YoTS January ~ 43!

CHAPTER 43

While Grant struggled out of the fat suit, the judges conducted a heated debate. “This is most unorthodox.”

“He’s a murderer!” Shouted one of the other competitors, a House Tuesday Vassal. “You can’t let him compete!”

The announcer sighed dramatically and pushed his plate to the side. “We must check the rule book for direction in these unusual circumstances.”

“That massive thing?”

Grant looked at the other two competitors that were on the sand with him, “Where’s the final person?”

Looking somewhat nervous to be next to a known murderer, the nearest contestant stated, “Last year’s champion is allowed to participate in the feast until the exhibition tournament begins.”

“They want to eat before fighting?” Grant shook his head at the thought. Someone was going to get very sick during this battle.

Uncomfortable, and getting more so as he talked to the strange man, the Vassal gave Grant a funny look. “Everyone knows that food gives energy, and the greater the amount of food consumed, the larger the advantage bestowed. The champion always has a huge advantage over the others.”

The other fighter stepped close, only wanting to be in the same space as Grant so he could shout. “Count Tuesday was a great man! His reforms reduced crime throughout the entirety of January! To think he was killed by a skinny beggar like you!”

The Vassal’s screech was cut off by the squealing of a cart. Competitors and the audience alike craned their necks to get a better view, and the spectators started to pound on the tables with drumstick-wielding fists. “We want food. We want food!”

“Please, my fine ladies and gentleman.” The announcer stood and held his arms outstretched, waiting for the audience to calm down before continuing. “Due to these unusual events, we have to consult… the rulebook!”

Four guards struggled forward with the massive tome, almost dropping it just as they managed to position it on the judges table.

“Yeouch!” A judge yelped. He had been too busy eating, and couldn’t help himself from sampling another starter - causing his hand to become sandwiched between the table and the book. “My hand…! My food!”

“Enough. Let the games commence,” for the first time, Lord January himself spoke. “People came here to eat, and be entertained, in that order.”

“My Lord,” the announcer pleaded with the ruler of the district. “We must first consult the rulebook!”

Lord January grumbled, but waved his hand and returned his attention to eating.

Grant was disgusted as he looked at the grotesque man. Grease dripped down his body. He couldn’t even tell where Lord January’s face ended, and his neck began. The only powerful muscle that Grant could see was that of his jaw, relentlessly pounding anything that entered it into submission. The Lord of January was clothed only in a simple white robe that was loosely tied in multiple places, clearly regular clothes were no longer an option for him.

Grant turned his gaze away as the cover of the rulebook opened and slammed down. The judges peered closely at the words. An ancient woman hobbled forward, bopping the judges on the head with her cane as she made her way to the book. “Move it! As the Keeper of Knowledge, it's my duty to consult the rulebook!”

The judges settled down while she leaned over the book with a magnifying glass, occasionally motioning to the guards to turn the page. “Ahh, here we are.”

More than one judge was startled awake by her scratchy voice, having drifted off to sleep as she painstakingly searched for the information. “Rule two hundred and forty-three. Competitors are allowed to participate in the finals of any tournament, so long as they present their token before the first battle commences.”

“At last!” The announcer yawned as he stood up. “The rulebook clearly states that the competitor, Grant Friday, can participate in the exhibition tournament. He presented a valid token before the commencement of the first semi-final bout. Please, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the feast. Additional desserts will be brought out. Thank you for your patience.”

The competitors lined up as the audience cheered. “The first competitor, ladies and gentlemen, is a Vassal of Count Tuesday. House Tuesday peacekeepers are highly skilled in martial training, and I’m sure he will give us an exciting fight!”

The Vassal of Count Tuesday waved his billy club at the spectators. His yellow armor gleamed in the colors of House Tuesday as the announcer continued, “Following the unfortunate passing of Count Tuesday, his mission is to bring honor to House Tuesday. As a genealogical Tuesday himself, depending on his performance here, he may become a candidate for the Wielded Weapon himself! Next, we have a Vassal of Archduke Sunday, one of the most respected Nobles in all of January.”

The Vassal of Archduke Sunday presented himself. He was wearing lightweight shimmering armor, and was waving two slender metal rods. They didn’t look like particularly effective weapons, but Grant knew that they were imbued with Archduke Sunday’s power, whatever that might be.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen, we have a wildcard entry this year! The mysterious chef who made a dramatic entrance, Grant Fri… wait, Monday?”

The crowd booed and flung scraps of food from their plates at Grant. This was more like what he was used to back in New Dawn. As they pelted him with eggs, tomatoes, and cake, Grant finally wriggled and squirmed his way out of the unbearable fat suit. He let out as a sigh of relief, and the audience gasped as his slim form was revealed.

With a ring of steel, he unsheathed February Twenty Nine and swished the eager blade through the air.

