February ~ 30!

The two took off running as soon as the portcullis of Citadel Saturday slammed shut. Both of them wanted to get out of the area as quickly as possible, equally eager to put the memories of their time behind them, as well as to be out of the seat of power for House Saturday.

Neither of them had any illusion that they were safe, but distance would help. Grant once again felt February Twenty-Nine’s hilt in his grip and the sheathed blade against his hip. That helped even more.

“I can’t believe it.” Waylon shook his head as he mulled over the events of the last few days over and again. “We got out alive? In one piece? After you somehow used an artifact to steal their power… I don’t know if you’re a genius or a crazy person. If your plan is successful, you’ve put Houses Thursday and Saturday on a path to war. A House war here… I have no idea what will happen.”

“I know.” Grant nodded grimly, earning a concerned look from his friend at the anger in the words. The pair made their way towards the center of Valentine, soon finding themselves amongst the heaving crowds arriving for the finals that would restructure the entire District. Revelers, dressed in costumes of their favorite athletes, chugged down green wheatgrass shots. The mouthwatering smell of grilled kale leaves drifted in the breeze, attempting to lure the pair away from their objective. Grant surprised himself by wanting to sneak off and gorge himself on the leafy treat, but he knew that wasn’t an option.

In his greed, he had stolen the power of a Wielded Weapon, from the most dangerous House, and been caught. He resolved to learn from this lesson and be more prudent when using his sword's true capabilities.

“Here we are. The place you are going to trade me for a chance at winning an introduction to a pretty lady. I feel so honored.” Waylon’s dry sarcasm didn’t stop him from pointing to the red, unusually shaped building. It was heavily fortified with guards positioned on the roof, and burly Vassals guarding the metal braced door. “The Red Octagon. It was once the site of the famous Octagon Theatre. Playwrights would travel from across February to host plays and theatre productions. I have fond memories here with my parents, but I can’t wait to exchange that childhood nostalgia for memories of fleeing for my life or being held hostage.”

“It isn’t going to be that bad, Waylon,” Grant grunted as they closed in on the front door. “It’s kinda fitting that this is a stage, because we’re only here to act out a farce, distract two of the seven most powerful forces in the District, and run for our lives.”

<Exit stage left, if you will.>

Not knowing what that meant, Grant still repeated it for his friend. “Exit stage left, if you will.”

“Ha!” Waylon barked out a laugh, and just like that, the tension was broken. “Okay. Just… if I’m captured, be prepared to save me at any cost. Powerlifter Thursday is vindictive, and she never forgave my father for defeating her in a brawling tournament. I’d have a better chance at making friends in Saturday and getting out than I have of getting her to let me go.”

“I will.” Grant strode towards the gold filigree door and the two guards barring their way.

The burly Vassal on the left held out a bronze crowbar, of all things. “No one is allowed in. On your way!”

“I have important business with Lady Powerlifter Thursday?” Grant’s statement faltered into a question as the strange title rolled off his tongue.

The Vassal on the right spoke in a softer, but firm voice. “Come back after the tournament. Powerlifter Thursday isn’t offering alms today.”

Grant looked down at his ragged, filthy clothing and recalled that he hadn’t yet put his armor on over it. He tried to lean in to whisper, but the guards raised their crowbars in warning, so he merely spoke quietly. “Tell your boss I have Waylon Wednesday. Believe me, she will want to see him.”

One of the guards disappeared inside nearly instantly, surprising all three of the others. The remaining guard cast a wary eye at the pair, not letting them out of his sight. He was ready and willing—so willing—to brutally retaliate if they tried anything. It dawned on Grant that he didn’t know what to do if Powerlifter Thursday declined to see him. For all he knew, she could be at the tournament already, which would certainly shatter his plan; then House Saturday would pulverize his bones one-by-one. He decided that this would be a good time to prepare for attack, so he retrieved his white gi from his bag and pulled it on.

After several nerve-wracking minutes, the guard reappeared and motioned for them to follow. Grant gave Waylon the thumbs up, but the young Noble wasn’t in any mood to respond. They were led along an opulent passageway clearly designed to flaunt wealth and the power of the House. Their feet didn’t make a sound as they trod along thick carpet, and Grant’s nerves started to get the better of him. He had no idea what he was actually leading them into.

