February ~ 8!

CHAPTER 8

*Bang!*

The race was on, and he was off. Grant jostled up against nineteen other competitors as The Three Mile Tumbler commenced. Out of the square, through narrow cobbled streets, and under the ‘Welcome to Hajimeni’ sign. Even at this early stage, Grant was starting to fall behind the spritely lead runners in their skimpy shorts and tops. His leather armor, although flexible, still weighed him down slightly and restricted his movement.

Even so, this was the first time he was truly competing against other cultivators in a purely physical way that didn’t potentially involve death. He was astounded to find that Sarge had been correct; even with his extra weight, his physical cultivation easily matched—if not surpassed—a slew of the other competitors. With a grunt of effort, he picked up the pace, firmly cementing his position in the middle of the pack as they started down the slope against the wind.

Here, Grant had a distinct advantage. For once, his bulk proved a boon, rocketing him to the front of the pack and propelling him down the hill. He had to furiously churn his legs to remain upright as his lead extended. The others started to regain ground as he crossed the bridge and he followed the markers to the right, along the riverbank path. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was participating in a race, he might have even enjoyed himself. “Maybe running isn’t so bad?”

Despite his confidence, his energy reserves were rapidly depleting, and his form deteriorating. This was a three-mile race, and by his estimation he only had to keep the pack at bay for another two miles. “Easier thought than done.”

Then something unexpected happened. The markings veered off the path and into the water, where a series of obstacles provided a new path. Race officials lined the path, clearly there to make sure no one ‘accidently’ continued along the main path.

Grant leaped into the air and onto an upturned barrel. It wobbled as he landed, but didn’t tip over. A series of barrels were placed several yards apart, so he leaped between the various platforms as quickly as he could. For the first time, he was truly glad that Sarge’s training had forced him into situations where he had unsteady footing and strange paths to take.

This wasn’t the time to reminisce. The pack of runners had caught up, and a few had even darted past. His muscles screamed at the punishment of playing leapfrog after sprinting a mile. He propelled his mass into the air, and was back on firm soil.

Shortly thereafter, it got worse. The markings once again veered into the path of the water, but unlike last time, the barrels had been rolled onto their sides, providing a challenging moving platform. As he puffed away, arms and legs pumping furiously, he watched the leading group jump and skip over the barrels. They made it look easy as they skipped across the watery assault course, but the person on their heels landed on a rolling barrel the leader had been on and tumbled directly into the river since the barrel had been unexpectedly soaked.

“Ah. I see: the ‘Tumbler’.” It was Grant’s turn. He leaped into the air, and his foot connected with the barrel. As he went to push off to the next barrel, his platform spun. His heart leapt into his chest as the spinning barrel churned the water below. Grinning competitors bounced past as he spun his wheels atop the barrel.

Then he was sinking into the river.

Water rushed to meet him as he entered the frigid flow. He coughed as it shot up his nostrils and he unintentionally inhaled the liquid. He clawed frantically at the water, terrified of drowning… until he realized the water only reached his knees.

Dripping wet, he went back to the riverbank to try again. After two more dunks, he managed to figure out how the challenge worked. As he landed on the barrels, he immediately jumped and didn’t push back against the barrels, forcing them to spin.

The runners were long gone, as were his hopes, but he was determined to at least finish. Back on firm soil, at little more than snail’s pace, he followed the marking which led him across a rope bridge. Traversing the rope bridge was harder than it looked, but didn’t pose much of a challenge compared with the barrels. His vision wavered and his legs were jelly as he stumbled across the final challenge, a cargo net, with the finish line tantalizingly close. He could vaguely make out the sound of cheering, but it was almost drowned out by the blood thundering in his ears.

He clung onto the cargo net for dear life and pulled with every last shred of energy. His foot sank as he attempted to push off and up. No matter what he tried, he only managed to climb three of the rungs in the flexible ladder. Then his body shut down and refused to continue any further. His grip slipped from the heavy rope, and he found himself upside down, legs twisted and pinned within the net. The way the event had progressed, he almost expected a monstrous spider to show up and claim its prize.

What made matters worse was that he’d actually paid two Days to be subjected to this torture, and was no further forward in his quest to enter the main tournament. He couldn’t even sob as he hung there, every movement tightening the ropes around his legs, cutting off blood flow.

The other runners had cheered for Grant as he was extracted from the cargo net by race officials. They commended him for his courage and the determination he showed in his attempt to finish the course. “You’re amazing!”

“Remember, when you see how far you have to go, make sure you look back at how far you’ve come!”

