YoTS January ~ 33!

CHAPTER 33

The competitor’s dining hall - of course separate from the exhibition dining hall - was packed with Vassals and Wielders gathering their energy before or between fights. The dining hall was open throughout the day, so luckily there wasn’t any risk of missing a meal during the tournament. Grant took his breakfast-laden tray and squeezed in between some of the Nobility. He had picked healthy options, careful not to upset Sword Expertise. He smiled at the other competitors, but they ignored him, focused on their meals.

“Can I ask you something?” The majority continued to ignore him, though his pestering earned him at least a few glares. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t need permission to eat. Just do it, and stop bothering us!” A Wielder snapped, annoyed at having to clear his mouth enough to tell this child off.

“That’s not what I wanted to ask…” Grant cleared his throat and continued. “Do you know much about cultivation levels? Specifically how the characteristic points are assigned?”

The man had reached his limit for being conversational, “Everyone knows that levelling up is a random occurrence. I’m level four and my Vassal Charly here is level three. I can’t say why my level is higher. Quiet down. We have eating to do, and we need energy to last the fights to come!”

The Wielder turned and continued eating, but Grant didn’t give in that easily. He turned to Charly, “What about your stats?”

“What about them?” Charly took over and spat out a mouthful of corn accidentally. “Look, we really don’t have time to talk.”

Grant tried one last time. “When you levelled up, did you experience increased damage output or weapon proficiency? What does each characteristic actually do-”

Charly shook his head and cut Grant off. “As we said, it's all random. Don’t waste your time thinking about such nonsense. Focus on what’s important in life, or you’ll miss the best part of living!”

“What might that be?” Grant sat on the edge of his seat, eager to finally hear a fresh insight.

“Here is the secret to getting ahead in life. Eat regularly. Don’t allow yourself to get hungry. Food is life, and supplies the energy needed to fight and win battles.” Charly’s words made anyone who could hear him nod. All but one.

“Oh… thanks.” Grant was disappointed, but it was the answer he had mostly expected. “I’ve lost my appetite. I guess I’m off to train some more.”

All eyes at the table turned in shock as Grant got up, having hardly picked at his plate. No one skipped a meal. As he walked out of the hall, he passed a cloaked figure sitting in the corner, who whispered, “You ask too many questions, Grant.”

Grant stopped and turned to face the figure, who had their face hidden deep within the folds of a cowl. “Excuse me, do we know each other?”

“No.” The figure pointed to the name above Grant’s head.

“Oh. Yeah. I don’t understand why no one understands levels. I’m just trying to figure-”

“Keep your voice down,” the man ordered before pulling back the cowl to reveal a head of long black hair and eyes almost completely pitch black. Still, not enough of his face was revealed to allow Grant to learn his name. “Knowledge is power. Most Vassals and Wielders, particularly low level ones, are simply absorbing quintessence that has no will behind it. That means that although they become higher level, all increases are applied exactly as they think it is: randomly.”

“I didn’t… that’s… they’re right?” Grant was more shocked by this fact than he should have been.

“After watching you fight earlier, you appeared to fight with some level of skill.” The unknown man looked Grant over. “I’m surprised.”

“I follow a training plan. I’ve noticed that focusing on weapon skills has increased my weapon proficiency, and therefore damage output when I level up. I just wanted to see what others had to say on the matter.” Grant shrugged helplessly, “I can't be the only person who has questions.”

“Training, and specifically following a training plan, isn’t usual behavior here in January, Grant. In February and beyond, it is more common. However, Vassals and Wielders in January are mostly fat and lazy. They have no need to learn how to fight effectively.” The mysterious man stood from his table.

“You’ve travelled beyond the boundary?” Grant had never met a boundary traveller before. “What’s it like?”

“I have a feeling you will find out for yourself one day, young Wielder. As you travel east, life gets progressively more challenging, and to survive, you’ll need your wits about you!” The man started walking toward the door. “That means you need to take care to whom you reveal your lack of knowledge.”

