Serene

Serene stood at the edge of the Hell-5 pit, gripping the wooden railing like the neck of a wrung chicken. Sam was on her left, cheering—extremely loudly—for her new friend as Ratcatcher warmed up on the sands.

Serene could not match her enthusiasm. This match was over before it started. Ratcatcher had said it best himself—even at his best, he’d have no chance against Henke. And here he was, banged up and skill fatigued, while his opponent was in peak form, having not sustained one injury or been forced to use a single AP thus far.

Many of the bookies were accepting bets not on who was going to win, but how many seconds Ratcatcher would survive against the undisputed low-level champion.

If Sam took note of that particularly morbid display of Frontier opportunism, she made no show of it.

I don’t even know why I care. It wasn’t as though Serene had never condemned a man to death before. More than once, she had passed along sensitive information obtained from one john or another that had led to someone getting a Sheerhome smile. She hadn’t actually seen it happen, so maybe it was further removed, but it wasn’t as though she needed to be here either, watching what by all accounts seemed like a decent guy be executed by public spectacle. She could have found a nice smoke lounge to while away an hour or two instead.

But she hadn’t done that.

Something had drawn her to this spot. Something dark and inescapable. And though she wanted nothing more than to leave and drink herself stupid, her morbid fascination refused to let her look away from the fighters for a moment; to blink, even.

Ratcatcher finished his stretches while Henke was still parading around, doing a lap along the edge of the ring and smacking the palms of the fans who extended them down past the railing for a chance to touch the champion.

The skinny Artisan looked up, spotted Serene and Sam, and waved with an uncertain smile. The Laborer’s encouraging yells rose to a fever pitch, and she threw both her fists up in the air.

Serene forced a practiced smile of her own, and wagged her hand in a floppy wave. She tried not to imagine what he would look like with half his head missing. It was difficult.

“WELL, WELL, WELL!” Golden Boy cried, pirouetting in the air above the fighting area like a gold-plated disco ball as he launched into his usual spiel. “THIS IS ONE FOR THE HISTORY BOOKS, FOLKS! I’M SURE MANY OF YOU ARE AS SHOCKED AS I AM THAT OUR GOOD FRIEND RATCATCHER MADE IT TO THE SECOND ROUND OF THE TOURNAMENT! AND WE LOVE IT, DON’T WE FOLKS?” Some scattered cheering at that. “AND NOW, THE UNDERDOG GOES UP AGAINST THE STIFFEST CHALLENGE OUR LOW-LEVEL DIVISION HAS TO OFFER! A MAN WHOSE NAME IS ON EVERYONE’S LIPS. I’M SURE HE NEEDS NO INTRODUCTION HERE. HIS EXPLOITS ARE LEGENDARY, HIS POWER IS INDISPUTABLE—AND NOW, WE WILL SEE WHO COMES OUT VICTORIOUS; THE MOUSE, OR THE TIGER!!!”

Floating down so his toes nearly touched the ground, Golden Boy spun to face each of the fighters in turn. “ANY OPENING REMARKS FROM EITHER OF YOU GENTLEMEN?”

Ratcatcher gave a queasy shake of his head, but Henke held out a hand to take the scepter from the organizer, grinning broadly. His eyes were fixed intently on his opponent. “I want to make a deal, friend. Let’s make this a good, clean, exciting match for the people. No pulled punches, no mercy. To the death.” The gem on his silver ring sparkled just as brightly as the ones on the scepter. There was a hungry glow to it.

They didn’t call it the Devil’s Eye for nothing.

Golden Boy went and stuck his gaudy stick under Ratcatcher’s nose for a comment.

The Artisan considered for several moments. Then he gave a curt nod and said: “To the death.”

Unsurprisingly, the crowd loved to hear that.

* * *

Henke

It was funny how delusional some idiots could be. And among delusional idiots, the man in front of him was king, emperor, and patron saint.

Ratcatcher. What a name.

It was all so very funny.

Golden Boy dislodged the head from his scepter with a sharp flick, letting it zip around the ring in tight circles, and he conjured the hardlight cube above them as he floated into the air.

Henke settled into a ready stance, idly spinning the Devil’s Eye on his lead hand with his thumb. He’d intended to finish all the fights until the finals as quickly as possible to conserve energy, but he’d drag this one out a bit. The people would enjoy it, after all. And who was he to say no to them?

The horn blew its one triumphant note, heralding Henke’s imminent victory.