A short while later, Grant reentered the town of Hajimeni with no goal or plan in mind. He went to the tavern and collected his last free Bed, chugging it down as someone opened the door and caused a paper to rustle. He looked over, not recalling seeing the papers before, and walked over to take a closer look.

Fight Night—Tonight in the square. Be there, ya circles!

Ticket Price (1 Day). Free to any competitors upon presentation of a valid race coupon.

“They actually fight? Not just trying to speed around and bounce off walls? This I gotta see.” Some brutal fighting was exactly what he needed right now. The sun had already set as he followed the flow of the crowd towards the square. He didn’t have to waste time trying to purchase a ticket with his non-existent Time, waving his coupon instead.

Late as he was, there weren’t many seats remaining. Someone waved and caught his attention. It was Miko, the girl with the ponytail. He plopped down in the seat beside her. “Hey, Miko. Is this seat taken?”

“It is now! I need to know, how was your race? Someone told me that you did amazingly!” Miko was practically bursting with curiosity.

Grant was confused, but the Bed had really fixed him up, so he was smiling and ready to accept whatever silver lining she was presenting. “What? No, I didn’t even come close to winning.”

“Don’t worry about it. The majority of these events require a lot of practice. The Tumbler is tricky. I prefer the standard running races, although I still lack the stamina to win a long race or the speed to win a short one. Oh, did you hear the news?” Miko clapped her hands together and waited impatiently for an answer.

“No?” Grant waved at his clothes, which still had river muck drying on them.

“Apparently, Lady February is furious. Someone sat at the feet of her father yesterday, and directly taunted her while she was running.” Miko’s eyes were shining, she was positively bursting to share the gossip. “They’re pretty sure he defaced the statue as well!”

Grant swallowed the lump that grew in his throat. His eyes darted around, on the lookout for House Tuesday Peacekeepers. “What do you mean, defaced the statue?”

“It was literally defaced. Lord February’s bronze nose was cut off it and found lying by the base of the statue! Oh, look. The fight is about to begin. My money is on Six Pack Sally.” Just like that, Miko practically forgot what they had been discussing. Grant didn’t have it as easy, thinking that people were going to be hunting him for something he actually didn’t do for once.

“Look. House Tuesday is here!” Miko’s shout almost made Grant re-moisten his river-soaked pants, but his eyes tracked her pointed finger to the competitor lifting a leg over the rope.

“Oh! Competing!” Grant let out a sigh in relief. He assumed that the Peacekeepers had arrived to take him in for questioning. “Where are their weapons?”

“There are no weapons allowed. It’s hand to hand combat only, a true test of strength and skill.” Miko explained as the fighter’s bodies slammed together in a sickening collision of walls of muscle. The contestants reigned blows down on each other without sophistication. There was no dodging or feinting; the attacks were direct, not subtle in the least. Muscle slammed against muscle. Fists and feet wore each other down, something certainly different and unlike any fighting Grant had experienced before.

“How… entertaining.” Grant scoffed as he watched the brutish display. Six-pack Sally ended the bout, swiping Philip Tuesday’s tree trunk leg out from under him. He slammed down to the mat, giving her a moment to get a headlock in place. Within moments, he pounded his hand on the mat; conceding the match. “Hey, Miko. Do you know when the next preliminary will be? I gotta get through to the main tourney.”

The fighters left the arena, and Miko turned her full attention to Grant. “Let me think… There is another ‘easy’ race like the one today at the next town over, Nandayo.”

“What is it?” Grant furrowed his brow at the unfamiliar word.

“Exactly.” Miko nodded, adding to Grant’s confusion. “That race is at the same time, seven in the evening. It won’t be easy to find a ticket at this late in the day, but if you’re lucky, you’ll find a deluxe race package. There is also a harder tournament, the mid-February one. It takes place near Valentine. Listen, only the top ten percent of competitors taking part in standard events get through to the main tourney. I’m not sure how many go through from the Valentine one. The difference between them is; the standard event has a maximum competitor cap, and the deluxe event isn’t limited. Hundreds will take part. I think the top ten percent of that whole group go through.”

Grant bobbed his head slowly, already knowing what he would likely have to do. Miko saw the determination in his eyes, and offered one last word of advice. “Listen... you seem like a nice guy, even if you are a bit of an airhead. Be careful. Lady February is intense, and she expects all the competitors to be just as intense as she is. That means the rules change every time to keep competitors on their toes.”

“If you aren’t ready for that, the strain might kill you.”