February ~ 28!!

The journey from the camp to Valentine was swift, but far from comfortable. Grant's mind was spinning, trying to picture the lengths House Saturday would go to in order to extract the information. Waylon didn’t have anything to worry about; the death of the son of Heavyweight Wednesday would cause a House war, and he doubted that anyone wanted that. “What are they gonna do to me?”

<They will need to break you quickly. I expect they will go straight for your fingernails. Works fast, and makes it harder for you to fight back if you get free.>

“Thanks for the information, Sarge.” Grant’s stomach heaved. It was accompanied by the sound of a gate being raised. “Let’s keep the conversation focused on getting free and such?”

<Just don’t break too quickly. They’ll think you’re lying and come up with more convincing techniques to validate the data.> Sarge was completely serious, and the not-yet-twenty-year-old blanched at the thought of finding the sweet spot of responding to torture so that he would be believed.

Grant was pulled off the back of the small handcart they had been loaded onto, landing heavily on the flagstones. His bonds were tight, but he could see that they were stopped within a courtyard. Waylon’s limp body was dumped right next to him.

“Waylon!” The Monster Hunter lay on the ground unmoving, even as Grant tried to nudge him. There was dried blood down the side of his face. “Are you alright?”

“He’ll be fine.” A Vassal prodded Waylon with a foot, then turned and kicked Grant in the side, dealing zero damage, to Grant’s silent amusement. “You should be worrying about yourself! This fella would be fine if he hadn’t struggled so much. Had to clock him a few times to shut him up.”

“If you hurt him-” Grant growled upward, getting a shoe to the face for his trouble.

“You’ll what?” The Vassal’s foot ground down on Grant’s head, forcing his face into the muck on the road. “Show our guest to his ‘room’. I’ll be along shortly.”

Grant was dragged to his feet and shoved toward a dark entryway. “Start walking.”

The tip of a blade pressed into his back, guiding him on the correct path to take. From the closed courtyard, he was forced up a flight of stairs and into the keep. Sconces lit their way. Grant’s mind raced, trying to figure out how to escape. If he could make a run for it, he might be able to escape the Vassal, but run where? They were inside the House Saturday stronghold. There was no good option to take here, no easy way out.

“We don’t have all day. Keep moving, Monday.” After numerous dizzying spirals, they exited the stairwell. Grant was forced into a cell at the point of the blade, and the door slammed shut with finality. “Enjoy your stay in Saturday Solitary.”

Grant held onto the bars as he turned to watch the Vassal disappear. The man was carrying February Twenty Nine and his backpack. He felt a wave of relief, having assumed they’d left his belongings back at the campsite. Then he saw the ghostly image of his sword in the air, and knew he could retrieve February Twenty Nine if he could just reach it.

“Come on…” His fingers almost reached the glow, but it was just barely too far away. His hand dropped, and Grant sighed heavily. “Just had to keep me a sword-length away, didn’t they? Ironic is what that is.”

The cell was bare, the walls hewn from giant blocks of granite. As he ran his hands across them, he knew there would be no way to escape. He couldn’t even fit a fingernail between the tightly fitted blocks. Apart from a stone slab to lie on, the only other contents of the room were a pitcher of water and a barred window above head height. He lay down and tried to center himself.

Hours later, Grant listened carefully to the sound of approaching footsteps and someone dragging what sounded like a heavy sack. He wondered what the contents were. He found out when a cell door slammed shut, followed by a thud, then a familiar groan. “Waylon! You’re still alive! Can you hear me?”

“Ugh. I can hear you. So can half the city. Oh… my head,” came the stressed reply.

“You shouldn’t have fought back,” Grant chastised the man. “Are you okay?”

“I am not,” Waylon replied evenly, quietly. “Do you realize where we are? The Citadel, seat of power of House Saturday. No one gets in here that isn’t a member of the House. There is no hope of rescue from the outside without a major incident occurring. What did you do?”

“How was I supposed to know-” Grant started defensively.

“Regent’s saggy… you actually did what they’re accusing you of?” Waylon started hyperventilating. “How were you supposed to know that the Noble House Saturday would seek retaliation for the loss of their Wielded Weapon? Hmm. That’s a tricky one.”

“I think-”

“You think? No, Grant, you don’t. If you did, we wouldn’t be in this mess; we’d be hunting down those thieves, and you’d be taking part in the tournament two days from now!” Waylon was practically snarling in an attempt to keep his voice down.

“It doesn’t matter now. We’re probably dead.” Grant swallowed hard, looking anywhere besides the direction where his friend’s voice was coming from.