“How do I…” Grant’s words stopped as the man shook his head.

“I’ve said too much already. Knowledge is power, Grant. Hold on to it. Seek it out and hoard it. You will need it in order to survive the many challenges ahead of you.”

Grant reached out, “Wait… I have so many questions.”

“You will have to discover the answers for yourself!” The cowled figure walked along the dark corridor and clicked his fingers. Just before Grant managed to touch the figure on the shoulder, he vanished around the corner. By the time Grant turned to follow further, the man was gone: leaving Grant with many more questions than answers.

One last thing that he noticed when he looked down was that the plate the man had been eating from was still full of food. Grant didn’t have very much time to seek his answers. Discouraged but determined, within the hour he was back in the arena. He had many more matches before the finals, where he would be able to stand in front of Lord January. A Vassal of House Sunday was his opponent right now, and he was sneering at Grant. “My Lord died today facing off against one of you scum Fridays!”

“How terrible! I’m sorry to hear that.” Grant genuinely offered his condolences. “Was there no healer available?”

“Don’t mock me, Friday! I will get my revenge. Meet my boom sticks!” The Vassal shook a pair of small warhammers barely larger than his own meaty hands. One side of the hammers’ head was flat, meant for bashing. The other was pointed, clearly designed for penetrating armor.

“Yes. How… scary.” Grant chuckled at the dinky hammers. After the last fight against the spinning mace, he looked forward to a more well-matched fight. The enraged Vassal came at Grant, who easily ducked under the attack and followed it up by a knee to the man’s crotch. Most of the force was caught by the man’s stomach, but he still staggered back, coughing and trying to reach over his stomach and comfort himself.

“I… I don’t understand. How can you move like that? Why was my hammer so slow?”

“Were…” Grant squinted at the Vassal, knowing where this conversation was going, “were you expecting me not to dodge?”

“I won’t go down without a fight. I don’t care what dirty tricks you use against me!”

“I didn’t do anything to you except not let you hit me!” The Vassal charged as Grant yelled at him, but Grant spun and slapped his blade against the enraged Vassal’s back. The man fell and slid across the arena, spitting out sand as he got up unsteadily and charged.

Damage dealt: 4 blunt. Debuff added: concussed (mild).

Grant stuck a foot out and tripped the angry - yet dizzy - man. As the Vassal collapsed to the ground, Grant calmly walked over and placed the point of February Twenty Nine against his neck. “I suggest you yield. I have no issue with you. I am genuinely sorry for the loss of your Lord.”

The fight went out of the Vassal at Grant’s firm, calm tone. He slumped to the ground in a sweaty heap. “I yield.”

“Listen. If you want the power back in your weapon, make sure to serve under whoever becomes the new Wielder of that weapon.” Grant told the Vassal, whose eyes widened in realization. Grant grasped the man’s hand and acted as a support to help the man up. It took a while.

He did not have time for a long break. As the Vassal was taken away, the next competitor entered the arena. This one looked like more of a challenge. A Wielder, another Saturday, stood before him. He was wearing a set of black leather armor similar to Grant’s, and gripping two long daggers. Their blades were a triangular point that looked wickedly sharp; but that wasn’t what Grant was worried about. They pulsed a sickly green.

<Grant, try not to get poked by one of those.> Sarge told him unnecessarily. <Pretty sure we’re about to experience our first poisoner.>

“Oh, yeah, so glad you warned me.” Grant mocked his sword as sweat broke out on his forehead. “First of all, I don’t intend to be stabbed by any weapon. But yeah. Those are poisonous for sure.”

<Grant.>

“Yeah, yeah.”

The Wielder smirked at the crazy person talking to himself and crept towards Grant. Sir Saturday cautiously circled Grant, with one dagger held close - protecting his middle - and the other trained on Grant. Grant attempted a clean strike, meeting only air as his foe nimbly sidestepped. He returned at a blistering speed, the dagger whistling forward lightning fast.

