YoTS January ~ 36!

CHAPTER 36

Long shadows stretched between the crates that Grant had been allowed to sleep on overnight. There had been little fuss when he arrived; a single look at his thin, blood-speckled form, and Corporal Kane had ordered a vat of soup for Grant and sent him to sleep until the following morning. Which, from the glow of the soft orange light, was now. Grant could see that it was just after sunrise, and he needed to make a plan. “Just one more day to hide out, then I can sneak into the exhibition tournament.”

Up and awake and with nothing better to do, Grant decided to do a practice training session before breakfast. He felt confident in his growing sword skills. Two uneventful hours passed, and he was covered in sweat but feeling strong. His leg had fully healed over the night as well, thanks to the potion he had drank before making his escape.

He could feel the recent improvements to both sword skills and stamina. Halfway through his session, Grant lunged, attacking an imaginary foe. Distracted by his thoughts, he overbalanced and fell over, the tip of his sword just barely touching against the handle of a frying pan.

The frying pan swung around in slow motion. Grant watched as it fell onto another pot, which hit another, then another. He stood in horror as the precariously stacked tower rumbled, then came down like dominos. There was an almighty crash as the pots and pans collided with one another and the floor. Grant coughed, enveloped in a cloud of dust.

“Maybe… no one noticed?” A moment later, heavy footsteps thundered through the halls of the poor house, and two yellow uniformed Peacekeepers kicked open the door to the storage room that Grant had been sent to the night before. Another, more familiar face, appeared at the same time.

“My door!” The elderly figure of Corporal Kane attempted to squeeze past the Peacekeepers. “I was right here, you saw me coming! Why did you kick in my door? I’m sure whatever fell was only an accident.”

“Get out my way, old man.” The obese Vassal of House Tuesday pushed Corporal Kane, who landed heavily amongst the scattered kitchenware. As Grant rushed over to help the frail figure, his scarf caught on one of the towers and was pulled off. “Are you okay?”

Corporal Kane nodded. “I… I’ll be fine. Thank you, sonny.”

Grant turned on the Peacekeepers. “How dare you treat an old man like that? Do you have no respect for your elders?”

“Hey, it’s him!” The thinner Vassal nudged his obese buddy. “Grant Friday!”

“Grant Friday, you are charged with disturbing the peace. We are Peacekeepers, it’s our job to keep the peace. You are also charged,” added the other man, “with rigging the tournament, and the death of one of Lord January’s personal Vassals!”

“Hold up, his name isn’t Friday-” The first Peacekeeper muttered as he got a good look at Grant.

The second Peacekeeper wasn’t listening. “You will have plenty of time to respond to the charges. If you are found innocent, the process shouldn’t take more than… oh, a couple of days to sort out.”

Grant immediately saw the trap that had been placed for him. “Two days? But I’ll miss the tournament!”

“Heh. Seems he is the one we are after, even if his name is incorrect.” The fatter of the two relaxed after deciding he had found the right man. He walked forward and held out a pair of manacles. “We’ll get things sorted as quickly as possible. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to watch the final match. Put these on and follow us.”

Up until now, Grant had been trying to do everything as legally as possible. The Vassals back at Randall’s estate were killed in self-defence and he felt terrible about it, Sir Monday the Thirty First had impaled himself on February Twenty Nine, and anyone else that had died had been trying to kill him. Grant had spared everyone he could. Now it was time to take a step into a darker space. He was going to die if he listened to these men, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. “If I don’t fight now and kill members of House Tuesday… but I don’t want to hurt anyone. I earned the right to be in the semi-finals.”

Ignoring the proffered manacles, Grant unsheathed February Twenty Nine with a ringing of steel. “Please leave. I will not be going quietly.”

“That’s how you want to play this?” The fatter man responded with a scowl. “Billy, go get some backup. I’m going to need someone to help drag him back to a cell after I put him down.”

