YoTS: Lord January ~ 1!

CHAPTER 1

“My valiant knight!” Big Betty Arabella, daughter of Lord January’s second cousin twice removed, breathlessly trailed her sausage-like fingers along the sharply defined musculature of Grant’s chest. Her hand trailed down, lightly resting on his sign of wealth: his enormous gut. “You were wonderful today!”

“Everything that I did was to win the tournament… and your hand, my Lady!” Grant had a wide grin plastered on his face as he lay on purple sheets of the finest silk in the district of January. He wiggled his shoulders, allowing them to be engulfed by plump goose feather pillows. Even the recovery couch he was forced to remain on was plush, a testament to how much the district valued their warriors.

“No! No man has accomplished what you have this day. You were attacked from all sides by Vassals and Wielders. Lightning bolts struck you, and the swords…! Somehow though, you managed to deflect them, taking down another Vassal mid strike! I was so worried!”

Grant grasped her hand and pulled her closer to him, “I have trained all my life for this day. What I did, I did by instinct and is the result of tireless training, day after day. I would do it all again for my prize… to take whatever you’ll give me.”

“In that case,” Betty pressed a finger to Grant’s lips. “it’s time for your reward! Are you ready?”

“Yes! After waiting so long, working so hard… this is what I’ve been waiting for!” Grant started salivating instantly, his eyes never leaving her.

Betty backed away and giggled, going into an adjoining room in the royal hospital suite. Moments later she came back, wearing a flour-coated apron and with her hair fully covered under a fitted chef’s hat. In her hands she held out a platter of scrumptious-looking scones. She came closer, and the powdered sugar began floating all over the combination reclining couch and feasting table. “This is just a sample of what’s to come! As victor of the January Tournament, you have won a year’s supply of baked goods from Big Betty’s Bakery!”

He could practically taste the delicious scones already. He watched as Betty bit into one and rolled her eyes in pleasure, then crept toward him with her eyes remaining focused on his. Grant could feel his pulse quicken. She smelled of roses in full bloom, and sweet sugar. Her lips came towards his awaiting left ear, and she whispered softly, “First, there is something I want to tell you…”.

“I’m listening, my lady.” Grant closed his eyes. “Anything-”

“Moo~o~o!”

“What the…!” Grant was unceremoniously jerked awake by Daisy the dairy cow, her face inches from his, and her tongue lapping out into his left ear. “Come on, Daisy... could you not have waited another five minutes? I've been dreaming about those scones for months, and I almost got them this time!”

She looked at him with long eyelashes, bobbed her head, and answered, “Moo?”

“I suppose it isn't your fault.” He looked out of the opening in the barn and squinted into the late morning light. The sun had already been up for a few hours. Daisy, as patient as she normally was, had just reminded him that she hadn’t had breakfast. That meant it had to be later in the day than he thought it was, which might be an issue. Someone of his station did not get to sleep the day away.

Grant stood and went to stretch, but immediately fell down with a splitting headache.  With a growing sense of horror, he remembered why he had fallen asleep next to the dairy cow. Instead of cleaning up his master’s feasting table as he had been ordered, Grant had quaffed as much fermented apple cider as he could manage last night. No one had noticed, since he had only drained the last dregs in the cups, but any of the potent liquor was still far more than he was used to drinking.

“I can't tell if I'm happy that no one notices me, or…” he muttered bitterly, fists clenched. Yesterday was New Year’s Eve and he had wanted to celebrate; even if it was by himself. Even so, he was paying the price right now. He had always heard that drinking was the same as stealing happiness from the next day, but now he knew what that saying actually meant.

“Moo!”

“Yes, yes. I know that you see me, Daisy. Thank you for making sure I didn't freeze to death last night. Now, I need to catch up on my chores before my ‘caretaker’ notices that I have been shirking my duties. I don't think even you kick as much as he does!” Trying to pull himself together, Grant got up, successfully this time, and splashed handfuls of frigid water from the trough onto his face. The cold slap of water instantly brought him back to the reality of his life.

The last hints of the beautiful dream faded as he looked down, half expecting to see a finely chiselled chest and a huge belly; but was instead greeted by only his usual barely-even-husky shape. His slightly rotund shape caused him no end of grief no matter where he went; it was obvious from his small size that he was poor. It only took a glance, and he was avoided as though he was coughing blood.

Most people in the district were grotesquely obese, and the most wealthy even had to be carried around on plannaquins or wagons. The less they needed to do, the more powerful they were, and the more resources they could bring to bear. His situation guaranteed that he didn’t have access to the sheer quantity of food most people did. He actually knew for a fact that he was even a little thinner than some of the homeless people in the cities he had heard tales of.

