February ~ 25!

“What’s wrong with him? Is he okay?” Waylon’s concerned voice seemed to come from far, far away.

“When we found him, he had passed out and was almost dead. We… can’t explain what happened to him. He didn’t appear to pick up any injuries during the completion of the course.” The healer checked Grant’s vitals with a burst of mana, then shrugged. “He should be fine. His body has been mended, but it's too early to tell if his mind will recover. We had to strap him down through the night. His body was twitching and flailing around. We were worried he’d hurt himself. Now that he’s awake… I see no reason not to discharge him. Keep an eye out for any unusual behavior.”

“Thank you, Elder.” Waylon bowed at the old man, who nodded and walked away serenely. “Grant? You’re awake? We need to get out of here, there’s a crowd out front looking for you.”

“A crowd? For me?” Grant drowsily struggled to his feet and checked to make sure he had all his belongings. “I want to greet my fans!”

“You don’t understand.” Waylon started, but Grant didn’t wait for Waylon and strode out of the medical tent with a dreamy smile on his face, anticipating the outpouring of adoration.

“Boo!”

“You should be disqualified!”

“There’s no way you could complete the course when so many proper competitors failed!”

“Cheater! Cheater!” The chant was taken up by hundreds of angry spectators and competitors, and Grant recoiled in confusion. This was not the response he’d expected. He raised his arms to protect his face from the sudden hail of projectiles. Protein bars exploded into puffs of oats against his armored Gi, and Beds left green stains across his whole body.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Confusion turned to fury, and Grant reached for his sword. The nearest protestors backed away with a hint of fear in their eyes, but were pushed forward as the mob started to surge.

“Order!” The thundering of boots echoed across the tournament site. Officials from House Tuesday smashed through the impromptu riot. Fists and feet flew as people attacked House Monday Vassals as if they had somehow colluded with Grant to ensure he passed the test. “I said order!

The senior House Tuesday official clapped two magic-infused billy clubs together, resulting in an earth-shattering *boom* shaking the ground and the eardrums of everyone present. “House Tuesday has examined the event in excruciating detail. The course was not rigged! Grant Monday legitimately used his skills and completed the test on his merit alone, without any external help or influence.”

“But… it’s impossible that Roderick failed and he-”

“Are you questioning the integrity of House Tuesday? Honor From Law!” The crowd disbanded as the Peacekeeper reminded them of the credo of his House. They followed the law exactly, and were known to be impartial in all matters. With House Tuesday’s proclamation, most people were properly chastised. A few nodded to Grant and apologized, but no one seemed happy; all they saw was a man new to exercise achieving what they or their favorites could not.

Waylon came over to stand by his side. “I told you we should have taken the back entrance. Listen, you need to hurry… you were out so long that the third test begins in an hour. I’m proud and impressed that you made it past the second test… but I don’t know if it’s wise that you continue. You almost died, and no one knows why.”

“I can’t give up, Waylon. It’ll end up killing me.” Grant tried to explain.

“You already almost died, Grant!”

“I didn’t go through all that to give up now. Why are you doing this? Did you bet against me?” Grant stared his shocked and hurt friend down, and tried to turn his accusation into a joke. “I’m kidding, just kidding… I know you had to have put some serious money on me right away, I’ve got great odds if you win. I think. I’m going to clean myself up and prepare for the final round.”

Only forty minutes later, Grant had cleaned up and eaten, then gripped the hilt of February Twenty Nine as he awaited the start of the third and final event; which would decide who went forward as a serious competitor in the finals. The assault course had been removed, replaced with a muddy field. More than one hundred athletes lined the perimeter of the field; far more than he had expected to make it this far.

“Pardon my intrusion,” Grant nodded at the man beside him, “why are there so many competitors? Didn’t only thirty or so total make it through the obstacle course?”

It took a long moment to get an answer as the man sized Grant up, “The rest have come from smaller events held throughout the district, and used their token to bypass that stage. I can’t say I blame them. Question… should you, um, be here? The spectators are meant to stand over there.”

“You know what-”

Grant didn’t have time to finish his snarl as the announcer began booming instructions. “Competitors, get ready! One minute warning. Only twenty-five competitors will make it through the Battle Royale and receive a token for the main tournament. District February believes in you!”

“A Battle Royale? We have to fight, I assume?” Grant looked at the huge man right next to him, and was sized up in turn. He really didn’t like the gleam in the large man’s eye.