He began advancing the same moment he heard it, crossing the ring at a quick pace without rushing. The delusional idiot in Ratcatcher’s last bout had somehow gotten cocky enough to be taken in by that obvious trap. Henke would not make the same mistake. He was smarter.

The frail-looking Artisan did not move from his spot near the far end of the ring. Only when Henke was within twenty feet did he begin sedately backing up. There was something infuriatingly smug about that twitchy smile on his face. He’d wipe that away soon enough.

Henke cocked back his right fist to strike.

“Look out!” Ratcatcher cried out. “I’ve left a trap for you!”

Henke hesitated only a fraction of a second, not long enough for the obvious bluff to bring him out of position. Did that idiot really expect that to work on him? Ratcatcher hadn’t used any skills at all since the start of the match. He let the swing follow through, a hook aimed at the Artisan’s midsection. He didn’t even need to put any power behind it, since the Devil’s Eye provided that in spades.

His fist connected with the soft flesh of the man’s side, and the ring fired up, casting an Amplified Spark that was Compressed on one side so the energy could only escape one way—straight into his opponent—like a gunshot.

Except…

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Why hadn’t his flesh evaporated? Ratcatcher lurched sideways with a stupid groan, but his body was still fully intact.

Henke looked down at his right hand, brow furrowed, and saw something very peculiar. Fire poured from the centerpiece gem, but not all at once in a confined explosion, the way it was supposed to. Little twists of flame slid off the ring’s surface like rain drops whipped sideways in a harsh storm, disappearing somewhere behind him. He made to look back…

But before he got the chance to, something went boom, and suddenly his back was very hot—burning hot—and a shove sent him staggering forward. Staggering straight into the Artisan’s waiting fist, and he went sprawling on his back, nose thumping and bubbling with blood.

What… just happened?

“Watch out! I’m gonna get your arm now!”

Henke did not move in time. Before he could get away, the Artisan had taken a foot and pressed Henke’s upflung arm firmly down against his chest. The damage was minimal, though, and Henke easily rolled away from the next one, somersaulting to his feet. He slipped into a ready stance, and…

He found that he could not quite assume the guard he had intended, on account of the fact that his lead hand was glued to his chest.

He used Bind on me! But when…? He never said the words or made any hand signs...

The pieces slipped into place. He mindcast it. I had no idea he had that kind of skill. He never showed any indication of it in the last round.

Oh.

That was his setup play. He was holding back the entire time against the Laborer so I wouldn’t see it coming.

Ratcatcher stayed on top of him, pressing his advantage now that Henke’s lead hand was disabled. “Here comes a right!” he called, and sure enough, a right hook followed a moment later. Henke pulled his head back a few inches, and the Artisan’s fist passed harmlessly in front of his nose. With his twelve points in Dexterity, he would have dodged it easily even without the warning. Why did his opponent keep doing that? He couldn’t possibly expect it to fake Henke out.

Henke took a moment to collect himself, gather his thoughts, only halfway focused on evading Ratcatcher’s clumsy assault as the Artisan continued to call out his moves. The reversal had been surprising, but his position was hardly any worse than before. The hit to his nose seemed to only have inflicted superficial damage, and the Bind trapping his hand would come undone if he kept playing for time. Even without that, he still had an ace up his sleeve.

But that little piece of shit had drawn blood, had wasted a charge of his ring. He had put Henke on his back, made him look weak; like a fool.

That was an unforgivable offense.

It was only now that Henke noticed the two exhausted AP crystals on his opponent’s arm. He at least knows how to mindcast Bind, which probably means he can do the same with Tidy Up. Those two seem to be his signature moves. Tidy Up is probably the one he used to sabotage my ring earlier.

Since Tidy Up can be used on sand, why not fire, too? He mindcast Tidy Up [Fire] from his foot into the ground, probably Amped, then backed away so I’d step on the active skill effect. When I tried to throw a punch, the fire generated by my ring was instantly sucked into the ground, then released to inflict the damage on myself.

That has to be it.

He’s a clever little rat, I have to admit…

Then, why insist on this play-by-play nonsense? Could there really be some strategy behind it? Or is he just cracked in the head?

Henke’s arm popped free as the Bind skill effect ended, allowing him to assume his normal stance. He smiled. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be dead in a few seconds anyway.

Pivoting, Henke slipped an awkward punch from the Artisan and…

“Amp (Three): Illuminate.”

Henke caught a brief glimpse of the rat with his face buried in the crook of his arm, the other outstretched. Then there was a flash, and all he could see was smears of white and yellow and red, and his eyes burned something fierce.

