YoTS January ~ 28!

CHAPTER 28

Grant had a skip in his step as he left the armor emporium. The competition finally over, the plaza had been cleared of all people with extremely… impressive stature. Workers in protective suits were clearing up the devastation left behind: litter was piled high. Biscuits, snacks, and greasy bones coated the cobbles. Grant felt bad for the workers; it was one thing clearing up the roadway, but quite another emptying the tubs containing vast quantities of sloshing waste. “It will all end up floating in The Trickle, no doubt…”

As he was watching the workers and thinking about his new set of armor, he didn’t notice a carriage roll onto the plaza. He did hear the yelps of surprise as waste-wielding workers wobbled westward, wary of wayward wheels. Too bad for them, the rapid movements needed to avoid being crushed meant that feces flew everywhere.

“What now?” Grant wondered to himself, looking around to find a way to get out of sight as the carriage door swung open. Two men in the livery of House Friday rushed to place steps in front of the door. Without missing a moment, the regal figure of Sir Friday Twenty-ninth walked down the steps. An aide, probably a Vassal, held onto the end of his purple cape, ensuring that it wasn’t soiled by the filthy cobbles.

“Grant Monday, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” The Noble boomed, loud enough to draw the eyes of everyone in the area. Grant froze like a cornered rat, slowly turning to face the person who had people hunting him since he arrived in Mid January.

“I don’t think we’ve… had the pleasure of meeting?” Grant made sure there was no one behind him; he wasn’t going to get netted again.

“Enough! No more back talk from you!” The huge man stamped his foot in frustration. “Give me back my weapons!”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Grant faced the Nobleman directly, a hand resting lightly on the hilt of his own Wielded Weapon.

“You stole my Vassal’s cudgels. They are imbued with the power of my Wielded weapon, and I would rather not have to go through the ritual required for re-imbuements of weapons. It is long, it is exhausting. Just give them back or I will take them.” He shook a large wooden truncheon. It looked identical to the smaller versions, though it was somewhat more ornate.

“Oh, those things. Tell you what,” Grant fished the small truncheons out of his bag and smacked them together playfully, “if you cancel the bounty on my head, I’ll give them to you.”

“What, what, what?” Sir Friday Twenty-ninth’s face was turning a darker shade of red by the moment, and he looked ready to explode. Maybe Grant would get another accidental kill by having yet another Wielder have a heart attack in front of him? “You are accused of the attempted murder of Lady Vivian Thursday! Your crime will not go unpunished, you scoundrel!”

“Now it’s all the way up to murder? Her accusation is a blatant lie, and she is a despicable person for propagating such a foul, libelous story!” Grant's could believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. He had heard all of them before, he was sure of it, but since when was this his standard for language?

Sarge filled the gap in his knowledge with words that made Grant’s eyes sparkle. <If you’re confused, it’s no longer because you have a terrible mental cultivation. You’re able to learn at a much higher rate, and your memory has become impressive… at least compared to a non-cultivator. Also, sword out!>

“En garde!” Sir Friday brought up his cudgel, holding it like a swordsman about to duel. He pranced forward on his tiny feet. With a ringing of steel, Grant unsheathed the dull blade of February Twenty Nine.

Sir Friday stumbled to a halt, his wobbling body showing his sudden uncertainty. “My Vassals told me your blade was rusty?  Did you get a new… oh! You just stepped out of Bob’s… it matters not! Prepare to defend yourself, Grant Monday. Or, you can save yourself the humiliation of being publicly thrashed, and we can go straight to House Friday’s headquarters where punishment will be swiftly meted!”

“I’d rather fight.” Grant moved into a defensive pose, and he felt comfortable with himself for the first time today. This is what he trained to do, this is what he wanted to do. Fighting had become his passion, and winning here would increase his popularity. He craved that, he craved it deeply.

“So be it.” Something flew from Sir Friday’s fingers. Before Grant had a chance to react, a cloud of smoke enveloped him. He coughed and swung wildly, unable to see even his sword arm.

Debuff added: reduced sight! Duration: smoke dissipation.

*Smack*.

An object collided with Grant’s back, dealing a glancing blow but doing no damage. He spun to face his attacker, and saw the cudgel just before as it thudded against his leather-clad torso.

Damage taken: 5 blunt! (10 - armor and armor cultivation damage mitigation!)

The impact knocked the wind out of him, but apart from that, he was practically unscathed. The embedded glowing shards of metal had barely left a mark on the oiled leather, and his limbs were not paralyzed. A wolfish grin appeared on his face, and he switched to an offencive pose.

