February ~ 29!

Footsteps echoed along the corridor, but Grant was ready to put his plan into action. The fingertips of his right hand lightly brushed the metal bars of his cell. To any onlooker, he appeared to be sleeping. “Get up, Monday. You are to be taken to the inquisitor for questioning. Move away from the bars.”

“I know you’re awake!” Grant continued to feign sleep, which infuriated the man. “I think you need some sense beaten into you.”

Grant listened to the guard fumbling with the lock. Following the clunk—just as the mechanism opened—Grant switched Spark Shield to active mode.

A bolt of energy surged along the bars and into the body of the unfortunate guard, seizing his muscles so rapidly that he didn’t even have a chance to shout. The shocked man collapsed like a sack of potatoes as the ability wore off, but he started getting to his feet almost instantly. The sad fact was that Spark Shield was too weak to do long-term damage. With his current mental cultivation, it was a distraction at best.

Without a second to lose, Grant took a full step out of the cell and grabbed the illusion that was hanging in the air, visible only to him. “Time is Space.”

February Twenty-Nine coalesced out of the open air, and the point rested against the man’s neck in the next instant. “Get in.”

After the Vassal had been locked up properly, he grabbed the set of keys off the ground and unlocked Waylon’s cell. Waylon looked up at Grant but didn’t rush to escape his confinement. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Grant waved at his companion to hurry up. “I’m getting us out of here. Move it!”

“Not a chance. Are you crazy? There are dozens of Vassals, not to mention the Wielders, and probably hundreds of cultivator guards between us and freedom. This is Citadel Saturday. I’m sitting on my happy rear right here.”

“Waylon, please!” The young noble vigorously shook his head, and Grant growled. “Fine. Be like that. I guess I’ll just look after myself. Hope you live long enough that we meet again.”

Grant turned to leave and was met by a poison-filled syringe to the side. His armor had been stripped away, so he only had his cultivation to block the attack… and it failed him. He was out cold in mere moments.

The darkness receded an unknown amount of time later. He found himself in a chamber, strapped to a chair and unable to feel his fingers. The leather straps around his wrists had cut off the circulation to his hands, and he struggled to move his head. He felt his gorge rise when he recognized what looked like bloodstains spread across the stone floor and splattered along the walls.

Flicking his eyes to the side, he found a dejected-looking Waylon draped in heavy iron chains. Between them lay a selection of implements on a tray that would look almost normal in a carpenter's shop. Pliers, tongs, tweezers, files, hammers, and other instruments he couldn’t identify.

“Grant Monday.” The gravelly voice made him flinch as a cloaked figure emerged from the darkness of the dimly lit chamber, features hidden within the deep folds of the cowl. “Your escape attempt is further proof of your guilt. Confess, and we will gift you a swift death.”

Surprisingly, Waylon spoke up for him in a deadpan tone. “He’s just a moron from January. A complete and utter fool. His only crime is ignorance.”

Grant caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Above and to the left hung a viewing platform, where a line of cowled figures watched the proceedings with interest. He could just make out the black cloaks of Wielders, along with the purple cloaks of multiple rows of Vassals. Their presence concerned him more than the array of unused sharp objects.

“Let’s begin.” The torturer pulled his hood back to reveal his merciless face and shaved scalp covered in intricate tattoos. Grant wished at that moment that the man’s hood was still up. There was no empathy in the cold, piercing eyes, currently observing him. The inquisitor presented a bucket on one hand and gestured to the array of pain-inducing implements with the other. “Make your choice.”

“What’s in the bucket?”

“Something unpleasant.” A dark smile appeared.

“From the look on your face, I don’t think I’ll enjoy either.” Grant thought quickly, “You’re alchemists. Whatever’s in there can’t be fun. I’ll take the knife.”

“Bucket it is.” The man nodded as Grant snorted at the cliche. “Prepare the prisoner.”

Vassals leaped to obey, undoing the straps securing Grant’s chest. “Hold on. “I’ll tell you everything right now, and I can easily prove it instantly! I can even get the ability back, but if you kill me… they get away with it.”

“Grant, what are you doing?” Waylon was shaking his head in disbelief. He was shocked, thinking that Grant was outing himself.