There was a round of applause. Grant grinned and bowed, excited to be taking part in the exhibition tournament. The prize of defeating Lord January was tantalisingly close now. Looking up, he saw that the additional promised desert was being dished out to the ravenous spectators,  and chuckled to himself. “Why would I have ever thought that they were clapping for me…?”

“Last but not least, champion pie eater and all round giant of a man, raise your glasses ladies and gentlemen to the incumbent champion, and Prime Vassal of our venerable Lord January… Randall Monday!”

Grant’s heart sank as the crowd went wild.

Randall lapped up the attention. He leisurely strode towards the centre of the arena, hands raised in premature victory. The huge broadsword looked tiny in his hand. Familiar jewelled rings adorned his fat fingers. “I’m glad you could make it, Leap. I was worried you wouldn’t show. I don’t have any cider for you today, but hopefully we'll get the chance to play together.”

Grant gulped. He had lost the ability to answer. Instead, he raised February Twenty Nine in an attempt to show he wasn’t scared.

“That should be my sword, you little thief! You found it on my property. Everything, including you, belongs to me!” Spittle flew and the whites of Randall’s eyes turned a shade of yellow as he struggled to contain his rage. “I will have it back.”

“Over my dead body.”

Randall let out a deep belly laugh. “Naturally, but I’ll have some fun with you first.”

“Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen. We hope you are enjoying your deserts. Let the semi-finals of Lord January’s exhibition tournament commence! First up, we have the Vassal of the late Count Tuesday, versus…” the announcer paused for dramatic effect, “Randall!”

Grant watched from the sidelines as Count Tuesday’s Vassal strode forward twirling his club. It didn’t look like much, but Grant remembered Count Tuesday’s color shifting Wielded Weapon all too clearly. That weapon could freeze, burn, electrocute, or poison its victim. However… that was gone now, and the Vassal only had a regular weapon.

The Vassal was large, but resembled a chubby child in front of the immense form of Randall. The pair circled each other slowly. Count Tuesday’s Vassal had trouble getting close to his competitor. Randall was wielding a blade that Grant had never seen before., From guard to point, it was around four feet long and two hands thick. For such a cumbersome looking weapon, the man that Grant realized he had never actually known wielded it effortlessly.

Randall spun, avoiding the billy club as it licked out at him. The Vassal stumbled forward. Randall could have easily skewered him, but chose to flick the point of the blade against the Vassal’s armor. The bindings parted like butter, and the armor slipped down, tripping the Vassal as it dropped over his feet. Randall yawned dramatically and waited for the Vassal to get into position.

Grant couldn’t help but feel sorry for the demeaned Vassal. The man’s face was red, from both humiliation and rage. He spun the billy club and circled around Randall. Then he made a move, one that Randall didn’t anticipate. The Vassal flung a handful of sand in Randall’s face, temporarily blinding him. The Vassal seized the opportunity and went to end the fight. His billy club slammed into his blinded competitor’s jaw, but it did nothing more than momentarily cause ripples in the fatty folds of flesh.

“W-what?” Stumbling back, the Vassal looked at his weapon in confusion. “My power… it’s gone?”

Randall cleared his eyes and stabbed the sword into the arena sand. Cracking his knuckles, he strode towards the cornered Vassal. The trembling man had nowhere to run, and his weapon was ineffective against the powerful physical cultivator.

In a blur, faster than Grant assumed was possible, Randall planted a right fist into the Vassal’s gut. Bent over and gasping for air, his face was met by the other fist. A powerful uppercut launched the large Vassal into the air, over the arena wall, and onto the table of a group of startled spectators. The audience threw food and booed. Randall pumped his fists, then bowed.

“It was all a fix!”

“This thing is rigged!”

“He shouldn’t have won so easily,” another screeched. “I paid good money for this seat. I expect my money's worth!”

The crowd was highly agitated, throwing cups and plates, along with scraps of food into the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please… calm yourselves.” The announcer held up his hands. The judges then huddled together and conferred amongst themselves. “After careful deliberation, and consultation with the keeper of the Rulebook, the fight has been deemed genuine. Count Tuesday’s Vassal had apparently lost access to his power, putting him at a disadvantage against the highly skilled Vassal of Lord January. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, we have an official winner! Randall, Prime Vassal of Lord January, will be the first competitor going through the finals!”

As he went to leave the arena, Randall flashed Grant a wicked grin. Grant’s heart skipped a beat. If he won his fight, he’d have to face his old caretaker in the final match.

<Stop being afraid. This will be good tempering for your will.> Sarge snapping at him made Grant realize that everything would be okay. The sword was only a jerk when things were going well.

“Now, the Vassal of Archduke Sunday will fight Grant Fri - Monday, for a place in the final alongside the incumbent champion… after this small break!”