Waylon’s eyes continuously darted around as he frantically searched for an escape route. Grant felt terrible for what he was putting his friend through, and for what he intended to do. He hoped the young noble would forgive him. A heavy velvet curtain was drawn aside, and they were led inside an enclosed amphitheater. The rows upon rows of plush seats and furnishing were a little faded, but the opulence shone through regardless.

“Don’t just stand there.” The meatiest woman Grant had ever seen was in the middle of a squat rack, her watermelon-sized leg muscles straining as she smoothly stood up and dropped down. She set down the bar as they approached, the action causing the entire stage to shudder violently. Powerlifter Thursday lived up to her name, so much so that Grant could barely peel his eyes away. When he did, he stumbled to a stop. She was flanked on either side by two massive mastiff-monster dogs. “You may approach. They don’t bite… without the proper command.”

Dozens of Vassals and a couple Wielders sat in the front rows, eying them suspiciously. He had the feeling he’d interrupted an important meeting, perhaps a House training session?

“Good puppies.” Try as he might, he couldn’t contain his nerves as he got closer to the proud canines. ”If I knew you were here, I’d have brought a bone? Good boys?”

A nasty snarl was his only reply, and he clenched up as though he had taken a physical blow. He decided to ignore the animals as much as possible from then on.

“I see that you fulfilled your side of the deal. Thank you.” Powerlifter flicked Grant’s enamel entry token through the air to him. Waylon stared in disbelief as Grant pocketed it without looking at it directly. “You came through for us. Leave now. We don’t want any witnesses for the next steps.”

Grant nodded and turned to leave, not once looking his friend in the eye. Waylon attempted to follow but was stopped by a pair of Vassals. “Grant? What are you doing? I thought you had a plan to save both of us?”

“Not so much.” Grant’s words came out as a whisper, and he kept moving.

“Excellent; let’s get this over with. Keep Waylon quiet, and one of you escort Sir Monday out.” Powerlifter sighed happily. Several Vassals rose from their chairs and rushed to obey her with weapons at the ready. Waylon stood alone at the edge of the stage, his tomahawk trembling as he struggled to contain his nerves and anger at being betrayed. “I think a finger with his signet ring will suffice as a message. Then let’s head to the tourney!”

Waylon swung his weapon in a wide arc, managing to fend off the attackers for a moment. That was all the distraction Grant needed.

His blade sang as he unsheathed it, forcing all eyes to turn in his direction as he swung at the nearest object, a fist-sized jade statue that could have easily fit in his coin pouch. The blade connected, shattering the sculpture. At the same time, he had his status page ready and relinquished Razor's Edge just as his blade completed its arc.

Powerlifter let out a snarl as jade shrapnel flew, hit the ground, and broke further. “My statue! Why would you do that, you deranged fool? We had a deal, and you throw it out like this? We would have both had everything we wanted!”

“You had this figurine on hand, and I know that you have a way of getting or making more.” Grant's non sequitur only bought him a moment before an entire Calendar of Vassals surged to put him down. Waylon continued to defend himself in a lackluster manner against a Wielder and two Vassals, but all other eyes were now on Grant. A Vassal lunged forward, aiming his crowbar at Grant’s head.

<Behind you!> Grant didn’t see the shadow that fell from the upper balcony and saved his unarmored head from being caved in. The person landed behind the House Thursday Vassal, and a thin red line appeared on their neck as a curved dagger sliced. The Vassal collapsed, fruitlessly grasping his slashed neck as his lifeforce drained away in a sanguine pool.

“Better run.” Grant was now standing face-to-face with the House Saturday Wielder he had previously fought during the tournament, the man whose weapon ability he had stolen. The Wielder gave a curt nod after his quiet order, then vanished amongst the sudden throng of bodies. House Thursday Vassals went down rapidly, completely unprepared for the surprise slaughter. Grant stared around as if he was trapped in a dream. He had never imagined that his trickery would result in such carnage.

