February ~ 24!

“Hey, Grant.” Waylon called out to Grant as the young man scanned the mass of competitors lining the tables of the food tent. Fatigue overwhelmed him as he made his way over to Waylon to the point that he almost considered asking Sarge to zap him to keep his legs moving. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

“Almost didn’t.” Grant admitted as he flopped onto the seat. “My cultivation was enough to sustain me, but… I just don’t have any experience in doing that kind of thing, or working so hard for so long.”

Waylon pushed a bar and a Bed over to Grant, who stared hollowly at the ‘food’. “Eat. You need to get your energy back before the next event.”

“Thanks.” He slapped the Bed to his mouth like a salmon popping out of the water and splashing a bear. “Please tell me the next event is, I don't know, a sleeping competition?”

“You’re so funny.” Waylon watched as energy returned to Grant in real time. “No one knows exactly what it will be, but I expect that it will be some form of an assault course.”

“All I want to assault is a buffet.” Grant’s words only earned him a confused look, and he recalled that buffets weren’t a ‘thing’ in February.

Waylon worked to move on and give Grant some actual information. “I’m so happy we both made it through to the second round. I started to get worried when I heard that Goldenseal Sunday was coming after you. How did you make it through?”

He wasn’t sure what Waylon was talking about, and the man quickly realized and explained, “Competitor zero-four-two. He’s one of the highest-ranked cultivators in the District, and is known for his ability to self-heal in almost all circumstances. I heard he was coming after you.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Grant shrugged and bit into the barely-yielding protein bar. “He threw a few people at me, and we fought until they called the competition.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” The smile faded from Waylon’s face, and he turned to his own food. “Don’t tell me.”

“I’m serious.”

“It all makes sense now.” Waylon deadpanned, “you fought against the highest-favored to win person in the District to a standstill while climbing a rock wall, where he practically lives.”

“It’s what happened.” Grant went to push up on his legs but they refused to move. He tried again but nothing happened. On the third attempt, Sarge gave a helping hand in the form of a mini zap, forcing Grant to stand bolt-upright. Eyes swiveled towards him at the sudden movement, just as the zap wore off and Grant fell back to his seat. “It appears that I’m going to be sitting here for a little while.”

That brought a chuckle out of Waylon, and he gently slapped Grant on the arm. “Recover well. Since the event ended after only half a day instead of the planned forty-eight hours, Lady February assumes that everyone will be ready to go by the morning. The next event starts at six tomorrow.”

For the first time, Grant found a similarity between January and February: nearly everyone that came here to eat after the first event fell asleep at the table after eating. He was no exception, as he directly passed out after drinking nearly a gallon of water. The hours passed swiftly, and soon a series of horns and bellowing was rousing the people in the impromptu sleeping tent.

“Competitors of the mid-February tournament, this is your thirty-minute warning.” The announcer’s voice echoed around the site. “The following event will start on time, and any latecomers will be disqualified. There is no time limit to this event, merely complete the course to pass and proceed to the final challenge. Good luck competitors, District February believes in you.”

Grant stood, surprised at the lack of pain in his body. Before he could question it, Sarge explained, <I took the time you were sleeping to lightly stimulate all muscle groups to promote healing and reduce acid build-ups. You won’t even have a sore neck from sleeping bent over a table.>

“Sarge…” Grant started to get a little choked up, “Thank you. What would I ever do without you?”

<I’m guessing farmwork, until someone snuffed you out by sneezing too hard in your general direction.> Even though he tried to sound grumpy, Sarge was clearly preening under the admiration Grant was showering him with. <As to the lightning massage, I’m glad you enjoyed being lightly fried. It gives me something to do at night until you don’t need sleep anymore.>

“Well.” Waylon walked out of the outhouse Grant was waiting on, “It looks like I’ll be going before you.”

“Good luck. I hope you make it through.” Grant nodded at him, ignoring the clearly unwashed outstretched hand and entering the small shack. Contrary to his words a moment before, when Grant came out Waylon was still there waiting for him. They walked over to the event grounds, only to find that everyone was being lined up by number, and would enter one at a time.

“This is what I’ve been training for. The assault course should appear any minute now. At least we aren’t first!” Waylon was practically drooling as he waited to see what this event would look like.

“Not going first is a good thing?” Grant didn’t agree; he had no idea how long they would be forced to wait, while the first people would be fresh.

“We get to watch others attempt to complete it. When they fall, we can learn from their mistakes. Watch. There it is now!” Waylon pointed down the hill they had been lined up on, and the thick fog that had been blocking their view faded away as the start of the event was announced.

“By Regent December…” A complex maze of machinery, nets, and moving platforms materialized, along with huge bonfire spotlights that artfully lit the monstrosity in the pre-dawn light. “What is that supposed to be?”

“Assault course!” Waylon patted Grant reassuringly on the shoulder. “There’s no shame in failing to win, only in failing to try.”

A whistle blew and the first competitor ran forward. The bare-chested perfect specimen of a man scampered up the initial rock wall. As soon as he stood, he was forced to duck to avoid blunted lances that sprung out of hidden recesses. He dove head-first into a tunnel and crawled along before zip-lining down onto a moving platform. At that point, somewhat familiar dummies sprang up, and Grant realized that they were similar to the enemies that had appeared in his training program back in January.

