YoTS January ~ 32!

CHAPTER 32

As Grant left the area and entered more familiar grounds, he cursed himself for being such a fool. Sarge piled on to make him feel worse, <Haha, you really showed him! I think the real reason the second most powerful person in this entire District let us leave is that he was afraid of you. Perhaps he went to change his pants instead of throwing you into prison?>

“Sarge… you could help, rather than just being so… edgy all the time!” Grant snarled at his sword, fumbling as he tried to think of a way to express his thoughts clearly. Cursing at his sword didn’t go unnoticed, but the people around him couldn’t have a lower opinion of him anyway.

<Oooh… edgy? I’m a sword. I’m at least a third edge! Someone’s a little touchy today. Did I hurt those farm boy feelings?> Sarge’s voice was a blade against Grant’s tired mind. <You don't get to be sad, you don't get to be hurt by words. You can only get stronger, or you die, Grant. My job is to make sure that you are getting stronger, faster, more powerful… every single moment of every single day. Sometimes I need to remind you that I’m not your friend, I’m your trainer. Get strong enough, then I’ll become your friend. Today is not that day. You understand me, maggot?>

“Yes,” Grant answered quietly. He was in no mood to be baited by Sarge today. The tournament was due to start tomorrow, and he had just shown weakness to one of the most powerful figures in all of January.

<I can’t hear you!>

“Yes! I won’t forget who I am or what I need to do!” Grant startled a few people with the sudden outburst. They looked at the crazy beggar with a mixture of fear and pity.

<That’s more like it! Go on then. Prove it to everyone. Get back in the training arena. I want to see you complete another session. You will repeat the drills until the moves are a part of you, Grant!>

“Someday… someday soon…” The previous session’s fatigue was already a distant memory. Grant gripped the hilt of February Twenty Nine tightly and strode back towards the training yard with renewed purpose. “No one will dare make the mistake of threatening me, or telling me that I’m nothing but a sick beggar!”

Training passed in a blur, and Grant was so numb afterward that the night was gone in a flash. He had needed to be shaken awake for his first match, two maids helped him don his armor, and he needed to run to get to the fighting pit in time.

Just before the match was called due to him not being present, Grant stepped into the circle. His eyes connected with those of his first opponent, Sir Saturday Twenty-Third. Sir Saturday stood across from him in the arena, and the dining hall seating area surrounding the fighting pit was almost completely deserted. Only a few spectators had bothered to attend; even they seemed more interested in eating snacks than watching the early rounds of the tournament.

Lord January was probably sound asleep in one of his many towers, or digging in to breakfast alongside his Nobles. Grant, nervous as he was, preferred the slow start to the tournament, rather than have the pressure of a bloodthirsty crowd jeering for entertainment. There was something to be said for learning to fight in front of people, and the minimal distractions let Grant see exactly what was coming at him.

The powerfully-built giant of a man, Sir Saturday, pulled his shiny visor down over his grinning face and clunked his way towards Grant. He was a walking fortress coated in full plate armor. His Wielded Weapon was a spiked mace, a thick chain and spiked metal ball that hung down far enough that it almost touched the ground.

Grant was glad to be wearing the set of Early Spring Medium armor, but didn’t know if it would be enough. As Sir Saturday swung, Grant ducked, easily avoiding the spiked ball flying overhead. As he did, he unsheathed February Twenty Nine and struck at the plated wall of a stomach before him. Sparks flew as the blade’s edge scraped harmlessly off the metal, leaving little more than a scratch. He looked at the tiny mark unbelievingly, “This might be a bit more challenging than expected.”

Sir Saturday swung a heavy gauntleted fist and missed the darting form of Grant. The heavy armor, while offering great protection, made it difficult and slow to move. The pair sparred back and forth, neither able to gain an advantage. Grant’s blade slid off the metal plate, while Sir Saturday’s ponderous attacks were easily dodged or sidestepped. Grant was careful not to try parrying the mace: doing so could result in his blade getting ripped out of his hands, and then he would be quickly beat down.

“This isn’t working… I have to try something else to break the deadlock.” Grant switched stances, planning to go all-out.

Sir Saturday was slowing down, the heavy armor and long fight quickly tiring him. “Let’s end this, Grant Friday! I’m getting bored, and if we don’t hurry up, I’ll miss second breakfast!”

“Bring it on then, sir.” Grant replied with a flourish of his sword. Sir Saturday grunted, and his weapon started to change. Points of darkness spread between the metal spikes on the head of the mace, and moments later only the wickedly sharp points remained visible amongst the darkness of the weapon. Grant slightly deflated at losing sight of his opponent's weapon. “Okay, I’ll be honest that I didn’t expect-”

“A riddle for you!” Sir Saturday closed in. As he hefted the spiked metal ball, it spun; slowly at first but increased in pace until it was a spinning black mass. Its points acted like a circular saw, ready to slice him to ribbons. Grant dodged to the side, but the spinning blades still managed to lightly connect with his shoulder. The force of the mace spun him around and threw him into the arena wall, while Sir Saturday’s mass held him firmly in place. “Saturday and Friday get into a fight… who wins?”

