YoTS January ~ 44!

CHAPTER 44

The spectators clapped enthusiastically, the sugar rush from the desert having kicked in. Grant took a moment to check his stats.

Name: Grant Monday

Rank: Wielder

Class: Foundation Cultivator

Cultivation Achievement Level: 9

Cultivation Stage: Early Summer

Inherent Abilities: Swirling Seasons Cultivation

Health: 184/184

Mana: 6/6

Characteristics

Physical: 89 (Cultivation Stage Maximized. Gains will be retroactively applied when all stages are aligned.)

Mental: 24 (+1)

Armor Proficiency: 29

Weapon Proficiency: 47 (+1)

“Sarge, we never did get a chance to discuss how I got characteristics.” Grant was hoping for something to take his mind off his nerves as he waited out the intermission between bouts. “Oh… also, what’s my total cultivation time?”

Cultivation Time: 313:55 Hours (Time to Next Level 646.45 Hours)

<Oh, now you want to learn? I suppose it’s better late than never.> Sarge drove into a lecture without more preamble. <Have you noticed that you’re changing quickly? Remember that I told you the swirling Seasons cultivation manual was one of the slowest, but that it just wouldn’t matter if you were walking the martial path?>

“I do… a long time ago?”

<Whenever you increase your Cultivation Achievement Level, Quintessence - the energy of the heavens and earth - is forcefully absorbed into your body for each of the four methods that you can cultivate. This is why you are locked within a stage, you are doing cultivation on all four aspects, which technically makes you a ‘Foundation Cultivator’. This is the slowest and most difficult version of cultivation, as you cannot increase your highest without your lowest form of cultivation being within three stages. However, that Quintessence is held in your body, and filters throughout after breaking through.> Sarge paused to allow Grant a moment to catch up.

<If you manage to get your lowest cultivation to Early Spring, you will be freed from all restrictions and gain all characteristics as you earn them. You will also be known as a ‘Dao Cultivator’, and be able to defeat nearly all enemies on your own, becoming a true powerhouse.>

“Why doesn’t everyone do that, then?” Grant gave Sarge the exact response he was hoping for, and the sword jumped onto it.

<How easy was it to find a cultivation method, Grant? How about a full manual? Remember that, back when you were just a farm boy? Now, get all those methods, and find ones that don’t conflict with each other as you grow in power. Do it before you get into the Summer ranks of cultivation, because you can’t start cultivating a new method after that point. That, Grant, is why not everyone does it. In almost all cases, cultivating one or just two methods will be faster, and make you stronger. Not everyone has a social status that allows them to defeat or kill every person they come across.>

Grant thought that over, and was about to ask another question, but Sarge stopped him by continuing. <As for how many characteristic points you gain, Wielded Weapons go against heaven’s will, so the amount you can get away with taking is… nearly random, but bounded by a maximum and minimum. The first five levels, you gain anywhere from one to four points in weapon and armor cultivation, one to two points in mental cultivation… and a full one to ten points in physical cultivation.>

<But, on your  fifth level, the potential gain increases by that amount again. Let’s say you were looking at dice, as an easy example. Weapon and armor cultivation would increase by one four-sided die, mental by a two-sided die, and physical by a ten-sided die. You get another one of these ‘dice’ added on at level fifteen, then level thirty-five. See a pattern? I won’t keep you waiting, the requirement doubles. What does this mean for you? It means that as you gain a more powerful self, you will literally grow stronger, faster. Levels are everything to a Wielder or Vassal; cultivation helps fill the gaps.>

“My mental cultivation is a lot lower than my physical cultivation, so that’s why my physical cultivation is maxed out right now?” Grant looked at the ‘locked’ notification again. “So… there’s no point in working my body harder?”

<Of course there is!> Sarge’s words, though forceful, ended as a sigh. <Look at you. You’re still at twenty-eight percent body fat. Seven percent loss in a month is amazing, and at this rate you’ll be a looker by the time March rolls around, but you’re holding onto impurities that need to be expelled before you are able to move at peak condition. Your balance is thrown off, and all fine motor control is harder. Just wait until you are fit, trim, and have high physical cultivation.>

“I’m below thirty percent, the true test to see if someone is a beggar…” Grant glanced at the ruler of the District and winced. “What do you think Lord January is at?”

<Eighty-seven percent, if I’m not off my mark.> Sarge paused for a long moment. <If I am correct, I can only think of a single reason why he’s still alive. The sheer amount of time he’s been->

“Who’s ready for round two?” Grant’’s head jerked up, and he calmly stode into the center of the arena. Most of the spectators were banging fists on the tables, their chanting changed from ‘food’ to, ‘fight, fight’. After being short changed on the last bout, they were eager for entertainment. By now, most of their stomachs were full, or at least temporarily satisfied.

Grant bowed lightly in greeting to the Vassal. His decorum was met only by a roll of the eyes. The Vassal sighed, “Let’s get this over with. Fighting a peasant is so beneath me.”

“Can’t you read?” Grant pointed at the nametag over his own head.

“You may appear to be a Monday, but you have ‘lowborn’ written all over you.” Grant decided to stop being so nice. He thrust February Twenty Nine forward, planning to quickly end the fight. The Vassal managed to parry the blade, and as Grant’s sword connected with one of the metal rods… a flash of light blinded him. He stumbled back in surprise, and the Vassal launched his own assault.

Right, left, right, the rods thudded off the Early Spring Medium armor Grant was wearing. Each painful hit would almost certainly leave multicolored bruises.