Grant barely avoided it by stumbling backwards. There was a green dot where the point of the knife had barely nicked the armor, and light pulsed once before fading away. He had to be careful. “Another Saturday? I can’t believe the weekend came so soon.”

“Shh… no more speaking.” The Wielder whispered, creeping Grant out with his high-pitched voice. The pair danced together, and Grant found that he was having a very hard time. His opponent was agile, skilled, and clearly experienced.

Grant remembered his lessons and looked for a way to quickly end the fight. He had another two competitors to face before the semi-finals in front of not only the Nobility, but his target: Lord January.

An idea came to him in a flash.

Sir Saturday always struck using his left dagger first, then the right. There was a pattern, and he could exploit it. Grant waited for the inevitable attack to come. The Wielder lunged, his pulsing dagger coming dangerously close to skewering Grant. Before the inevitable follow up by the right blade, he reversed his grip and slammed February Twenty Nine into his opponent’s chin. A dirty, yet effective, trick; Sir Saturday went down like a sack of potatoes.

Grant loomed over the fallen Wielder who groaned in pain, his face filled with hate. He held February Twenty Nine pointed towards his victim. “Do you yield?”

“Do you have no honor?” Sir Saturday Spat as Grant leaned forward and drew blood. “Let me to my feet.”

“I do what I have to do.”

“As do I.” Sir Saturday slapped away Grant’s blade, and with his other dagger scored a hit against the exposed flesh of Grant’s wrist. It felt like a bee sting, and he jerked his arm back in pain. He leaned forward to skewer the man, barely stopping as the Wielder spoke again. “I yield!”

Damage taken: 3 slashing. Debuff added: Lesser Lingering Death.

“Celestial Feces! Lingering Death?” Grant paled as he stared at the wound on his arm.

<I did warn you, Grant. You never listen!> Sarge’s next order was as sharp as the Swords edge. <Kill him, kill him now!>

Grant swung, but Sir Saturday had already rolled away and was surrounded by Vassals. He turned and looked at Grant as he swaggered away. “I did what I had to do. No one disrespects House Saturday and lives to talk about it!”

“What do I do?” Grant slumped to his knees as another pain raced up his arm.

<Well, the ‘lingering part’, which means slow and painful, is followed by the little nuance of ‘death’.> Sarge explained caustically. <Guess you’ll die.>

“Sarge! What should I do?”

<Only thing you can do. Find a way to negate the power before you die. I estimate that you have around two hours left to live.>

Grant pulled open his stats to see the impact of the minor wound, but was then flooded by golden light: he had achieved a new cultivation level.

Name: Grant Friday (Updated from Grant Monday)

(Identity hidden. Potion effect will remain active until it is dispelled. Click here to end potion effect: Hidden Identity.)

(Lesser Lingering Death: 1 health point lost per minute until death. Lingering Death can be dispelled by killing the Wielder who granted this ability, using a spell or Wielded Weapon ability to dispel the effect, or levelling up after poison has been diluted over time.)

Class: Wielder

Cultivation Achievement Level: 7

Cultivation Time: 198:87 Hours (Time to Next Level 801.13 Hours)

Cultivation Stage: Mid Spring

Inherent Abilities: Four Seasons Cultivation

Health: 111/139

Mana: 4/4

Characteristics

Physical: 59 (Cultivation Stage Maximized. Gains will be retroactively applied when all stages are closer.)

Mental: 16

Armor Proficiency: 17

Weapon Proficiency: 32

Grant had no choice, he had to leave the arena and find a cure before it was too late! One hundred and eleven health points gave him just shy of two hours of life. He went to leave the fighting pit, but an announcer boomed, “A small reminder! Any competitor leaving the arena before completing all bouts leading up to the semi-finals will forfeit their place in the competition!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He stood at the edge of the arena, not knowing what to do. He could see Sir Saturday grinning, watching him from the shadows.