Damage taken: 12 slashing damage. (6 mitigated)

“I will win.” Grant hissed through clenched teeth as he stood up and wiped a dribble of blood off his hand. No reason to lose his grip.

“Saturday wins,” Sir Saturday lumbered closer, “because no matter what anyone else says, Friday is a weak day.”

“That joke hurt more than your attack did.” Grant leveled his sword and got ready.

“That was a warning shot. The next one won’t go so well for you. Concede and go on your way, boy.” Sir Saturday shook his head. “You’re a decade too early to challenge me.”

Grant’s shoulder throbbed, luckily his off-hand so he could still grip his weapon correctly.

Health: 113/125

Mana: 3/3

Characteristics

Physical: 50

Mental: 12

Armor Proficiency: 15

Weapon Proficiency: 30

The impact had hurt, but his armor had kept him from getting any debuffs. Yet, that was a glancing blow; he didn’t want to experience a direct hit. Grant darted under the swinging disc of death. Sir Saturday roared at him, “Stand still so I can beat you down, Grant! Let me end this quickly. I said I don’t want to miss second breakfast!”

Grant scrambled across the sand and slipped, barely keeping his blade up. Sir Saturday had been waiting for this. The spinning blade came down, and Grant had no choice but to deflect with February Twenty Nine. Sparks flew as the circular saw hammered against his sword. The force of the impact brought the spinning blade closer by the second; if Grant didn’t do something, he’d end up decapitated.

He rolled to the side and brought his sword up against Sir Saturday’s mace-wielding wrist. On an unarmored opponent, the hand would have been severed. Happily, the impact did knock the difficult-to-control spinning mace out of his grip. If flew away and into the wall, cutting a deep groove as it continued to spin before coming to a halt.

The dazed Sir Saturday stood weaponless, not knowing what to do, but unwilling to surrender. Even without a weapon, he was decked out in plate armor. He started lumbering toward his fallen mace, and Grant realised there was a way to end the fight quickly. He ran over to the wall before Sir Saturday could even make it halfway, and tugged against the mace’s handle. It wouldn’t budge. Grant braced both feet against the wall and pulled. It didn’t look like anything was happening, but it popped out unexpectedly.

Immediately the metal head of the mace became a blur again. The weight and momentum of the spinning ball of metal tore at his muscles, and it took all Grant’s strength to stop it flying out of his fingers. Sir Saturday was closing in, and reached out a hand. “My weapon! Give it back!”

“Sure. Take it!” Grant grinned and walked towards his target. The spinning saw would make quick work against the plate armor. Sir Saturday didn’t move, and Grant tried to threaten him. “I don’t know if I can hold on much longer, Sir Saturday!”

Grant held up the mace to Sir Saturday torso armor. Sparks flew in all directions. “Do you yield?”

“You think a Wielded Weapon would turn against its Wielder?” The head of the mace stopped moving, dropping to the ground as the black fog surrounding it faded away. Sir Saturday lunged at Grant, but the young man moved faster. He dodged to the side and around, wrapping the chain of the weapon around Sir Saturday’s left foot and pulling it taut; taking him to the ground. In an instant, the point of Grant's sword was pressed against the nape of Sir Saturday’s neck.

“Do you yield?”

“Yes. Yeesh. You take this too seriously. Get off me, I already can’t breathe in all this gear.” Sir Saturday removed his helm, revealing sweat dripping from his brow and off his nose. Grant awaited the familiar glow that was associated with levelling up after defeating a Wielder, but nothing happened. The other normal announcement did appear.

Do you, Grant Monday, wish to absorb the power of Sir Saturday 28th’s weapon, Accelerated Mass? Accepting Accelerated Mass will override any previous Wielded Weapon power absorbed in the current monthly series. If not overridden by another weapon of the same month, this ability will vanish at the end of the year, unless the quest ‘Heal The World’ has been successfully completed.

Accept / Decline

“Decline. I lack the strength to handle such a power. Plus, this is more suited to weapon’s such as a mace than a sword.” Grant realised that if he applied the power to February Twenty Nine, there was practically an equal chance of decapitating either himself or an enemy. Grant walked away from his first bout as the victor. He turned around to Sir Saturday, who was sitting on the sand attempting to untangle himself from his mace. “Sir… there’s still time to catch breakfast!”

The red face of Sir Saturday glared at him as he left the arena. Grant didn’t notice, too deep in his plans.

“If Sarge is correct about how this works, I will need to defeat one more Wielder in order to level up. I should be able to make that happen either today, or tomorrow. I’m close… so close to getting stronger.”