February ~ 14!

CHAPTER 14

Grant had a smile on his face as he set off at a brisk pace. He was ‘fresh’ thanks to leveling up, so pulling the cart was his responsibility. Waylon kept throwing him strange looks as he jogged alongside Grant. “Okay, I gotta know… how are you smiling? I literally see little lightning bolts jumping between your teeth.”

“Face. Isth. Stick like this.” Grant slurred out as his face constantly twitched. “I’ll practith more.”

“Okay then, listen.” Waylon took a deep breath. “I'm going to trust you here, and I need you to trust me as well. Get to the next town. I’m going ahead to get them warned and evacuated. I’ll get us supplies and such; just focus on escaping, buddy.”

With that, the Wielder sprinted away and was soon a dot in the distance. Grant felt terror set in, but Sarge jumped in to help keep him sane.

<Keep an eye on your form. Slow down to a pace you can maintain. Don’t get sloppy now.> Sarge instructed as Grant barreled down the road. To the wagon’s credit, it was well-built and clearly modified with someone pulling it in mind. Every move was smooth, and it hardly pulled on him. Even so, Grant was getting exhausted from the constant pain of lightning filling his innards.

He followed his mentor’s advice and tried to ignore the pain that he just knew would be a constant companion as long as he had this spell. As he jogged, the steady, repetitive motion turned into deep meditation. His mind was calm and clear, with worries miles away. Birds and small critters were startled as he snapped twigs that had fallen on the road.

<Six point two miles in one hour and three minutes. A substantial improvement, but you have a long way to go yet.> Sarge’s voice shattered Grant’s focus, and he stumbled. Getting back in the groove was a lot harder, but he was determined to find that strange meditative state once more.

Before he could move away mentally, Waylon caught his attention by running back and waving. “They’re going. We’ve got a stockpile getting built in the town center for us, hope you like Beds.”

“They’re the most disgusting drink I’ve ever had the misfortune of intentionally swallowing.” Grant informed him directly.

“Hah! I know, right?” Waylon’s answer wasn’t what Grant had been expecting. “Trust a monster hunter, there’s only so much you can do for the flavor when you’re not allowed to add taste-altering spices to it… or sugar. I miss sugar. So where are you from, Grant?”

“January.” Grant puffed out, not exactly comfortable talking yet.

“Oh, neat. Guess we don’t have anything else to talk about then.” Waylon squinted and pointed. “There it is! Now, runners have been sent to all connecting towns. We’ll never match their speed, so don’t expect to see anyone unless it’s a subjugation squad until we reach Valentine.”

“This is so… I don’t even know how to describe this place.” Grant set the handles down as they reached town center and ‘ate’ a ‘meal’. Waylon took over the cart, and they started off to the next town right away. “Switch every ten miles?”

“Regent, yeah! We can keep it up till the capital if we need!” Waylon agreed with far more enthusiasm than Grant felt the situation warranted. “I’ve always wondered, what’s it like in January? Does everyone do physical cultivation like here, or do they mix it up?”

“Physical cultivation… yes. Like here? No. Not even close.” Grant explained a little about the District, the governmental structure, and his personal situation. Waylon listened closely, obviously very interested in the differences.

When Grant couldn’t speak and run anymore, Waylon took a long minute to think. “So… why are you going to the Valentine tournament? You’re already a Wielder, so that can’t be it, right?”

“I want to defeat Lady February.” Grant explained after deciding there was no reason to lie.

“You want to be her sparring partner?” Waylon almost fell out of step as he asked that question, certain that no one would be so foolish. “Why in the world would you want to marry that maniac?”

“Marry her?” Now Grant was the one being incredulous. “Why would I want to do that? I need to get to March!”

They stared at each other for a moment, and Waylon eventually broke the silence. “Ahem. I, um, think you’re under a strange misconception about what this tournament is all about.”

“I’m in agreement over here.” Grant started coughing as dust particles settled on his face, and spat some blood onto the road. “Why am I coughing blood?”

<Stress fracture caused some torn tissue in your chest. It happened before you leveled up, so I wasn’t going to mention it. Don’t worry, it’s just your body cleaning itself out at this point.>

Luckily the Februarian hadn’t caught that last part over the rattling of the wagon. “Let me explain a little more clearly. This tournament is to decide the new power structure of the entire District. This will change everyone’s way of life here. The final slot, the overall winner, becomes the military advisor to Lady February, and her official sparring partner. Sparring is incredibly intimate, as you need to be completely open about your strengths and weaknesses. It isn’t an actual tournament prize, but everyone knows that at the end of all this… whoever wins is likely going to be the Lady’s consort.”

“What if-”

Grant blushed before he could ask his next question, and Waylon caught the drift. “Whatever male takes the top spot will likely become her consort. If they come in second or third, that just gives them less political power. In fact, that’s one reason that there are so many women aiming for top spot: to make sure they have the highest political positions. But… one of a Lord or Lady’s duties is to produce an heir, so…”

“Okay then, this was… informative.” Grant couldn’t handle the awkwardness any longer. He took the lead just as they passed under the canopy of a tree.

*Thud*.

