Savage Awakening 470. The Summit of the Ages (III)

The biggest boxes were the gold-rimmed ones closest to the arena. Few inside paid these early fights much attention.

But there was one young woman with her face pressed to the window. She was disheveled, with stray leaves in her hair and dirt streaked over her cheeks, and she smelled the way you’d expect from a girl who hadn’t bathed in half a year. She wore a mottled cloak. A giant bow was strapped to her back—the kind meant to kill prey in a single blow.

Her name was Virya. #5 Seed at the Summit of the Ages.

“Virya,” her tutor—a slightly flabby, monocled man in a noble’s standard silks—tapped the glass. “Focus? …Please?”

“I am focused.”

“I meant on Salazar,” said Tutor Jamie. “Or the Blood Demon Lord? Real competition, not this—”

He gestured vaguely at Jack, who was looking down, befuddled at his own abs.

Virya said nothing.

She’d always been like this. Her family, the Kinnimans—heads of the Diamond City merchants’ guild—hadn’t really known what to do with her. It was a relief she turned out gifted; she spent most of her time out hunting legendary beasts nowadays, dropping home every six months or so.

It was Tutor Jamie’s duty to get her prepped on her real competition.

“Look,” sighed Jamie. “This Jack’s just a gimmick fighter—he has one trick, and now he’s used it! Miss Kinnaman—”

“Virya,” said Virya, wrinkling her nose.

“Virya,” conceded Jamie. “He’s just not worth your time. Have you seen who he’s up against? He’ll be lucky to make it out in one piece!”

She looked at him, and Jamie almost flinched again. She had startlingly bright green eyes—eyes that seemed to see right through you.

“You’re wrong,” she said. She cocked her head. “…He smells like Salazar.”

She went back to examining him.

“Salazar…?”

Jamie frowned. The Young Mistress had always had unnervingly accurate senses...

He had trouble imagining that barbarian as any real threat.

***

Zane spent his off day feeding some squirrels on a distant mountain. One he hadn’t yet visited—one affectionately referred to by locals as ‘the Egg.’ It was mostly a bald dome of rock, fringed with trees.

He was halfway through his peanut bag when he felt the disturbance.

He narrowed his eyes.

It was suppressed. But he knew that aura signature. Just a flicker—somewhere, deep in the city…but it was gone.

Monster King.

It wasn’t the same as the one in the forest. This one was stronger.

He figured they were roaming around—waiting to catch him out.

With his current strength, he wasn’t too worried.

Still—best to keep up his low profile.

***

That night, Zane headed back into the Red Moon Pagoda.

There was a new lock on the gate—even bigger this time. It was a bit excessive, he thought.

After a few knocks, it cracked open.

“Hey there,” said Zane with a wave.

A narrowed eye peered through the crack. “What do you want?”

“I won’t be long this time,” Zane assured the Spirit. “I’ve got a few questions. Just some troubleshooting.”

There was some grumbling. “One second.” Hauling sounds, then the click-click of unlocking.

There stood the Pagoda Spirit, with reading glasses on. A log fire crackled in the distance; Zane could vaguely make out a sofa in there. Was that a glass of milk?

“Alright, shoot,” said the Pagoda. “Haven’t got all day here!”

“How hard is it to make up a new rock-based Skill?” Zane asked.

“Not hard at all,” said the Pagoda. “…You haven’t given it a try, have you?”

“Not yet. I figured you might have some tips.”

“Just put your soul and essence in, and do something.”

“…That’s it?”

“We’re making a rock Skill,” said the Spirit. “It’s not the 99 Heavensbane Slashes here! A Skill’s just any move that’s got essence in it. So if you put some soul and essence in a rock and smash something—that’s a Skill. You probably didn’t even need me to make Rock Smash. I optimized all the essence flows. But you’re trying to crack an egg with a sledgehammer here. It doesn’t really matter how you hit it.”

Zane nodded thoughtfully.

“That makes sense.”

“Why?” said the Spirit. “…Is something wrong with the Skill?”

“Nothing like that,” said Zane hastily. “It's just that I fought a fellow recently—he had a pretty neat art. Lots of slashes and stabs, moves that chained into each other.”

He looked at his rock.

“I’ve got some extra time. I figure I should look into expanding things,” he explained. “There’s lots you can do with a rock.”

“I… suppose that’s true…” The Spirit eyed him dubiously. “Is that it, then?”

“Should be.”

“Hmm.”

“…What’re all the locks for?”

“They’re there for my peace of mind, that’s what,” said the Spirit.

Zane blinked.

“Every time you come over, I get my whole worldview rearranged!” cried the Spirit. “I’ve had it with you and your damned whale of a soul! It doesn’t make sense! It’s not even fair!”

There was a silence.

“…Sorry,” said the Spirit, taking a deep breath. “Just had to get that off my chest. It was a long time coming.”

“That’s alright,” said Zane. “Besides—it’s nothing fancy this time,” he assured the Spirit. “Just researching how to hit things with rocks. This is simple, honest work.”

The Spirit did not look convinced.

Zane didn’t make much use of the main thoroughfares anymore, except to visit his favorite fountains. Now that he’d gotten into the Top 64, he was starting to get recognized quite a bit. It made getting anywhere rather difficult.

Besides—he was quite enjoying sightseeing, to his surprise.

He was just examining a clear-water pool near the back of another new mountain when he discovered yet another of those odd runes painted into the dirt, all the way at the bottom.