Sarge spoke in a softer growl than usual, <Grant, if you leave now… it’s all over. You won’t get the opportunity to face Lord January or cross the Boundary. Also, something was wrong-”

“If I don’t leave now, I’ll die in two hours!” Grant snapped at the sword.

<Listen. Defeat the last two competitors quickly, and you might stand a chance! Might.> Sarge bull-rushed onward, <As I was saying: something is wrong. That wasn’t a Wielder! If it was, you wouldn't be in this current predicament. I think it was someone using a hidden identity potion, like you are. If that had actually been a Wielder, You would have been given the option to take the power of their weapon for yourself. Instead, your counter of defeated enemies shows an additional Vassal defeated. You’re slated to fight another Wielder, and when you defeat them, problem solved! You’ll reach cultivation level eight!>

“That’s…” Grant sighed and turned back to the arena. “A good point.”

He walked to the center of the fighting pit and awaited the next contender. He idly scratched his sore wrist, then looked down to examine the spot he had taken the glancing blow, pulling back the armor. Green tendrils pulsed along his veins as the poisonous power made its way slowly towards his heart.

A Wielder of House Monday, Sir Monday the something or other - Grant wasn’t listening  very well right now - entered the arena. It felt strange coming up against a member of his own House, even though Sir Monday thought he faced a Friday. Grant started mumbling all the information he could think of. “House Monday, highly proficient with weapons, like I am… this may be a challenge.”

The chainmail-wearing Wielder strode towards him, broadsword held defensively, before giving a short bow in greeting and respect. The broadsword’s edge looked incredibly fine… and razor-sharp. Grant wondered what power imbued this Wielded Weapon. “We only have this day. May you die well, my fellow warrior.”

“Let’s not have me die,” stammered Grant at the ominous greeting. “I like living. It’s got its ups and downs, and I think I want to see more of those ups.”

Grant sucked in a breath as the Wielder shot forward. He ducked and dived, narrowly avoiding slice after slice. He got in his own attacks, but February Twenty Nine slid off the chain ring mail. Seeing his attack doing nothing, Grant went back to the only plan that was working today. Dodge, duck, and roll.

After ten minutes, Sir Monday hadn’t managed to land a blow, and was breathing heavily with the effort. His armor was a medium weight set like Grant’s, but the sword was heavy. It took all of his strength to swing it at the more agile Grant. Sir Monday went all in, swinging wildly and using the little energy he had left to force Grant towards the wall, closing him in.

Grant was aware of Sir Monday’s plan. As he reached the wall, he scrambled up a dangling rope and pushed off to the side, swinging around and behind Sir Monday. The Wielder’s head darted around in confusion, but he didn’t have time to respond as a kick to the back of the knees left him lying on his back with February Twenty Nine bearing down on him. “I yield! Well fought, Sir Friday. I am truly impressed.”

The panting youngster stood back and nodded at Sir Monday, who got back to his feet and walked unsteadily toward the edge of the arena. Light filled Grant as he reached cultivation level eight, and he took a deep breath of relief as he felt the debuff of Lesser Lingering Death fade away and his wounds heal. He checked to be sure.

Health: 139/139

Mana: 5/5

Characteristics

Physical: 59 (Maximized. Gains will be applied when stages are aligned.)

Mental: 18

Armor Proficiency: 20

Weapon Proficiency: 36

A notification appeared, offering him yet another power, but Grant ignored it after seeing that it only increased the sharpness of his weapon based on his cultivation level. Sir Monday left the arena, not even realising that he’d almost lost his Wielded Weapon’s power. To be fair, as far as Grant knew, no other weapon held the power to absorb that of another Wielded Weapon. He turned to taunt ‘Sir Saturday’ who was watching from the sidelines, to show that he had recovered.

Sarge stopped him as soon as he realized what Grant was planning to do. <Wait, nope, no. Hear me out, Grant. I think you should still pretend that the poison is impacting you. We need to figure out if this was as easily explainable as that assassin pretended it was, that is, he just wanted revenge for the dishonor… or if there is a more insidious plot against you.>