The smoke cleared, and the knowing smile fell from Sir Friday’s robust face when he realized that Grant wasn’t crippled and lying on the ground. It was Grant’s turn now. He jumped forward in an attack posture and brought February Twenty Nine down on Sir Friday’s raised cudgel. Sir Friday reacted by planting a meaty fist into Grant’s stomach, failing to deal damage past Grant’s damage mitigation, but still pushing the young men back a foot. “Ready to give up yet, brat?”

“Never!” Replied a winded Grant. There was a too-familiar faint whistle, and Grant dodged the net flying at him at the last moment. It was quickly followed by a second and third whistle. Unsure where to move, he sliced the air frantically. A shower of threads fell to the ground, but no net took him to the ground.

“My Vassals warned me about you. Don’t think I didn’t come prepared!” Before Grant could react, Sir Friday blew a cloud of red dust in his face.

Grant’s mouth snapped shut, since he didn’t want to breathe in the powder. He failed to close his eyes in time, and barbs of pain lanced into his brain. Within moments he was effectively blind.

*Smack*.

Damage taken: 4 blunt!

The cudgel hit his leg and was followed up with a bop to the head. He couldn’t see, but could hear Sir Friday panting heavily with the effort of the sustained attacks. Grant’s heart hammered… there was no way he could win the fight if he couldn’t see. As the Noble paused to catch his breath, Grant also took a moment to calm himself. As he did so, he became aware of the noise of Sir Friday prancing around him. Metal plates of his suit of armor scraped against one another, and his heavy footfalls announced his every movement.

“You should have invested in a set of stealth armor!” Grant coughed around the searing pepper that now clogged his mouth. He heard the cudgel as Sir Friday lazily swung it through the air. Rather than let it collide with his leather armor, Grant parried the weapon. The impacts didn’t cut but they certainly hurt, and would leave bruises all over his body.

Blow after blow was parried or dodged, and try as he might, Sir Friday couldn’t get another hit in against the blinded Grant. Sir Friday puffed, “How? Are. You. Doing this?”

Grant remained silent, focused on anticipating the next attack. When it came from behind, he was ready. He smacked his elbow against Sir Friday’s cudgel-wielding wrist, and the Wielded Weapon fell to the ground.

“Ouch!” Sir Friday ponderously grasped for it as it rolled away. Grant, without missing a step, grabbed hold of the bulky fellow and pressed the edge of February Twenty Nine against the many folds of Sir Friday’s neck. “I yield! I yield! Don’t kill me!”

Inner light bathed Grant, who was delighted with his recent rapid progress. Cultivation level six. “Sir Friday, as I've already explained, that charge was bogus. I've no intention of killing you, nor anyone unless forced.”

Grant slowly withdrew his blade from Sir Friday’s neck, wary of trickery. He blinked rapidly. As his vision returned, he was confronted by the panting, sweaty form of Sir Friday kneeling on the ground. A notification appeared, and Grant was able to see it clearly though the rest of the world was still hazy.

Do you, Grant Monday, wish to absorb the power of January 29: Paralyzation? Accepting Paralyzation 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 return to its current Wielded Weapon at the end of the year, unless the quest ‘Heal The World’ has been successfully completed.

Accept / Decline

“Hmm. Paralyzation would certainly come in handy, but I’d lose Sarge’s help with training. I can’t let that happen… or should I-?”

<Don’t even think about it! You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’ve almost fully recovered from bending the rules as far as I did, but going forward… no help in combat. None.> Sarge went silent, and Grant thought the conversation was over, but he spoke up once more. <Nicely done by the way. I like how you dealt with that greaseball. Go on, put him out of his misery. That will send a message to the Lords and Ladies of the Houses, let them know that Grant Monday is not to be trifled with!>

“That’s… he already surrendered.” Grant was happy to hear that Sarge was feeling better, but he didn’t intend to follow his advice though.

<Double dip! Get a defeat and a kill!>

“You’re pretty dark for a sword.”

<I’m literally made for killing!>

Grant ignored the bloodthirst of his sword and returned to the notification. It wasn’t a difficult decision; he chose ‘Decline'. He hoped he didn’t live to regret it, but he wasn’t confident enough in his abilities to lose access to Sarge or Sword Expertise’s built-in training program. It was more beneficial to learn how to use his sword properly than to numb someone that was cut by his weapon. Sir Friday’s eyes were squeezed shut as he mumbled a prayer. Grant shoved him to get the quivering man’s attention. “I said I won’t kill you. Relax.”

“Huh?” Sir Friday peeled an eye open. “Really? You’re not going to poke me full of holes and dump my beautiful body in The Trickle?”

“That’s a no.”

“Well, that’s just jolly nice of you, sir!” A delighted Sir Friday Twenty-ninth beamed. He scrambled to his feet, and made a shooing motion at someone that Grant couldn’t see, then a beckoning motion in a different direction. “Henry! Fetch me a clean cloak.”