“Sure looks like it.” The man smiled a broad smile. “From the number of people starting, we’ll have to defeat at least four people to make it through.”

Grant started subtly edging away from the man, but found that every small step was matched by the person he was attempting to avoid.

“Teaming up is prohibited!” The announcer continued to speak, “House Tuesday is standing watch for this event: anyone breaking the rules is out, no arguments will be heard. This is a free-for-all, but all fighting is strictly one-on-one. Houses Saturday and Sunday are standing by to deal with injuries, but sneak attacks or fatal blows will be punished according to the law, after you have been banned from the event! Honor From Law!”

“Honor From Law!” The reply was echoed back from any member of House Tuesday in the area.

Grant’s attention was drawn to the muddy field. Patches of red had suddenly sprouted across the area. He squinted to examine a nearby clump, finding that scarlet poppies had started carpeting the field. He didn’t want to trample the beautiful floral display but saw no way around them. In the center of the fighting area, a platform appeared out of the ground, covered in a wide array of objects that were too far away to see clearly. He assumed they were something that would help him win, but didn’t know for certain.

“Let the Battle Royale commence!”

Grant’s neighbor turned and jumped at him in an attempt to take him to the ground. Having expected this, Grant simply let his Iaijutsu perforate the man’s gut.

Damage dealt: 24 penetrating. Debuff added: Bleeding heavily. -5 health per second.

A gout of blood rocketed from the man’s mouth as he looked down at the weapon that had penetrated his gut. “Y-you stabbed me!”

“Yes?” Grant pulled his blade free, swiping it to the side to get the blood off. “Non-fatally, if you fix the bleeding. I stabbed you between your organs-”

“How so much?” The man whimpered and sank to his knees. “A tenth of my health in an instant? That wasn’t even a critical hit! I yield! Help me, someone!”

Grant was assaulted by booing from the crowd as a half-dozen people rushed over to remove the fallen competitor. Doing his best to ignore the dissatisfaction of the crowd, he looked to see what else had been happening.

It appeared that the vast majority of the highly trained individuals had sprinted towards the center, and were more focused on getting what was there than defeating each other. Grant was still practically on the sidelines, and couldn’t see a way to reach the center of the field before the others had snatched up all the goodies and fought each other to a standstill. Rather than run in and follow the crowd, he kept his sword unsheathed and chose a nice open area in the poppy field arena.

There was no place to hide, so he may as well claim his territory.

Within thirty seconds, all forms of cultivators were locked in. Batons clashed and clanged, warhammers sparked against shields, and fists found flesh. Cries from the wounded split the air and could be heard over the brutal melee combat. Even with all the confusion, Grant came to a realization: not a single person was using a bladed weapon. “What is happening? Sarge, am I not seeing it, or is everything blunted?”

<Good eye. I’m guessing that no one has confidence in putting a weapon right where they want it. If I were a betting sword, I’d say that there isn’t a single Beginner weapon-user among them, at least not for really deadly weapons.> A warhammer hit sent a man flying, and Sarge amended his words. <Not for sharp deadly weapons. It’s a lot easier for someone to take a fatal blow if you cut up their insides versus hitting their shield with a hammer.>

Someone with their features hidden behind a dark cloak charged toward Grant and instantly threw all his assumptions out the window. The person’s eyes were hidden deep within the hooded cowl, but a shudder ran through Grant as those eyes locked with his own. A cultivator momentarily got in the person’s way, and two curved daggers flashed from within the cloak, leaving the unfortunate competitor a bloody heap that the officials rushed to help.

<There may be someone in here with incautious aim. Take care, I’m pretty sure that’s a Saturday.>

“A Saturday?” Grant was out of time to prepare. Without any wasted motions, the totally-not-an-assassin closed in on him. He remembered where he’d seen curved weapons like that before: protruding from the maw of the Gleam-Fang Stalker. Had the fangs already been made into daggers and sold? “Wednesday does quick work.”

Grant’s training took over as blows rained down on him. No matter how skilfully he managed to deflect one of the blades, he still received nicks and small cuts from the other. These small cuts bled far too much; he suspected a poison with an enhanced bleed effect had been coated onto the weapons. Parry, dodge, duck, thrust, slash… no matter what technique he tried, he couldn’t get through the swift fighter’s defenses—all while the number of cuts was piling up. Grant started to feel lightheaded, and didn’t need to check his stats to know that he was suffering from serious blood loss.