“Uppercut!”

All the air drained from Henke with a breathless gasp as the fist buried itself in his midsection. He staggered back, doubling over.

“Left hook!”

His skull was rung like a bell, and he pitched onto his hands and knees, furiously blinking through stinging tears to force the light out of his eyes.

“Low kick!”

Hearing the direction of the voice, Henke was able to roll out of the way, working his jaw at the ache in his face as he climbed heavily to his feet. He had to admit that he would have been caught by that one if not for his opponent’s kind self-sabotage. That, more than anything, spurred his fury.

Was this rat looking down on him?

Did he honestly think he had a chance to win?

After a few more seconds on the defensive, Henke had regained enough of his vision to see the blurry outline of the ring and his opponent. It would have to do—this farce had gone on long enough. Backed into the corner of the ring, he slipped one, two, three punches and kicked off the wall, lead hand cocked back.

The rat was out of AP. What could he possibly do about it?

As Henke watched his fist creep toward his opponent’s exposed side—impossibly slow, as though forcing its way through molasses, in a moment that stretched on forever—he knew that the match was over.

“Watch out!” he realized his opponent was saying. “Here comes a valor surge!”

What the fuck is a valor surge? Henke thought.

Then everything got very bright.

* * *

Serene

The more Ratcatcher resisted his defeat, the worse Serene felt. She had hoped that the match might end quickly, so that she could get all her self-loathing over with all at once and move on.

But this was getting torturous.

Ratcatcher was actually doing well. Better than he should have, by all rights. She counted four hits he’d landed on the champion—not inconsequential ones, either, since it didn’t seem like Henke had any points in Toughness. It looked like that Amped-up Illuminate had done some good damage, too.

Over and over, Ratcatcher had proven his resourcefulness. There were fighters way out of his league who had never landed a single blow on the Hero. But Ratcatcher was slowing, compounding skill fatigue wearing on him along with his injuries from previous bouts. And with that use of Illuminate, he was now out of AP.

Surely, he was out of tricks by now.

“Hey, Serene,” Sam said, taking a break from her dogged cheerleading. She had already screamed herself hoarse. “What’s all that weird static coming off him? What’s he doing?”

Static? What on earth is she…?

But Sam was right. White sparks popped about the unassuming Artisan like miniature fireworks as he chased his opponent across the ring. Arcs of white lightning trailed lazily up his arms, webbed between his fingers.

What was that? There wasn’t a skill like that, was there? It didn’t look like Illuminate at all.

Backed all the way against the log wall, Henke kicked off of it with one foot, instantly reversing his momentum and coming in for a leaping punch, ring glinting on his finger.

Clearly, he was looking to put an end to this match in one sweep.

But at the same time, Ratcatcher cried: “Watch out! Here comes a valor surge!”

“What’s a—” Sam began.

Then, lightning lit the night.

With a peal as of great bells ringing, Ratcatcher became the conduit for a jagged bar of pure, gold-tinged power that shot out of his outthrust arm. It cut across Serene’s vision, leaving dizzying afterimages. With a thunderous crash, Henke was struck by the buzzing white beam; overwhelmed by it, overpowered by it, carried away by it. He was tossed aside like a glove in a hurricane.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the lightning faded. Scattered arcs of static lifted a scattering of loose sand into the air, left it hovering like morning mist. Henke had been tossed roughly up against the wall of the pit, and sank down onto his ass with a look of dumbstruck confusion that summed up Serene’s own feelings quite well. His clothes were badly torn, and his exposed skin was bright red all over, as though scalded with boiling water.

Ratcatcher, meanwhile, stood tall. The viewing cube showed a close-up of his face, a big grin across it. On his sheet, five AP crystals gleamed afresh.

It was impossible.

“What was that?” Sam asked.

“I have no idea,” Serene replied numbly.

The crowd murmured in equal shock. No one seemed to know what was happening.

Except for one thing.

Ratcatcher was winning.

Had she misjudged him that badly? How could a man with this kind of power possibly have spent his whole life losing?

Someone was making a fool of themselves by screaming at the top of their lungs, cutting through the stunned silence. It took Serene a moment before she realized it was coming out of her own mouth.

“COME ONNN!” she cried, knuckles white on the railing. “WINNN, RATCATCHER!”

Faith was a deadly thing on the Frontier. It only led to bad decisions—and bad decisions led, invariably, to a premature and unpleasant death.

But just for today, just this one time, Serene wanted to believe in something.

“PLEASE WIN!”

Tears stung her eyes.