His servant scuttled over, quickly gathered up the soiled cloak, then fastened a fresh one in its place. “Ah, I feel better already. I can’t stand the filth here in the city. I’m intrigued, Grant. Interesting… you don’t behave like a scoundrel.”

“As I told you, I've no interest in murdering anyone, much less ‘Lady’ Vivian!” Grant shuddered at the thought of the woman, but that didn’t mean she needed to die.

“I’ve met the little minx, she is a little intimidating, isn’t she?” Sir Friday chuckled and became contemplative. “I met her at a dinner party, where Joviality was actively trying to marry her off to some sap.”

“I mean… the entire reason I've a bounty on my head is that she wanted to marry me next month, on Valentine’s Day, and I declined.” The way Grant said those words made Sir Friday’s eyes lock onto him.

There was a complex look on his face as he asked, “Had you been courting long?”

“I’d only just met the crazy merchant, and his daughter tried to marry me! When I said no, he robbed me and used the stolen Time to put the bounty on my head.”

“I had wondered why someone would bother to post such a small bounty. At least you are as dangerous as advertised.” Sir Friday let out a hearty laugh. “It sounds like you had a lucky escape. Say, Grant… I could use a man like you. Someone who can really fight.”

“What for?” Grant glared at the man that had just tried to beat him into submission. “Also, why would I believe that you wanted to help me?”

“Perhaps you just listen to my offer?” The Noble shrugged and continued, “I can’t make you trust me. All I can do is be enticing. At the end of the month, there will be an exhibition held in Lord January’s honor, where Wielders and Vassals will fight for honor and glory! It will take place at January’s End, the trading city near the January-February border barrier.”

“That… sounds interesting…” This would catapult Grant closer to his goals of defeating Lord January and crossing the border wall. “What would you need from me, and why would I work for you?

“Oh, it’s interesting. With your stamina and ability to fight for an extended period of time… you may actually win. Not only that, but the winner of the tournament will be presented with a set of Mid Spring Heavy armor. I don’t know if that’s something you’d like, but you are the first person outside of matches that I've seen wearing armor, so… maybe?”

“Beyond the armor, I will personally pay for your housing and anything you need to prepare yourself; such as food and trainers.” Sir Friday’s offer was tempting, and when Grant recalled the effect of the rust falling off February Twenty Nine... he was intrigued by the possibilities that better armor would offer. Sir Friday cautiously reached out a hand and clapped it on Grant’s arm. “So, Grant Monday, what do you say? Will you be my champion?”

A quest notification window appeared.

New Quest: King of the Castle (Rare).

Information: Be a champion, representing Sir Friday Twenty-ninth in the exhibition tournament at Castle January in honor of Lord January. Bring honor and glory to House Friday, and personal honor upon yourself.

Reward: A unique set of Mid Spring Heavy armor upon winning the tournament.

Accept / Decline.

Grant took a shuddering breath and clasped his new patron’s hand. “Sign me up, I accept!”

Sir Friday beamed at him, “Excellent. We must hurry. There are many preparations to make.”

“Okay. I can meet you-?” Grant took a step, but Sir Friday shook his head and didn’t release his hand. “Sir, I've got to tell my friends where I’m going. They’ll think I abandoned them, or been captured.”

“There’s no time, and no one must know about my secret weapon.”

Grant still hesitated. “But… I can’t just leave.”

“You can stay here and go about your business, bounty lifted, or you can take part in Lord January’s tournament with me.” Sir Friday let go, turned, and entered the carriage that waited for him. The horses neighed, eager to be on their way. As he stepped in, he turned back one last time, “The choice is yours.”

Grant stood stock-still or a moment as his head and heart battled for supremacy. He looked past The Trickle. The comforting glow of lights filled windows in the Crafting District, and smoke billowed relentlessly into the sky. When the wind picked up, he could even faintly hear the pounding of machinery.

“If I leave now, my friends, who have gone out of their way to support me, will assume I’m dead, or that I've abandoned them.” He looked back at the carriage door, its door open invitingly. “There lies the doorway to February. All I've gotta do, somehow, is defeat Lord January.”

With a last look down at the smoke and lights, where his friends were probably eating and awaiting his return, Grant made his choice with a sigh. “When you are attempting to save yourself, better yourself, or move forward in life… the people that have no interest in progressing need to be left behind. It needs to be done… but it still hurts. They were the first people that were good to me.”

Sir Friday made room as Grant entered the carriage. Sitting on the luxuriously upholstered cushions, Sir Friday Twenty-ninth nodded, and the carriage started to roll towards his estate. Grant closed the curtain and kept his head down, not wanting to be reminded of the new friends that he was already leaving behind.