“To me!” Powerlifter yelled as she lifted her crowbar Wielded Weapon. She swung it and impacted the air; the weapon rebounded as if she had struck a stone. A dozen paces away, a thinly-armored assassin practically splattered as if he had just had a mountain dropped on him. “Form a defensive line!”

“Time to go, Waylon!” Grant’s voice hadn’t been this high-pitched since he had hit puberty.

The remaining House Thursday cultivators formed a wall between the advancing enemy and Powerlifter. Vassals were cut down mercilessly by the encroaching wall of cloaks. Razor's Edge, the returned weapon power, clearly aided in their vengeful onslaught. Glowing red daggers sliced and diced, even insignificant nicks and cuts resulting in substantial blood loss.

Thursday wasn’t taking the attack lying down, even if they were having trouble against their agile foe. Grant was uncertain if it was because Powerlifter was so much more powerful than them, but the Vassal’s crowbars only activated the ability when they landed a hit. However, when the blow did succeed, the defender would take damage seemingly unproportional to the swing, their body flying across the room as a broken mess.

Waylon stared blankly at the battle raging before him. Mini-earthquakes rocked the once fine theatre, with chunks of plaster falling in a hail of debris as expensive alchemical charges detonated, forcing the attackers to retreat. Unfortunately for House Thursday, House Saturday was who they purchased the alchemical charges from. As soon as the combat began to escalate on one side, the other side would immediately bring out more powerful attacks. Despite that, swarms of fresh Vassals leaped from the balcony above and into the fray, and more members of House Thursday entered through the doorways as the sounds of combat grew.

“Grant?” Recognition flooded Waylon’s eyes as his friend drew close and grabbed his arm. “You didn’t leave me! I thought…”

“All part of the plan, buddy,” Grant promised with a weak smile as he yanked on the stunned Noble. “Now come on; we’re getting caught in the crossfire.”

They stumbled over bodies and through a heavy curtain into a corridor. Luckily, they didn’t come across—or find themselves forced to fight—any members of either of the warring Houses. Grant ran towards what appeared to be an exit, and a moment later, they burst out of The Octagon, spilling out onto the strangely springy road. They got to their feet unsteadily. Since the building was soundproofed, it was hard to believe that a battle raged within, and that all nearby House Thursday and Saturday members were locked in combat.

“Where is everyone?” Grant blinked the dust out of his eyes. The streets were deserted, with not a soul in sight. “The tourney… it must have started.

“The colosseum! Hurry! Good call; that will be the safest place in the entire District for us right now.” Waylon started sprinting down the road, and a moment later, Grant caught up. It was hard to tell which one of them was more surprised. Waylon nodded eagerly. “Follow me. Oh, hey, for future reference, I don’t appreciate being used as bait. Cool beans?”

“Never again. I swear it,” Grant solemnly promised. “I never wanted to do it this time, and I wouldn’t have, if Saturday hadn’t forced our hand. I can’t imagine that would ever happen again.”

“Fair enough.” Waylon chuckled lightly. “How are we not dead right now?”

“No idea,” Grant laughed along. Soon they were both panic-laughing as they tried to move past the brutal brawl they had just witnessed. The streets remained deserted, so it didn’t take long to reach the colosseum. Stone arches soared into the sky… but he wasn’t there to admire the building’s architecture. In fact, he couldn’t care less at that moment. He presented his token to the ticket collector at the entry booth with a shaky hand. “Am I too late?”

“I’m afraid so.” The lady nodded sadly as she looked over the beautiful token. Grant almost melted into a puddle of nerves as she continued, “You’ve missed the entire entertainment segment. An acrobatic troupe was displaying various poses that increase physical cultivation for nearly any method. I was told they were spectacular. But here I am, stuck in the ticket booth-”

“What about the tournament?” Grant grabbed her shoulders and shook her as if that would rattle out the answer for him.

She merely frowned at him, slightly affronted. “Oh, that? Hasn’t started yet. It was postponed for an hour, since fewer competitors turned up than were expected. We’re just waiting for stragglers such as yourself to arrive. By the way… you don’t look so good.”

“What?” It was only then that Grant noticed a nasty gash on his side. “When…? What?”

She pointed sharply at a section in the coliseum. “Medical section. Now. You, take him there right away. He’ll be seen straight away, since I’ve never seen competitors get injured before the bouts.”

