February ~ 33!

With the finish line in sight, he couldn’t help but feel a sliver of hope wash over him. Just a few minutes more, and he would beat the best that February has to offer.

*Smack.*

A stray boulder the size of his fist slammed into the side of his head. Momentarily dazed from the impact, he stumbled over the loose rocks and lost his footing. Grant made it to the bottom of the mountain, almost exactly one hundred yards from the finish line. The only problem? He was officially swept up within the landslide and currently entombed in what might become a rocky grave as the fist-sized boulder was followed up by what felt like half the mountain.

Blood spurting out of torn lips was accompanied by spasms from his lungs. A short while later, he heard the crunch of boots nearby and hoped that someone had arrived to rescue him. Help didn’t come. The crunching was followed in quick succession by two more pairs of footsteps. He rightly guessed that they didn’t belong to a rescue party. A loud cheer erupted from nearby as the first three competitors crossed the finish line, and Grant’s chances of reaching the final stage in the tournament started to vanish.

<It seems like you’re going through a rocky patch, Grant! You really shouldn’t take things for granite like this.> Grant groaned and swore unintelligibly at Sarge’s attempt at humor. <You know, there was once a poll of people about their favorite natural disaster. Avalanche won by a landslide.>

“Noo…” If he was going to die, he would do so with a view of the sky, and perhaps whoever found his body would hold a respectful funeral in his honor. It was all he could hope for at this point. With the solitary goal of breaking free of the pile of rubble, he used his one good arm to pull himself out inch by excruciating inch.

His moaning figure wrenched itself free from the rubble, but no one came to help. Grant flipped onto his side. The crowd was too busy celebrating to notice the final moments of his existence. The finish line was tantalizingly close, and despite his broken body, for the moment, he was still alive. If only he could force his body into action. “Sarge… apply… Spark Shield. Walk… me.”

His body jerked into motion. All his limbs had been dislocated by the slide, and the muscles in his neck were failing to support him. His head lolled to the side as he heard a cheer for two competitors that were racing towards the finish line to claim the remaining spots.

“The dead have risen!” Cries erupted from the crowd, replacing the jubilant cheering. Panic spread, and spectators scrambled to get away from the marionette dancing towards them, its movement powered by unnatural forces. Arms and legs spun in circles as the groaning figure jerkily approached. “Run for your life! Lady February, protect us!”

Five yards from the finish line, and people still weren’t rushing to help, instead seeing him as a monster. Lady February and his fellow competitors, who had finished the race, had their weapons at the ready but stood their ground, unwilling to approach the unidentified target. Grant checked his stats, focusing only on his health parameter, to verify just how bad a state he was in.

Health: 12/229

His body walked itself across the line, then sat down as gently as possible. <Heal, Grant! Now!>

Grant’s fluttering eyes closed, and he just barely managed to activate Live by the Sword before he would have succumbed to his injuries. He relived the landslide as he lay there, once more feeling the pain and horror for the first time and seeing how he could have done better.

Over the course of the next minute, his arms and legs wrenched back into position with a meaty *pop*. He sucked in a deep lungful of crisp alpine air as the hole in his chest closed. The spell wasn’t a panacea for all injuries, but it had miraculously healed his mortal wounds. From the startled looks of the crowd, he still looked like garbage, but he was now up to seventy-seven health. He might only be a third healed, but he felt better than he had ever expected to again.

“Grant Monday narrowly secures the fourth position!” an announcer called to the crowd, which was cheering wildly.

He had no idea where they had come from, but it was nice to hear the happy sounds at his success. <Well done. You woke from death and returned to life. I knew you could do it! Grant? Grant!>

The young Wielder's eyes fluttered closed, and he fell over.

***

Grant awoke in a panic, sucking wind. For a moment, he thought he was still trapped under the pile of rocks. Recollection abruptly flooded over him, and he blinked and took in his surroundings. His jaw dropped so far that he thought he might have dislocated it. From the bars lining his window, he realized that he was in a cell.

