention make new Arcara for all her techniques.
Her advancement, and the solidification and realization of her spiritual system, gave her a better grasp on the entire system, and she visualized it more clearly. Instead of Arcara being another substance to be used and consumed, it seemed more like a baseline substance, an arcane blood. It circulated, rarely depleting, and when she used it for a technique, it temporarily became unavailable for other uses. With enough Arcara, she could use as many techniques as she wanted.
And she’d been cycling ever since her advancement.
She used a combination of scythe strikes and Starlight Palms to strike Dannel, all while maintaining the Astral Shroud. It drew mana, especially using so many techniques at once, but she had more mana than ever before.
Dannel resisted, trying to ensnare her and trap her, but with the help of Adair and his enhanced reflexes, she evaded all of his strikes.
With a last effort, he consumed all his mana to conjure Wards and Bracing techniques, and he staved off a few heavy scythe blows before he ran out completely.
He didn’t stop. He kept drawing on his muscles and core, burning them as a substitute for mana. With such high-level techniques, his broad form shrank within seconds.
Vayra sprang back. He was going to push himself over the limit, turn himself into a Ko-Ganall.
She remembered what Hammontor’s Ko-Ganall had done to a planet. If it went too far…
Immediately, he started consuming his core and soul. A cloud of black ash and soot wrapped itself around his core, like a star going supernova, and then layers of unbound, unrestricted arcane flesh wrapped around overtop it.
Not good.
She pushed herself back up, ready to jump in and blast it apart, when a column of Arcara-controlled water blasted down from above, encircling the crumbling man and containing him.
Karmion hovered above the arena on a cloud of mist. He held his hand out and clenched his fist, and the water obeyed him, constricting and crushing the budding Ko-Ganall before it could expand and eradicate the Shattered Moon.
He descended and turned to Vayra. She stared at him for a few seconds, and he stared back. He’d just protected the life of his mortal enemy.
And prevented a massive headache for himself.
“You are the victor, girl,” he spat. “Leave.”
She obliged.