He wondered if there was one on every mountain. It was getting to be quite the scavenger hunt.

***

“It’s the long-awaited round of 64!” roared the announcer. He was a small, squat, old man, straining with every fiber of his being. “Half the field’s been wiped out! From here on out, it’s the best of the best. That’s right—we’re talking the most dominant fighter of every continent—#1 against #1! Speaking of…”

He thrust an arm out to the left. “Up first! The infamous loose cultivator—booted from the famed Black Dragon Sect… they call him the ‘Storm Prince’—Shen Long!”

Boos rained down.

Zane was pleasantly surprised he kept being the more popular fighter. He kind of expected boos.

It was the matchmaking, he supposed. This guy seemed even less popular than that poisoner.

“Shen Long used to be the crown jewel of the Black Dragon Sect! Single-handedly wiping out every other Divine Realm young master in the infamous ‘Blood Sunrise Duel!’”

Shen stood there, arms crossed, eyes closed—not even looking at Zane. A young man carved up with angry splotches, as though burned into him. They stained chunks of his hair white.

“That was before he killed a Black top Chosen. For that, he was banished into the Badlands, named kinslayer… but against all odds—he’s returned!”

Down in one of the lower boxes, the Young Masters’ table had gone quiet.

“Still can’t believe that Jack actually made it through…” Young Master Pai—usually quick to joke—looked pale. He shook his head.

“He’s so screwed,” Young Master Song sniggered. “Just look at him! Doesn’t he just look like a big punching bag? I heard Long drank monster blood out there in the Badlands and all kinds of other freakish stuff. This’ll be good…”

Silence. He looked around but saw only tight expressions.

“What’s wrong with you?” someone said.

Song scowled.

“Lighten up! Hell. Since when were you all such little girls?”

“You weren’t there,” said Young Master Pai, scowling. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish what’s about to happen to him on anyone.”

***

The Cloud Emperor chuckled when Jack was announced. His belly shook; wine sloshed everywhere, staining his puff of a beard purple.

He stood with all the other heavy-hitters of the realm. The Minor Gods—the apex powers of this realm—high above the arena, striding on a platform of clouds, hidden from view. Silks and gold and lots of floating drink platters.

“That ‘Jack’ really made it through! …With a rock!” the Cloud Emperor said. “These youths. They’ll think of anything, won’t they?”

Beside him stood a tall, thin man in dragon scale. He grew paler by the second.

“I can't believe that animal had the guts to return,” said Patriarch Black Dragon.

“I find it delightful, myself,” said the Cloud Emperor. “Oh, come now. I know. It was a terrible thing, what he did to your Sect.”

The Emperor chuckled. “But who would’ve thought he’d come back? You can’t deny it makes for a great story!”

The Patriarch’s jaw worked.

“I want him crushed.”

“Well…” the Emperor sighed. “It is a pity Jack’s fighting him… I would’ve liked to see the man make it another round, at least. Pity.”

He shook his head.

“You couldn't really pick a worse style to pit against him. Not that Jack would’ve won anyway. The difference in raw power alone… ah, well.” He patted Black on the back, still grinning.

“I’m sure the Zither Princess will give him a good fight next round,” he said. “Failing that, surely Virya will take him down! Though it would be quite the jest if he made the final, wouldn’t it? Eh? Come now, Black. Even you’ve got to admit—it would be very funny. I think so, anyway.”

The Patriarch took another drink.

***

“And finally—on the right!” roared the announcer. “Practicing the way of rock… it’s Jack, again! To the surprise of everyone—especially the bettors, who had him as a 10-to-1 underdog!”

He got raucous cheers. He was starting to get a fanbase here, it seemed—he’d heard a few rumors floating around. One said he was a humble miner who’d tired of splitting rocks and started hitting folks with them. Another put him as a humble blacksmith who picked up a rock to fight off marauding bandits and accidentally became a generational talent with rocks.

Whatever the case—everyone agreed it was a very inspirational story.

“He’ll be looking to defy the odds again,” roared the announcer. “And they’re looking much, much worse this time, I’ve got to say…”

This Storm Prince fellow was glaring at him already. Dark clouds thickened around his feet. Arcs of white lightning screamed around his fists. A heavy wind was picking up.

He raised his chin.

“I will say this once,” he said. His voice was hoarse, like he didn’t use it often. 

He closed his eyes.

“There are those who wished I would simply fade away. Banishing me to suffer in the Badlands…”

The fellow had a Sacred Bone, Zane noticed—a 100,000-year one. Pretty strong, especially for an Ascendant. He wondered where he’d gotten it—they seemed pretty rare in these parts. Maybe out in those Badlands. 

Shen Long glared deep into the clouds. “Now I’ve returned. If you imagine I’ve come to grovel at your feet, you are sorely mistaken,” he snarled. “I’m coming for everything. All you weak men with big names, your so-called Great Sects… I will do to you what you tried to do to me. I will crush your finest, one by one.”

Silence followed his declaration.

“But,” he said, “I am not without mercy.” 

He leveled his eyes at Zane. “You are no Sect mongrel. You are a mere miner, caught in a battle beyond his understanding.” 

“…” 

“So I give you this chance. Kneel. Forfeit.” 

At his silence, lightning ripped out from Shen’s clenched fists.

“Or I will take it as yet one more insult,” snarled Shen. “And make you a demonstration of what happens to those who resist.”

“…I’d rather just fight,” said Zane. 

“So be it.” 

Then he struck.