Every unsuccessful attack resulted in one more wound to add to his new collection. By this point in the fight, Grant knew that the agile man could have left to fight another competitor and just leave him to bleed himself right into disqualification, but his opponent didn’t let up. Grant screamed in an attempt to shock his opponent into flinching away, then lunged forward in a perfect attack form. “If I can’t defend, I need to make sure he can’t attack!”

He moved through every pattern that had been ingrained in his muscle memory, his sword so responsive that it felt as though it was literally following his desires instead of his momentum. One pace, two, ten, and his assailant slipped and fell on a group of poppies he had wet with blood earlier. Grant seized upon the opportunity and lunged towards the man, who was trying to recover his footing. February Twenty Nine sliced through the air, coming to a halt against the shocked House Saturday Wielder’s neck.

“I… yield” The frustrated man spoke in a gravelly voice, as he held up his hands. Grant’s blade literally begged for blood as the Saturday finished with, “Well fought.”

Do you, Grant Monday, wish to absorb the power of February 13th, ‘Razor’s Edge’? Accepting ‘Razor’s Edge’ will override any previous wielded weapon power absorbed in the current monthly series. If not overridden by another weapon of the same month, this ability will vanish at the end of the year, unless the quest ‘Heal The World’ has been successfully completed.

Accept / Decline

Grant nodded at the downed man, refusing to take his eyes off him as he silently accepted the new power and relinquished the light ability he had acquired. He had given the rapier away previously, and there would be an issue if it didn’t work properly. An official escorted the assassin away, allowing Grant to finally take a breath. Taking stock of his situation, Grant took a deep breath. “So that guy was a Wielder. The look of the blades must have been a coincidence?”

<Two things, Grant.> Sarge seemed wildly cheerful. <You just defeated a Wielder. Welcome to Cultivation Achievement Level thirteen. You’re all healed up, and the ability you just swiped is delightful.>

The description appeared without Grant pulling it up, making him question once again how much Sarge actually had control of.

Razor’s Edge: Any slashing or piercing damage will inflict an additional 25% of the damage dealt as bleeding damage on any targets with blood or vital fluids over five seconds.

The respite from battle lasted only a moment before other competitors were once again charging toward him. Refreshed and renewed, Grant stepped forward to meet the attackers head-on. Leveling up had fixed all of his internal issues, including any hidden injuries he had sustained from his weeks-long intense training.

Now that he was back to top form, fighting against the thinning crowd became far more feasible. He sidestepped a meaty fist before launching a blistering counter-attack. The unfortunate vassal was clearly wearing Early Spring Heavy armor, yet Grant’s blade easily broke through the system-logic barrier and opened a thin wound down his attacker's arm.

Damage dealt: 6 slashing. (14 mitigated.)

The wound spurted blood, dealing another point of damage from his new ability as well as from standard bleed damage. Transfixed as he was on the new opening in his skin, the man failed to defend against a trio of blows that Grant put in specifically non-murderous locations. Within moments the competitor was begging for his life and Grant was moving on as a healer rushed over.

“Sarge, is it wrong to love that I feel so much more powerful than them?” Grant muttered as he closed in on the first target he chose for himself.

<You have experience in being ruthless.> Sarge’s warm and fuzzy tone over that fact gave Grant pause. <I’ve killed you almost every day for a month and a half, you’ve killed or tried to kill a slew of people in January. To help you keep from getting cocky, let me explain a simple fact to you: these people could easily overpower you. You would be a smear in the mud if they would just commit to taking you down. In this case, you aren’t stronger than them. You do have skill and experience they lack, and the rules just so happen to be simply skewed heavily in your favor because of that.>

The next competitor, a woman in Early Spring Medium armor, proved a little more challenging, but only because she wielded a shield and short spear. Despite her improved defense, Grant managed to get off a few hits against her forearm and calves as they danced around each other. The small cuts bled profusely, eventually forcing her to yield; she wasn't willing to die to secure her position in the Nobility.

Grant was.

<Down!> He ducked as an obsidian longsword swept through the air, followed by a howl of frustration. A heavily outfitted member wearing the regalia of House Thursday lumbered towards him; the black armor reminding him of the set that hung in Bob Sunrise’s shop in Mid January. There was no obvious way to defeat this person. If he was lucky, he might be able to get his blade between the metal plates or through the visor of his face guard, but he didn’t want that imprinted on his memory. He wanted to defeat his opponents, not kill them.