He would stuff himself like that if he could afford to do it; he tried to convince himself that being poor wasn’t the reason he was stealing scrap food and drink from the feasting table last night. Grant needed food! He had goals! He would never become a knight, valiant or otherwise, if he lacked the strength and stamina to swing a sword or wear armor! That was why he did whatever it took to bulk up. His plan: get powerful, learn to use a sword, get rich and marry someone, then spend his newly acquired vast fortune on food and luxury, just like everyone else in the district of January.

“I’ll make it happen. Someday. Until then…” Grant shook his coarse woven shirt, removing shards of prickly hay. Last night it had acted as a makeshift bed sheet, providing limited protection from the sharp grasses below. Shirt and britches as clean as they were going to get, he strode through the barn door and into the light of the new day. He informed the clucking chickens and the world in general, “This year will be my year! A year that will be remembered in the history books, in ages yet to come!”

He’d said pretty much the same thing every year so far, but it still sounded impressive to his ears. Today was January first, year nine hundred ninety-nine AB, or Anno Barrier. Nine hundred and ninety-nine years had passed since the erection of the barrier splitting the world into twelve equally sized districts. Each district was controlled by the Lord or Lady of the Month: the most powerful Wielder in each district. Though he knew it was a fool's hope, Grant wanted to become a Wielder.

The reason it could only ever be a dream was obvious: being a Wielder meant becoming Nobility, and the only way to become Nobility was to attract the attention of a Noble House of the Week. For that, he needed to become a powerful cultivator, then a Vassal - Vassals were cultivators that had been chosen to serve the Nobility, and had been granted a portion of their power - and finally be brought into a Noble house as a full fledged Wielder… instead of the previous Wielder's heir.

Grant shook his head and chuckled at his wild imagination. “Am I still asleep? I can't become a cultivator. Where in the world would I get a cultivation manual? Or even a cultivation method, for that matter?”

Though Grant didn’t have a deep understanding of cultivation, other people would rub their superiority in his face often enough that he understood that a cultivator was someone who was able to gather the energy of the world around them. A cultivator was able to take this ‘outside energy’ and use it to boost their cultivation levels and characteristics.  this could make them hit harder, think faster, defend easier, or even - if they were Nobility - cast high-powered spells. It was a well-known fact that only Wielders and Vassals were able to use spells after the barrier went up, though anyone with a proper cultivation method could gain levels and physical power.

So, since becoming a cultivator was the first step - and already impossible for him at this point - becoming a Wielder was wildly beyond his grasp. Becoming Nobility was only a part of the process; being a Wielder was different than being a cultivator. Yet, as far as his limited understanding went, there were similarities.

Both were able to increase their ‘cultivation levels’ in one of four directions. Physical, mental, weapon, or armor cultivation. Unsurprisingly, the most powerful cultivation methods allowed for all four methods to be cultivated, but an average person was usually at least lucky enough to have a family cultivation method that allowed them to do one of the four. However, Wielders had an additional advantage over even cultivators: they Wielded a Weapon of Power, known as a ‘Wielded Weapon’.

Each Wielded Weapon apparently had some kind of strange power the Wielder was able to tap into, and bonding with the weapon automatically made the Wielder a part of the Noble class. From what he had gleaned over the years, there were three hundred and sixty-five Wielded Weapons; one for each day of the year. Unless the entire lineage was wiped out, Noble houses only ever passed their weapons to their heirs; just another reason that his dream this morning had been ridiculous.

The truth of the matter was that Grant would be happy with just a simple cultivation method. Being able to increase even one of his characteristics would eventually allow him to stand on his own two feet in the world, and a single cultivation level would also allow him to gain skills for the work that he did every single day; like tending animals and plucking fruit in the orchards. Everything would become easier. Literally… everything. Grant forced himself to stop thinking about it before he had a mental breakdown; he got to work on his chores.

Everyone else in the district had January first off of work as a holiday, in honor of Lord January. Despite this, Daisy and the chickens needed to be fed, and the pigsty was… more of a pigsty than usual. The pigs seemed to magically produce vast quantities of excrement, and who else would clean it out but him? An hour later, the jobs were complete and he was dripping with sweat from the exertion. “Ugh. I’m gonna get even thinner.”

Grant slumped against a fence post. It protested, creaking under the load, but held. He took a deep swig from a water jug, quenching his growing thirst. He paused mid-swig and nearly choked, “Oh! That’s right! A new year! My status!”

Somehow, between the chores, lucid dream, and hangover, Grant had forgotten to check his status! He shook his head in wonder, excitedly squeezed his eyes shut and thought, status. A status sheet materialized, shining bright blue in his mind's eye.