“What? I made it to the final. You’ve gotta let me out!” An unblinking Vassal on the other side of the bars was watching his every move but declined to respond. “Hey! Is this for real? Answer me! Are you deaf? I don’t belong here!”

“Give it a rest, Monday,” a voice called out from nearby, “Some of us are trying to get a little shuteye. The Vassal is one of Lady February’s. He’s there to make sure you don’t keep cheating.”

“I’m not a cheat!” Grant roared as he jumped to his feet, wobbling since he expected pain but getting a pleasant surprise in the form of being in peak condition.

“Shut it already. We are all in the same boat as you. There’s a Vassal outside my cell too,” the voice called to him sleepily.

“We’re on a boat? There’s an ocean in February?” Grant’s mind was spinning, and he sat down to try and collect himself. “How big is this place?”

“Good one, Monday. I’m glad to see you have a sense of humor, and not just a murderer’s cold stare!” This time the voice was mocking; clearly the man didn’t like being woken up.

Sarge saved him from any more faux pas. <It’s a figure of speech. You’re being held at Lady February’s villa outside of Valentine after being healed for a full day by three healers.>

Grant, face burning, didn’t bother to reply at all. Instead, he sat up in his cot and took in his surroundings once more. This wasn’t any ordinary prison cell, and it certainly was not dark and oppressive like the one belonging to House Saturday. Colored light flooded the six-by-nine cell through an intricate stained glass window. It illuminated an oil painting of someone standing triumphantly at the top of a hill. Grant’s memory was a little hazy, but the figure seemed to resemble the statue in Hajimeni of Lord February, Lady February’s father, which would make sense, considering he was in her villa.

He was starting to understand why the district was the way it was: Lady February idolized her father and appeared to be on a mission to take his love of physical cultivation to the next level by forcing the population to be more like him. Even in his short time in the district, Grant had seen the negative consequences of these actions. All industries not directly supporting the numerous events and races had ground to a halt, and full towns and communities had been destroyed. Banditry was running rampant, and even though various monsters were being used as a main food source, the creatures were expanding into dangerously high numbers.

As he sat motionless on the stone cot, Grant wondered if Lady February realized the impact of her decisions, or if she even cared.

*Clink. Clink. Clink.*

The metallic ring of metal on metal wrenched his thoughts away from his pathetic state. The clinking grew louder until a figure was visible on the other side of the bars. It seemed that she had been trailing a metal-clad finger along the bars as she walked. Grant struggled to focus, but the spiky, shockingly pink hair could only belong to one person, Lady February. “What do we have here? Relaxing instead of working hard once more, I see.”

Grant’s eyes drifted shut as if his mind refused to focus on her. He forced them open and found a figure in white robes looming over him. He didn’t need to check the name tag to know that it was a Wielder from House Sunday. “I’m fine…”

“Hush, now; there is nothing you need to say. Rest, recover, and fight to grow stronger.” The Wielder felt Grant’s forehead. “I’m here to ensure that you will be able to function tomorrow. Though your body is healed, the mind needs time and rest, or it will fracture beyond repair.”

“Thank you, Lord Sunday. I will do my best.” Grant shifted to stand and show his thanks.

“No! You must remain immobile.” The healer pushed him down gently. “To speed up your recovery, I have applied rapid-acting potions, along with soothing oils and a dream-weave that will allow you to grieve and heal from your incurred heart demons rapidly. I daresay you’d be able to go spelunking as soon as tomorrow, if you wish.”

“O-oh. All that? I won’t move.” Grant promised as he worked to hold still, though he felt that he should smile at what he was almost certain was a joke.

“No.” The Sunday Wielder pressed an alchemically-infused cloth firmly against Grant’s nose and mouth. The young cultivator struggled, but it was too late to resist the older man’s iron grip. “You won’t.”

Lady February watched the proceedings with great interest… and a small smile.