Luckily, he didn’t need to make that call.

Grant scrambled through the mud, dashing out the way of the *whooshing* weapon. The competitor didn’t miss a step, continuing after Grant as a sharp whistle reached them. Both were too focused on the fight to understand; all the way until the knight was bowled over by three Peacekeepers.

“You violated the law! No sneak attacks were allowed, you will be held for attempted murder!” The struggling armored person was dragged away, and Grant noticed a strange spherical object that had a pin in it.

“Is this from the center area? Why did they all want it?” He wondered as he pulled out the pin and stared at the strange object. “Does it open into a prize?”

<That’s an alchemical charge! Throw it at someone, you fool!> Sarge screamed into his brain.

In a panic, Grant threw it into a crowd of fighters. It bounced harmlessly off one’s armor, and he worried that he had used it wrong. He kept his eye on it for another moment, an exclamation of wonder passing his lips as a blanket of darkness exploded outwards, clouding the vision of everyone in the vicinity.

Grant got to his feet and raised February Twenty Nine in a defensive posture. His only mission now was to get as far away from the blind melee as possible. Screams and shouts assaulted his ears as competitors swung blindly in the darkness; taking and dealing more damage than they had planned. Grant kept his sword to himself, not wanting to get charged for accidentally killing someone.

The smoke slowly dissipated, revealing a gore-splattered field. Only a small number of people remained standing, and officials rushed to cover the area as the announcer explained, “Congratulations to those still standing! The Battle Royale has been completed! All remaining competitors have made it to the main tournament. Please collect your tokens before leaving the site. Remember, District February believes in you, and we look forward to meeting our new Nobility!”

Grant stumbled out of the muddy field. He checked his body. All fingers and toes were accounted for, which was more than many people could say. “That was simultaneously the worst and best of the three events.”

<Extra easy for you. You have actual combat and killing experience. The only reason that lasted even that long was because of how careful everyone was being not to hurt their opponents.> It sounded like the idea of being careful and taking care of your fellow citizens aggravated Sarge, so Grant tried not to comment on it.

“Grant, you did it!” A waving Waylon ran over to him as Grant walked away from the announcer. “Can I see your token?”

There wasn’t a shred of hesitation as Grant presented the enamel badge to Waylon. The mother-of-pearl inlay that formed the image of Lady February shimmered in the light. More than a few people eyed the token greedily, and Grant took it back after noting their hungry eyes. “It’s wonderful. Such a treasure. I can’t believe I didn’t get through to the main tourney! Still… do you mind if I accompany you?”

“Are you sure?” Grant secured the token, and started walking hurriedly away. Waylon caught on to his nervousness around the random assortment of people, and kept up. “I’d love to have someone watching my back, but I thought you had an important mission?”

“I’ll be heading in that direction anyway.” Waylon seemed to be convincing himself instead of just explaining it to Grant. “Heavyweight Wednesday said it wasn’t too important, so I’m sure it can wait.”

“Great. I would be happy to have the company. I’m not exactly sure how to reach the main tournament, but judging by the people jogging on the road, I guess it was— ow! Hey, watch it!” Grant received a stray elbow to the face as the crowd pressed closer together and started walking along the road.

“Excellent!” Waylon’s general shout of excitement was taken up by the huge crowd; then about three-quarters of them started jogging and running, whooping in excitement. “I think you’re making a wise call. The trip is probably more dangerous than the events, since all you need to do to get in is have a token… if you catch my drift. Listen, Grant… this is the most important event for February in the last thousand years. Not attending would be considered practically sacrilegious.”

“Good thing I know your father. So, if I have any worries about your trustworthiness… I’ll just go talk to him?” Grant grinned as his friend blanched.

“Please don’t even joke like that. I’m not exactly-” anything else Waylon was going to say was cut off as they were nearly bowled over in the mosh-pit of a crowd. They pushed back against the relentless bodies jostling them, and his good humor began to slip away.

Grant made the judgement call, “This is a nightmare, Waylon. Why don’t we go off-road? I’d love a moment of peace to think, and I recently found that I… don’t like confined spaces.”

Waylon pulled him through the crowd and waved at the trees. “Yeah, we can do that. I’d love to try that balance training you were doing.”

<Yes! Absolutely, let’s get into the trees. My plan to make you a Samurai is really coming together. Ninja would have been fine too, but stealth isn’t right for->