“Get it back? From who? Who is this ‘they’?” The contents of the bucket sloshed as the man paused, and a single drop fell onto Grant’s exposed stomach.

Debuff gained: Nerve Flame. For the next three sec-

Grant couldn’t see the rest of the notification through the blinding pain centered on his stomach. Was he actually on fire? The instant he could speak, he babbled out, “By the Regent! It was House Thursday! They gave me an artifact that would allow me to steal abilities so they could sell them to the highest bidder. As payment, I had to prove my ability to steal them! I liked Razor’s Edge so much that I tried to run with the ability, but they chased me down and took the artifact back. Even so, they gave me another chance, since I knew the secret and had enough mana to activate it. They took my tournament token as collateral, so they know I’ll have to do as they told me!”

A collective gasp went up from the House Saturday Wielders at the thought of the merchant House being able to acquire and sell their abilities.

The torturer picked up a pair of tweezers encrusted with dried blood and approached Grant. “You’re lying! That’s ridiculous. I will get the truth out of you, one way or another.”

Grant dredged up every fact he had heard about the District and spun them into a story. “I’m telling the truth! Waylon and I are expected at the Red Octagon in Valentine before the start of the main tournament, where they will hand over the artifact once more. It will contain Razor’s Edge. They want me to capture Lady February’s power so they can get back in power themselves! You have to believe me! I’ll destroy the artifact and get your power back!”

“Don’t worry.” The tweezers were clamped over Grant’s index finger. “We will discover the truth. Pain, I find, has an uncanny knack for loosening the tongue.

“Pause.” A booming voice came from the viewing platform. “If he is telling the truth, then we can’t risk disfiguring him.”

The man stared at the tweezers for a long moment before sighing and looking up. “My lord, his story is preposterous. He must be lying.”

“Maybe so. Still, one of our Wielded Weapons is powerless. This is a fact. Never in the history of the world has there been a way to steal abilities from Wielded Weapons. But… if anyone could do it, it would be House Thursday. They have money, and they have access to artifacts that no one has ever seen before. Boy, what is the ability of your Wielded Weapon?”

“I can call it to my hand from anywhere it has been while bonded to me!” Grant nearly shouted, having latched onto this lifeline with all his strength.

Not having any of it, the tattooed man growled, “My lord, as you know, there are ways to cause serious pain without inflicting visible injuries. I will get to the bottom of this and discover the real truth!”

Another man stepped forward with a report that he read from. “Professor Saturday. Grant has demonstrated the ability to recall his sword publicly during the final qualifier, as well as to escape his cell only a few hours ago.”

Almost throwing a tantrum, the tattooed inquisitor snarled and opened his mouth to interject.

A raised hand stopped all discussion. “Silence. I am Saturday, not you, and I have made my decision. Grant Monday, we agree to your plan. Destroy the artifact and restore our weapon power… and you and your friend will go free. Waylon Wednesday will stay here until you have fulfilled your end of the bargain. But let me be clear…”

The head of House Saturday rose to his feet, and a pool of darkness spread from within the hidden folds of his cloak. “If you are lying to us… you will have wished that I had allowed my inquisitor to continue his work.”

“Thank you. M’lord,” Grant squeaked. “I, um, need Waylon with me. They expect both of us. They want him as additional collateral.”

“Excuse me?” Waylon hissed at Grant.

“Sorry, Waylon. I had already decided just to run for it, so I didn’t bother telling you. It was never supposed to happen for real,” Grant admitted to his friend, who luckily took the statement at face value. At least, he said nothing else for the moment.

The four Wielders conferred amongst themselves as Grant mentally chewed on his nails. He wondered if they had bought his story, but it was either that or tell the truth. Better to use two enemies against each other than to take the fall.

Saturday finally came to a decision. “Go to the building, and take Waylon with you. You won’t see us… but we will be there. Watching, and waiting. Try to run, escape, or warn them… and we will end you both. When you have proved that House Thursday was responsible, we will make them pay. Then you run. If they can figure out how to do it once, what’s stopping them from doing it again? Give him his sword and pack. You… get out of my sight. For your sake, I hope that we don’t meet again.”