Damage taken: 15 blunt damage. (27.25 mitigated over three hits!)

Current health: 169/184.

Arms flailing left and right, Grant worked to bide his time until his vision cleared. When it did, he was met with the Vassal’s smug grin. The Vassal spun and waved his rods to the cheering crowd. Rather than waste the opportunity, Grant darted forward and kicked the back of his opponent’s left knee.

The Vassal slammed to the ground. Grant’s sword darted forward and caught the edge of the shimmering robe, tearing a strip from the material. Rolling away like a boulder going downhill, the Vassal got to his feet. His teeth were locked together, and his eyes focused on his enemy. “Do you have no honor? Attacking me while my back was turned?”

“Honor is irrelevant. I want to live.”

“I will teach you some respect, lowborn scum!” The Vassal ran at Grant, arms windmilling. Grant spun and took two excruciating blows to his back.

Damage taken: 11 blunt damage. (18 mitigated over two hits!)

Current health: 158/184.

“Face me like a man! You are a man, aren’t you? You look more like a sick child!” The Vassal taunted Grant, hoping that he could blind the lad again.

“Legally I am a child in this District.” Grant called back sharply. “Does it feel good to attack a child, you brute?”

Grant turned and reflexively brought up his blade to protect his head from a barrage of attacks from the rods. He squeezed his eyes, a good call, since white light flashed through closed lids and forced him to see spots. While the Vassal attempted to blind him using his light manipulation powers, Grant took his knee and jerked it up into his opponent’s groin.

The flashes stopped, and the Vassal dropped in agony while the spectators laughed at the latest development. Grant felt a bit guilty after landing the low blow, and made the mistake of apologizing rather than finishing things. “That was too much, sorry. If you’d stopped trying to blind me, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“You would turn me into a laughing stock? Ridiculed by peasants and nobles alike?” The Vassal slammed his rod into Grant’s knee, getting a yelp of pain out of the younger man.

Damage taken: 3 blunt damage. (9 mitigated!)

Current health: 155/184.

“You leave me no choice, Grant Monday!” As Grant stumbled back, the Vassal of Archduke Sunday got up unsteadily and pressed the tips of the metal rods together. They fused with a flash, and he predatorily walked towards Grant. The Wielder backed up, unsure what was coming next. Every hair on his body stood to attention as the Vassal closed the distance, and a high-pitched whine built in intensity.

Glancing around, Grant could see the audience clapping their hands over their ears with knowing expressions. Rather than attack, as was apparently expected, he remained patient. His skin felt like it crawled with the feet of a thousand insects. The whine burrowed into the depths of his brain. His mind screamed back, demanding the noise end. Grant held his ears. Many in the audience had collapsed, howling in pain, and those who hadn’t were scrambling over the tables in an attempt to get away from the source of the sound.

And then it abruptly… ended. The ends of the rods parted, then started closing in on each other again. On a hunch, Grant spun and curled in a ball rather than watch them reconnect. A shockwave rocked the arena, which was lit by an incandescent light. Even tucked in a ball and shielded behind an arm, the light left an imprint on his retinas.

When Grant turned, he observed the Vassal who was looking at the audience. Judges, nobles, peasants, all but Lord January were fumbling around, blinded. “Oops… I didn’t… um… mean to do that. Your vision will return momentarily!”

Grant considered leaping the wall and charging at Lord January, but there was a chance Lord January’s guards would be fine by the time he had climbed the wall. It was too risky. Instead, he ran forward and barrelled into the Vassal who was staring numbly at the blinded audience. Many were whimpering, others vomited due to the distress caused.

The impact knocked the metal rods out of the Vassal’s hands and sent them flying. Grant tackled the man, and they wrestled on the ground. He didn’t have long to implement his plan. He pummelled his fists repeatedly into the side of the Vassal’s head, until his opponent’s eyes began to glaze over. Rather than leave him there, Grant dragged the dazed Vassal to the edge of the arena and kicking him across, before going back to the center where he grabbed February Twenty Nine and panted heavily.

“He is… out of bounds!” The screech came from the ancient keeper of the Rulebook.

“I can’t see anything!” The announcer cried out, feeling his way around like a blind person. “The brat is out of bounds?”

“Well I can see,” she snapped back furiously, “the brat is fine. He won.”

“Oh, yes. Look!” One of the judges rubbed at his eyes and pointed at the Vassal just as he attempted to make his way back into the designated area.

“Vassal of Archduke Sunday,” Lord January bellowed, causing everyone to stop in terror. “I hereby disqualify you for stepping out of bounds, and for disrupting my feast!”

“Grant Monday is the winner!” Rather than countermand Lord January, the panel of judges nodded enthusiastically at the announcer’s call, “He will face Randall, Prime Vassal of Lord January, in the final match!”

“But… I didn’t…” The Vassal’s head hung low with tears streaming down his face. “I didn’t mean to blind everyone… only this honorless peasant.”

“Please leave the arena,” the announcer called, “before we drag you out.”

Now wasn’t the time to sit on the floor and cry. The Vassal of Archduke Sunday didn’t have to be told twice to leave and hide his shame. “We'll have a short break, ladies and gentlemen. The dining hall will be sanitised, and fresh food delivered to your tables. Please take this time to freshen up and recover from all the excitement.”

The spectators filtered out, leaving Grant standing victorious in the center of the arena. Most of the people attending the event were quickly replaced by an army of mop-and-bucket-wielding cleaners. They had their job cut out for them, and they dove into the work of cleaning up.

It was almost time for the final match.