Name: Grant Leap

Class: None

Cultivation Achievement Level: 0

Cultivation Time: 0:00 (Time to Next Level 1000:00)

Cultivation Stage: None (Early Spring)

Inherent Abilities: None

Health: 50/50

Mana: 0/0

Characteristics

Physical: 0

Mental: 0

Armor Proficiency: 0

Weapon Proficiency: 0

Grant’s shoulders slumped. The initial excitement at checking his stats was gone in an instant. At one point in his life, he had hope that he would be able to cultivate properly; growing strong, powerful, and respected. However, without a cultivation method - or better yet a full cultivation manual - it was impossible to increase the base stats and levels. As an abandoned orphan, he didn’t even have access to the most basic family method. They were precious, and every single one of them was unique. No family was going to risk their secrets to help a random person; many rumors stated that if you knew how someone cultivated, you would know how to topple them, and their family.

“At least I can see my status. No one can block me from doing that.” The viewable system was a side effect of the barriers put in place by Regent December just shy of a thousand years ago to save himself from the Lord January of that time; a man that was supposed to become the true Calendar King. Before the barriers were erected, there were no restrictions on growth. Anyone could use spells and fight to enter the Nobility based on power alone. In short, nothing stopped people from advancing forward; but there was also no clear way to quantify the growth you did achieve. The result was a blood-soaked world war over the pursuit of power, the Wielder Wars.

Now, the ‘System’ allowed everyone to clearly see their growth and potential, even a lowly Leap - the last name given to the rare few cursed like him: those born on the day of the leap year, February Twenty Nine. That was another sore spot, and another way that he could be controlled by his ‘caretaker’. Unlike normal orphans, who would get the last name ‘Spring’ when born in the districts of January, February, or March, a ‘Leap’ was legally considered a child their entire life; only becoming an adult after sixty-four years, on their sixteenth birthday.

Grant rubbed at his aching arms, the effort of shovelling out the pigsty and stables  made him want to sit and relax for a while. But, it was a new year, and he wasn’t one to give up or let obstacles get in his way! He was an achiever! Or, he wanted to be. Standing tall, he strode over to his sword, a roughly shaped block of wood that was once a fence post.

“Someone had to have created the first cultivation manual! I can figure this out, I can make my own if I try hard enough.” He bent over to pick it up with one hand and winced; almost putting his back out due to the weight of the woody weapon. Rather than feeling frustrated, this just made him more determined to somehow achieve the first level of cultivation. He picked up the sword and held it in a two-handed grip. He swayed a little, his weak and flabby body threatening to topple over after all that work. Grant focused, remembering his inspiration for weapon cultivation.

A few years ago, a Calendar - a squad composed only of cultivators and above - of Lord January’s Vassals had passed through the village.

Grant had been visiting the market at the time, selling produce from the farm. These Vassals weren’t the lazy kind that were common across the district, these ones looked deadly; their bellies encased in gleaming armor that made them look like wrecking balls, and a two-handed sword or polearm attached to their mount. One Vassal in particular had caught Grant’s attention. While the others were laughing loudly and playing cards beside a fine carriage, this knight was making unusual motions with his sword.

Sword and arm were one. The man moved in mesmerizing patterns, so much so that Grant had stood there gawping, mouth slack, hypnotized by what he was witnessing. Never in his short life had he seen the like. With his feet planted shoulder width apart, the knight thrust his sword forward, impaling an imaginary foe. The gleaming metal was brought overhead and swung in a download arc. Impressive, but nothing compared to what Grant would witness next.

Despite the weight of his bulk and armor, the knight sprinted forward, sword in hand. He leapt into the air, completed a forward somersault, and swung the sword down in a whistling cry.

A wave of pure power was unleashed from the sword as it connected with a training dummy, coating it in a burst of blue flame. Then there was silence, apart from the whine of dogs clearly distressed by the thunderous sound. The knight - who Grant later learned was actually a Wielder and therefore actually a Noble - knelt on one knee with his hands resting on the pommel of the sword as he panted for each breath. It was at that moment that Grant decided that he would do whatever it took to become a weapon cultivator.

The cluck of chickens brought him back to the reality of the farm and the wooden stick, a poor replica of the knight’s sword. Feet wide, Grant thrust the sword forward, mimicking the witnessed sword form. This was followed by a crash as he toppled over, landing in a heap amongst the straw and dirt. He dusted himself off, picked up a much lighter weapon - the handle of an old broom - and made much better progress. At the end of ten minutes practicing sword forms - or was that broom forms? - Grant was completely spent.

Breathing heavily, and heart hammering, he collapsed in a sweaty pile; tired but happy. With consistent daily training he would achieve his goals. “Even when I feel like giving up, I just have to keep going. One small step at a time.”

This was the mantra he lived by. Grant promised himself once more that he would never allow himself to fall into despair.

It was a promise that got harder to keep every time he opened his status sheet.