The competitor clenched his muscles at the incoming blunted blades, barely getting knocked back as a lance shot forward and slammed into his stomach. Seeing the man prove his physical cultivation, the early-morning crowd screamed their excitement and cheered wildly for him. Grant got caught up in it and found himself bellowing enthusiastically along with the others.

Following the dummies, the competitor had to traverse massive drums spinning in the water below. This brought Grant right back to the tumbler he had failed in so spectacularly, with one major difference. Along with the spinning drums, the competitors had to jump over long wooden arms that swept through the air.

It looked like the first competitor was going to make it! After the spinning drum section, climbing a cargo net was the only challenge that remained; however, his luck ran out on the final drum. The drum suddenly stopped, and his mis-timed jump threw him into a pair of rotating arms. There was a collective groan from both the spectators and competitors as the man was slapped into the inky black water below.

Grant and Waylon stood for hours as the sun slowly rose into the sky, watching competitor after competitor attempt to complete the challenge. By his count, perhaps around fifteen percent made it to the end. It appeared to be a highly effective method of weeding out the less skilled or lucky among them.

Waylon stepped forward, and Grant realized that it was his turn directly after. He hadn’t thought much of standing next to his friend—who had a number in the high one-hundreds—because they had arrived together. His friend got off to a good start, easily moving up the wall, through the tunnel and down the zipline. Then everything fell apart when he reached the dummies. He successfully used his Tomahawk to deflect a few blows, but the lance proved too long to defend against, and Waylon was jabbed off the arena. Grant forced himself to watch as his friend tumbled off the moving platform and into the water.

The whistle blew, and Grant’s legs jerked into action even before he consciously realized that he needed to get moving. He reminded himself of how amazing it felt to win, to receive the adulation of the adoring crowd. If he could do this, it would prove that he was a real contender.

Grant had one massive advantage over the others: there was no time limit, and he had no problem abusing that fact. He methodically climbed the wall, patiently waiting for the blunted lances that shot out in front of him to no effect. Several hapless competitors hadn’t been so lucky, rushing forward and ensuring that their challenge was over before it had barely started.

At the top of the wall, he had more trouble than most people due to the narrow tunnel. His body had shrunk considerably from the start of the year, but for some reason the tight space made his heart race. <You’ll fit through without issue, Grant. Your cultivation and the prolonged energy usage you've subjected yourself to over the last weeks has changed you.>

He subdued his mounting panic as becoming wedged within the tunnel and edged forward, inch by inch, until he made his way out the other end. At the end, he looked back and realized that there had never been a chance he would get stuck. He wasn’t a proper Januarian anymore.

That bittersweet thought in mind, he clamped his hands on the zipline handle and dropped like a stone towards the moving platforms. He dropped the last few feet, and found himself on a moving platform consisting of small rollers; needing to maintain a brisk jog just to stay in the same spot as the dummies came to life around him.

This was the most straightforward part of the challenge, and just like all the others, he completed it in a way no other competitor had. He effortlessly ducked, parried, and lunged to dispatch the attacking dummies, his sword moving in straight lines as he maintained a balanced posture.

The lance darted at his chest, and he slashed three times: each cut removing a section of wood that clattered to the ground without causing him issue. The dummies retreated, leaving the path open, and Grant waited to hear cheering like he had for everyone else… nothing. Confused by the lack of sound, he continued forward.

He was onto his nemesis, the most concerning to him of all the trials: the spinning drums. The balance training Sarge had forced on him by scampering through trees had proved effective, and he easily bounded over the drums and rotating arms. Even as he did so, he marveled at what his body was now capable of, and pushed himself harder. At the last moment, he remembered how the first athletic competitor failed, and put his plan into action.

As the final drum abruptly stopped, he jumped and grabbed onto the spinning arms. Sarge applied Spark Shield to secure his grip on the wet wood and stop him from falling as his legs flailed. Grant strained, and managed to climb on top of the arm. When the wooden arms retracted and lined up with the cargo net, he took a leap of faith and clambered onto the rough netting. He hung paralyzed for a long moment, unable to move from laughing so hard at the fact he had succeeded.

<Good job. You did well to get this far.> Sarge’s excited voice warned of pain to come, <Let me give you a little boost to get up this net. Ready?>

Grant braced himself for the incoming jolts. “Ready as I’ll ever be!”

A series of rapid-fire jolts lanced through his muscles. Sarge carefully applied minuscule amounts of charge to specific muscles at just the right time. Everyone watching witnessed the unlikely success of underdog two-nine-two as he surged up the multistorey cargo net. What they didn’t see was the massive toll that reaching the top and completing the course took on his body.

To be fair, he also didn’t understand the issues inherent in allowing constant lightning to course through his organs.

He stood on top of the course and joined the winners circle, not even caring that no one was cheering and the other winners were staring at him almost with fear in their eyes. Upon ensuring he had won, Grant sat down and promptly fell asleep.