With Waylon’s help, Grant made it to the onsite House Sunday emergency area. Rows of empty cots lay waiting to hold the inevitable injured competitors during the tournament. The smell of pungent medicinal herbs infused the air, and Grant nearly fell asleep from the pleasant odor, despite the fact that he was still standing. Seeing Grant leaning heavily on Waylon, a House Sunday healer surged to their feet.

“Crumbling caduceus! Come over here and lie down.” The healer pulled out their aforementioned caduceus and rushed to the bed that Grant had flopped down on. The damaged Wielder flinched at the sight of the Wielded Weapon as it swung down toward him.

“It’s okay. I’m here to help you.” The healer mopped Grant’s brow as he triaged the young man. “He has a fever… nasty cut… something is interfering with my ability to see inside him, so I’ll need to do a physical inspection. What happened to him?”

“Gleam-Fang Stalkers,” Waylon lied instantly. “I’m nearly certain this one had poison, so check that as well, but I think it was a remnant of a nest that was burnt out, since it was alone.”

“Gleam-Fangs! I heard about that incident. He survived an encounter with them?” The healer went to slice the open Grant’s Mid Spring armor with a pair of heavy-duty scissors. “Let’s see what we have here-”

“No,” Grant mumbled the words in his delirium. “Not my armor-”

“You won’t be fighting today, sir.” The healer’s hand was slapped away as Grant tried to sit up.

“Please.” Waylon forced Grant down, but he also prevented the healer from slicing open the armor. “Just undo the straps. Grant is determined to fight, and if he does, he’ll need his armor in one piece.”

The healer shrugged and untied the binding securing the torso armor. As it fell away, both he and Waylon gasped. The flesh was oozing pus, and blood seeped from the wound and down his side.

“Will he be okay?” Waylon looked green.

“Leave me. This is clearly poison, and it’s working fast. We have work to do. Barb, I need your help!” Another healer ran over, this one holding a smaller version of the caduceus; a Vassal, then. A curtain was pulled around the bed, and Waylon nervously waited on the other side, hoping that his friend would pull through.

The minutes turned into half an hour. Waylon could hear the sound of trumpets and shouting coming from the arena. The healer finally appeared from behind the curtain, and Waylon held his breath as the man spoke. “We have managed to stabilize him and contain the poison.”

“That’s fantastic news.” Waylon smiled; the healer didn’t. “The bad news?”

“I removed a foreign body from his stomach.” Waylon peered at the razor-sharp object the Wielder was holding up. “This was the source of the damage.”

“A… needle?”

“A shard of a thrown weapon, coated in numbing poison as well as a particularly nasty anticoagulant. Not a chance he would notice it, and it nearly took him out. Good thing you got here as quick as you did.” The healer looked sharply at Waylon. “Also clearly not a Gleam-Fang attack, but I won’t even ask. Listen, he is stable at fifty percent health-”

“Why not heal him fully?”

“Ran out of mana.” This was obviously a sore point, so Waylon held up his hands apologetically.

Grant slapped the curtain out of his way, getting chased by an irate Barb, “I have to do this. I have no other choice.”

“You’re a stubborn fool.” She was practically yelling at him. “If you go out there and waste all our hard work, I’m going to find the newest trainees to stitch you up!”

“Healer. Thank you both for your help.” Grant ignored the fuming Vassal and turned to face the Wielder. “How much do I owe you?”

“Treatment is free during the tourney, but I strongly advise you to sit this one out. Given the circumstances, I can provide a medical pass, allowing you to take part in next year’s tourney without having to go through the preliminary stages.”

Grant was shaking his head before the offer was even complete. “I have to compete this year.”

“Is becoming a Noble worth your life? You’re already a Monday!” Barb protested pleadingly, but Grant simply shook his head sadly.

“Not participating would cost me my life,” Grant half-explained. “Better a chance and failing, than failing for sure. Please… stand aside.”

He resolutely walked into the coliseum, with three people watching him go. One’s eyes held curiosity, another was tinged with sadness. The last was starting to heat up with interest in this intense young man who had so much to prove to the world.