“Right, boss.” As Billy the Peacekeeper hurried out of the room, his boss dropped the manacles and unclasped a club from his belt, a common weapon wielded by the Peacekeepers. The wooden club changed color before Grant’s eyes, rotating through a spectrum of colors: that wasn’t common. After his run in with Sir Friday Twenty-ninths cudgel, Grant was more wary. He didn’t know what power the clubs contained, but didn’t want to find out.

“You’re a Vassal?” Grant questioned the man, who nodded seriously.

“I am. All of us are. Are you ready to come with us now that you know?” Rather than run in, the Peacekeeper stood there, waiting for backup. It arrived soon after, a full ten Peacekeepers, including Billy and his boss, squeezed into the cramped storage room.

“Not a chance.” Grant shook his head. “I am sorry about this. I can’t let you take me.”

Grant stood at the intersection of four stacks of towers. He had to be careful; with a modicum of effort they’d be able to circle behind him and take him by surprise. A Vassal ran towards him, club raised, hoping to quickly dispatch Grant. All he got was a hilt to the jaw. He collapsed moaning to the ground, holding his dislocated jaw; and had to be dragged out of the way by his colleagues.

Critical!

Damage dealt: 11 blunt damage. (Nonlethal.) Debuff added: unconscious. Vassal defeated!

Using the distraction, another Vassal lunged from the side and grabbed Grant in a bear hug, immobilizing his arms. The obese boss walked forward with a smug grin, and brought the multicolored club down. As it swung, even as pinned as he was, Grant raised his feet in an attempt to kick the obese Vassal in the gut. The shift in weight forced his captor to bend over, and the club struck him squarely on the top of his head. The man screamed as his hair ignited upon impact, and he went running back into the depths of the storage room attempting to put out the flames.

Since he was distracted by his colleague’s flaming hair, Grant planted a fist in the wobbly stomach of the Peacekeeper boss; who promptly collapsed like a bag of potatoes. The storage room was mayhem as Vassals attacked recklessly. They missed, tripped on a pot, or struck one of their buddies as Grant dodged the blows. One Vassal gasped as a club hit his leg, and Grant could feel a chill coming from the immobilized limb.

Grant was able to hold back from killing, since the Vassals were doing more to damage themselves than he could to them in the confined space. A few times he had to duck or sidestep, but mostly he was able to simply stay out of the very slow men’s way. His hand came off of February Twenty Nine. He could have quickly ended the fight, but he was still hesitant about becoming a wanton murderer.

Dodging and darting around, it wasn’t long before all ten of his opponents were down, either collapsed in a heap due to overwhelming fatigue or with limbs incapacitated by the power from other clubs. Grant used his fists, pounding pudgy middles and soft faces until he was certain they were unconscious. Light filled him, and Grant coughed blood. This… this was too much! He bent over, heaving in a breath. In this position, he could clearly see his wounds heal, the flesh flowing together in an itchy instant.

<Cultivation level nine, and you broke through a cultivation stage.> Sarge spoke in a pleased tone. <What you’re feeling right now are all the increases that have been held back by the restrictions. Your physical cultivation is already maxed out, unable to go any higher until your lowest stage breaks through. Physical cultivation reached Early Summer, Mental and Armor Proficiency reached Mid Spring, and Weapon Proficiency got to Late Spring. Congratulations.>

Grant dusted off his hands as he stood. He was glad the fight was over, but it was time to go. He went to gather his belongings; he clearly needed to find another place to hide. When he picked up his backpack, he froze as he saw a silhouette blocking his Escape Route. The towering bulk resolved into Count Tuesday as he entered the storage room. The Wielder did not look pleased. “We meet again, Grant Friday… or, should that be Grant Monday, hmm?”

“You are mistaken.” Grant’s cover had been blown, and the next words confirmed that it was not just because they had run into each other here.

“We had a word with your sponsor, Sir Friday Twenty-ninth. He told us about your ‘arrangement’. I will be taking you in for questioning while we sort this out.” Count Tuesday looked around at all of his fallen men. “I'm glad to see that your will is weak. I look forward to breaking you.”