“I can’t believe I trusted you. If I get the chance to escape this, I will. Even alone.” The silence stretched after that shocking outburst, and before he knew it, Grant was blinking into wakefulness as the sun lit the corner of his cell wall.

From there, minutes turned into hours. After his outburst, Waylon had remained silent. That suited Grant fine. He had nothing to say to the man that could well betray him to their captors.

<Time to train!> Sarge cheerfully shouted into his mind. Grant was so startled that he fell off his stone bunk and rattled his brain by hitting the ground.

“Sarge! How can I hear you? I don’t have my sword.” Grant looked around to see if February Twenty Nine was somehow stored nearby, but he found nothing.

<Your sword is part of you. I think. It’s bound to you, at least.> They both contemplated that for a long moment. <Anyway, being a captive doesn't get you out of training. Gotta train even harder so you can get away. Only through effort and persistence will you achieve your goals. Pushups can be done almost anywhere! Get to ‘em.>

Grant did as he was told with minimal groaning. It was something to do, at least. Managing to complete the first fifty in just over a minute, he couldn’t suppress a slight smile. <Too easy with your cultivation, huh? Fair enough. Do fifty more, one finger on each hand only. Then the next finger, and so on. I want to see some enthusiasm.>

He stifled a groan then started another set. His arms were trembling by the time he reached his ring fingers. “Getting close to finishing, Sarge.”

<I’ll tell you when you’re done! I don’t train quitters!> He managed to go until he got to his pinkies. When it was clear to Sarge that he couldn’t complete the set, the sword spirit lent a helping hand in the form of precisely timed shocks. Grant’s body sprang up and down as if it had a mind of its own.

“All done?” Grant let just a hint too much hope seep into his voice, if the laughter was anything to go by.

<Far from it! We’re just getting started. You don’t appear to have anything better to do, right? Flip over and give me five hundred sit-ups. Then… I have thoughts on what we can do using those bars.> Rather than debate with the training program, Grant set to work for the next few hours. By the third hour, the burn from headstand planks was becoming unbearable. Sarge provided motivation in the form of shouting and further shocks when Grant rested for too long. By the time he had completed the final set, he was a sopping pile of sweat.

<For the next hour I’ll apply a series of modulated shocks to specific muscle groups, varying the intensity and duration. It is… unorthodox, but it should provide the required physical cultivation stimulus, along with a boatload of mental cultivation.>

“Mental cultivation? Specifically? Just by itself?”

<You’ll soon find out. It’s so exciting, isn’t it? Let’s just say… soldiers must be mentally tough to overcome all obstacles.>

The following hour was one of the longest in Grant’s life. The shocks started as minute, but they quickly ramped up until his muscles quivered under the load. Sarge was correct; the shock treatment somehow boosted his mental cultivation. He felt like his brain was calloused, toughened from the mental abuse. The shocks were both mentally and physically draining, but he wanted to strengthen his mind for the upcoming interrogation.

Once everything was finally over, he fell asleep on the cold stone floor and didn’t wake up again until the next morning, when a bucket of icy water was thrown over him.

“Don’t get too comfy in here.” The guard laughed as Grant shivered uncontrollably.

“When are you guys gonna talk to me?” Grant demanded through chattering teeth.

“That’s all part of the fun!” The man snickered again and walked away, his footfalls echoing down the hall. Rather than cowering in the corner and working himself into a fervor, Grant took control of the time he had left by training for two hours without being forced to do so.

<That’s more like it! We’ll make a samurai, ahh… a true cultivator out of you yet! Okay, same routine as last night, but this time, we’ll push you beyond your breaking point!> Grant didn’t answer. There was no point in wasting his breath; Sarge would make sure he needed that soon.

He knew that his mentor had his best interests at heart. As his friend Derek had once told him, with enough hammering, even cold steel could be beaten into shape. He had practically waltzed through January, and now he was suffering for his lacking physicality and mentality in February. From here on out, the challenges would only increase in difficulty. If he wanted to make it through them in one piece, he would have to be in supreme mental and physical shape.

To that end… two fingered, upside-down push ups. Sit ups using the bars as footholds to keep himself off the ground. He grunted with exertion. “Ugh!”

“I have no idea what you’ve been doing in there,” Waylon called out from the adjacent cell. “But I heard a lot of huffing and puffing. There’s no point in working yourself into a state. There’s no way out, so just accept the situation. Make peace with your inner demons, and go quietly into the light.”

“Waylon, please be quiet and listen.” When Grant was sure he had his despondent companion’s attention, he explained, “I have a plan, and you need to trust me.”

“No.”