Looking around, he couldn’t see anything. His sword hilt gripped firmly in his hands, he quietly asked, “Waylon, did you hear…”

“Be quiet,” Waylon hissed softly. “A Bastard-Beaked Crow just landed behind you. Any sudden movements and it’ll attack. Don’t worry, we can tackle it together.”

“Okay.” Shivers ran down Grant’s spine, and he knew he was being observed.

*Skritch-scratch*.

*Thud*. The second sound was more distant. A cold sweat formed and dribbled down his back. From his peripheral vision, he was sure he could see something spiked swishing around, left then right. The shuffling noise grew louder until he felt a warm breeze against the back of his neck. Something pointy tapped his leather helmet like it was trying to crack open a nut.

*Caw*?

The deep bass rumble of the creature reverberated through his eardrum and jangled his nerves. He had to do something. He couldn’t just stand here until what he assumed was a bird cracked his skull open! The pecking grew more persistent. Grant ducked and rolled forward so that he could get a better look at his adversary. Gnarled talons scratched at the ground, and Grant's eyes roved upward to take in oversized chicken feet; along with ankles laden with ropes of muscle and feather-covered thighs as thick as a man’s waist.

The bird bent over to look down at Grant… and tilted its head to the side, more curious than anything about the intruder. It strut forward to get a closer look, and two itty-bitty black eyes seemed to stare into his soul; yet all Grant could see was the straight orange beak… which snapped open.

*Caw*!

“Stay back!” Grant stood up defiantly and held February Twenty Nine up like a talisman to ward off the creature. Swishing behind the creature caught his attention, and Grant’s eyes went wide. The Bastard-Beaked Crow’s tail feathers were what appeared to be hand-and-a-half swords. As he raised his voice, the tail swished, tearing out clumps of the long grass that were next to the road. “Waylon, what is this!”

“Be quiet.” Waylon seemed to be trying to force himself to stay calm, and that was doing nothing to help Grant. “They don’t like loud noises or sudden movement.”

Grant stopped waving his sword in front of the Bastard-Beaked Crow face, but it was far too late. The agitated bird leaped forward and brought its beak down hard and fast. Grant anticipated the move and beat away the curved beak exactly like he would a sword… with the same effect. There was a clang of bone and steel as the beak raked along the blade. He didn’t expect the follow-up attack, the tail that lashed out and tried to cut his feet out from under him.

February Twenty Nine was knocked from his hand, sailing off into the undergrowth.

He had to roll to avoid the beak that sliced through the air and took great divots out of the ground. Grant was thankful for all of his additional training as he rolled, and promised to stop complaining entirely. Sarge was his friend, and just wanted to see him succeed! He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and went on the offensive.

Grant knew he had to end this before the Bastard-Beaked Crow tore into him with those taloned feet, beak, or tail. He leaped forward and found himself clinging onto the bird’s muscular leg. The creature bounced and flapped in an attempt to throw him off, then angled itself to peck downward. Unable to hang on and swing his sword simultaneously, he let go just as the crow’s head thrust at him, avoiding the razor-sharp beak. “Time is Space!”

Combining the sword's third ability with the skill Iaijutsu, Grant drew his sword out of the air and attacked simultaneously, his blade sinking deeply into the undefended bird-head. The Bastard-Beaked Crow’s head sat at an unnatural angle for a moment, then the entire creature fell to the ground.

Head severed, critical strike!

For a few moments, its body flopped around before falling to the ground with a thump. Adrenaline still rushed through Grant’s veins, with his eyes darting around in search of other predators. All he saw was a sweat-drenched Waylon limping towards him was a grin plastered across his face.

“Well done. I didn’t think you had it in you!” Waylon thrust out a hand and helped Grant to his feet. “I would have helped, but I had my hands full. Mine got a peck in on my leg. The fight would have been over sooner, but my tomahawk wasn’t great for a clean kill against him.”

Grant gazed around and saw a mound of feathers in the distance from Waylon’s kill. “The tails useful for anything?”

“Eh… too flimsy except for anything except single use stuff, certainly not enough to make us stop and clean the kills when stalkers are after us.” Waylon’s words killed off some of Grant’s adrenaline, so the next question took him by surprise. “I hope you like chicken?”

“Wait, we can eat these?” Grant looked at the massive bird with new eyes. Hungry eyes.

“We’d be feasting for weeks if we could keep the meat from going bad. However, there’s no room in the wagon, so we leave it to rot. Or… no, sorry to get your hopes up. No room. Gotta run.”

The pair left the territory of the Bastard-Beaked Crows behind and followed the road along the boundary of a new-growth forest. Eventually they reached the next town, and Grant was given the wagon to drag along so they could hopefully get away from a swarm of spiders they hadn’t confirmed were after them. His muscles protested every step of the way, but he didn’t mind the physical exertion. Still, as he forced down another Bed in hopes that it would give him the energy needed to continue, he regretted ever thinking that adventuring in his free time would be a good idea.

<Feel that wind on your face? It feels like a primal desire for power and growth! Your cultivation progress is excellent, I might add. Let’s try some new areas.> Sarge bellowed into Grant’s mind as he switched the muscle groups that were being ‘stimulated’ by Spark Shield. <High knees, Grant!>